Rain. Pula. Rain.
It is dusk, and I am reading, when I hear it.
You can smell it, you know, and I stand by the window, soaking it all in. In an arid country, it is crucial, and when it begins, it is something to be celebrated. We have not seen it, heard it, smelled it, for months.
Years ago, I am living in Kenya, and there is a severe drought. And then the rains begin. It is a downpour. I am but a city dweller, living in a house in Nairobi. But the rain streaking downward outside my window still seems so wonderful, and I stand there in awe. Rain. What a difference it makes in people’s lives.
This is not, really, a downpour, here in Gaborone. But the ground is turning from a light-brown dust to a deeper hue, and there are a few puddles.
Rain. We give thanks at the 6:45 Mass this morning.