Found: The Secret Hiding Place

Don't you just love old books- the sueded pages, the old paper-and glue-scent, the dust jackets crumbling into that which they are supposed to protect the book from?

I found this gem at the Goodwill Outlet. It's a cute story about a little hippo who is deeply doted on, but needs some autonomy: A place to be alone, but not too alone.
Look at the lovely flocks of birds in the above illustration, and Little Hippo's joy as he realizes he has found his place, because the big hippos will never look up!

The line quality is luscious, and look at the peeved look on the older hippos face as he wonders where Little Hippo's been hiding himself. I love the chameleon's smirk, and the the happy, contemplative gaze of Little Hippo.

The true genius is when the ink drawings are layered on top of these loose little rainbow-colored watercolors. They make me think that writer and illustrator Rainey Bennett is full of the kind of gold coin showers that are mixed with sunshine and rainbows aplenty.

Am I Ready?

I was singing softly as I watched the storm clouds that had flown south in the evening, head back north in the morning. It never rained. I suppose I was praying for rain– it is second-nature– when I heard the question "Are you ready?"
Quickly I knew it wasn't literal. The gutters are clear, the car windows rolled up. Yes, all is ready. I retreated to pray and contemplate the question.

Elijah came up; the story of when he called down the rain in 1 Kings 19. Really it's an odd little postscript to the story of God sending fire on Mount Carmel. The confrontation Elijah was created for happens on this day. After years of drought the people are desperate for answers. There is the showdown between the 850 prophets of Baal and Ashara, and Elijah. God sends fire from heaven. There is a revolution, the false prophets are killed. God sends rain. Elijah runs to Jezreel faster than Ahab can drive his chariot, ahead of the cleansing, life-giving rain. In the following days Elijah is depressed. I've always heard that it was for him, like the athletes in the Olympics who get the gold and then have nothing left to live for.

Turkey Vultures gliding on the leading edge of the storm winds

Maybe. I am wondering, though, if it wasn't that there was so much success and nothing to go on for, but that Elijah expected a completely different outcome. He prayed for years for the turning of the people's hearts, for righteous kingship, and for God to heal the land. Everything came down to that day, and the only change that happened was that the prophets of Baal were mobbed and then God sent rain. Hearts remained hard, Elijah remained a wanted man, and he lived the rest of his days still delivering unwanted messages. He had an idea of what rain would be: Not just how it would happen, but what the results would be, and how it would feel. I imagine that he hoped to lead a beautiful revival and restoration after that day. How often our definitions differ from God's.
Oh please prepare my heart for Your rain.

Drought

Stage One drought is dry.
In Stage Two the sweat trickling behind your knees may be the same volume as the water trickling in the river bed. The whole world smells of animal urine built up, rather than washed away. Abandoned spiderwebs cling to bush and branch.
Stage Three makes you forget. Forgotten smells: Dust blowing, buffalo grass baking, rain. Without humidity, scent is lost. The leaves of trees curl in on themselves. Forgotten colors: Green, azure, gray.
Heat dances on roads and over prairie beneath relentless sun in the white sky dome.
The mosquitoes, who thrive on life, die. They are replaced by flies on the dead.
In Stage Four... you move.

My geographical area is almost always in at least level one. It took me a while to realize that since moving here my creativity also follows a drought pattern. It is all too easy for me to become isolated and empty. I read a memoir by an African nomad recently, who described the constant life and death search for water that defines the nomadic existence. I am realizing that I, too, must always search for waters of creativity to fill me, or I will be caught unaware by drought.