The Fourth of July

Two years ago was the driest year I ever remember.  It hadn’t rained in months.  A freeze at Easter followed one of the driest winters in a hundred years, and by summer each step to the mailbox created little puffs of red dust.  Crops – the ones which hadn’t died – were so small they wouldn’t sell at market, and hay was going for $50 a bale.  Even people particular about their well-manicured yards, watched helplessly as water restrictions caused green grass to fade to crunchy brown.  Lawnmowers collected dust in garages all across the south.  One Tennessee town completely ran out of water, and the Governor of Georgia held a prayer service outside the Capitol and asked people to “pray up a storm.” Weeds, normally not lacking in ambition, didn’t even try to penetrate the parched earth between the rows of thirsty tobacco plants.

I used to think of rain as an inconvenience. Not any more.

This spring, however, has been remarkably wet, our state bursting forth in gorgeous color --  trees a vibrant green, the crepe myrtles so red.  For the last couple of weeks, however, there was absolutely nothing but scorching 95 degree days and the familiar dread crept back in our hearts.  On the night of the fourth of July, we were driving up to our party, and the skies looked ominous. The kids, in their swimsuits, said, "Oh no!  Let's pray it doesn't rain."

"No," David and I said, quickly.   "The farmers really need it." 

Camille and Austin got together and reported they'd compromised, praying it'd rain heavily only after the party.

Sure enough, the evening was wonderful.  We were at the house of a man who invented some sort of hunting equipment and has used his ensuing wealth to create a wonderland of a property.  He has a shooting range, a skeet thrower, a house of exotic animals he's killed (including a giraffe!), and an enormous pond that has a sand bottom with swimming pool quality water. Oh, and a sand beach.  In the middle of rural -- and I mean rural -- Tennessee.

The kids swam, the adults shot guns, and everyone watched fireworks.  Then, at the grand finale, it began to sprinkle.  Hours later -- after the kids were asleep -- the storm  passed over our house.  Lightning lit up the sky (as the saying goes, like the fourth of July) and penetrating thunder shook the windows.

Suddenly two kids were standing at our bedroom door, asking if they could just stay with us for a while.

It was a night of fitful sleep. Camille on the outside, Austin in the middle, me on the edge, David on the couch, and -- I promise -- our dog took my pillow.  Because the electricity went off, the whole night was filled with "move over, you're making me hot" type shoves.  I got mad at the dog who, like a boomerang, always came back to my pillow, like sleeping with a fur hat.  I yelled at the dog, Camille shoved Austin, Austin sighed audibly, and the storm raged outside our window.

The next morning, as we surveyed the damage outside, Camille was trying to explain why they were scared.

"We'd see a huge flash of light," she explained. "And it was like the lightning produced a bubble of sound that floated to us. You never knew when it was going to pop."

Austin said, "I think God was just celebrating the fourth of July."

"Yeah," Camille said.  "He let us have his fireworks.  We should let him have his."