As a child on the High Plains, I associated the term ‘monsoon’ with the rainy season in tropical regions, specifically Southeast Asia. While this understanding of the term is correct, it wasn’t until we lived in Tucson, Arizona, that I learned of another, broader definition of monsoon — a seasonal shift in the direction of the prevailing winds. In Arizona, this change brings humidity and precipitation up from the Gulf of Mexico and southern environs. The effects of this sea-change in the weather can be dramatic.
These seasonal storms bring angry winds that claw and rage across the desert floor, gathering dusty blackness, overwhelming the horizon–the haboob. Torrential rainfalls crash down from flashing thunderclouds, sometimes towering sixty thousand feet into the air. The waters rush from the mountain sides, collected and channeled into the gullies and valleys; desert residents are continually warned to be on the lookout for flash floods. Reminder: the sky directly overhead can be clear, but caught unawares in a dry-bed, you may have mere seconds to reach higher ground and escape torrents of deep, dark muddy soup, filled with debris, remorselessly advancing, rising, washing away everything in its path. We came to understand the destructive, sudden, overwhelming power of water.
To be human is to understand the necessity of water. We feel it viscerally, physically, in ways that defy words. Thirst is thus one of those metaphors that we can all comprehend and share. Christ spoke to the Samaritan woman at the well, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” (John 4:13-14).
We yearn for this calm, cool, clear water of life, which restores our soul and brings with it vitality, renewal, and ultimately, salvation for believers. Yet, I confess that for much of 2022, instead of the satisfaction from clear water, I felt the rising, murky flood. Family and friends experienced unutterable tragedy, loss, and pain. This past June, I myself feared I might not escape to higher ground as remorseless waters overtook me following complications with intestinal surgery. Instead of a spring of water welling within me, I felt the bleak, black, torrid flood overtaking me. And I know others have faced worse than I–they too have wondered if they would be dragged under by the sudden death of a loved one, late-stage cancer, months of debilitating chemo and surgery, and other unspoken tragedies.
I do not (most of the time) doubt God’s presence and providence simply because I am experiencing trials. As a natural born pessimist (I like to call it realist), I typically do not expect life to be easy. Nonetheless, I still hope to see God working in and through the hard events of life, not just when I am experiencing joy and easy times. Ultimately, both metaphors, a cool spring of life that Christ provides, as well as the desert flashflood, convey truth and meaning. Yes, he provides living water, but in God’s providence, he also works through flood and disaster. Those very same torrents that rush down the mountain eventually feed the world downstream. God brings the floods together to make a river of life farther along. I just have a hard time seeing it–nonetheless, I trust. In my weakness, Lord, help me trust.
“For God works all things together for good to those who love him and are called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28.
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