Jennifer Blacklock

I’m sitting on the couch with my nourishing cocoa (raw milk, raw cacao, raw honey), watching, listening to, and smelling the rain come down. It’s so kind of God to give rain. Justin’s been working all day on the plumbing under the house, and it was so difficult and gross. When I saw clouds I prayed that it would rain, that it might cheer and refresh him. God’s gift to Justin, to me, to the kids, to the animals, to the earth. Washing away and filling up.

I put the babies to sleep before this, and just marveled afterwards. Marveled? Reveled? Stood there fairly bursting with the preciousness of my own dear toddler and infant napping in the coziness of my bedroom while the rain poured softly outside. Soft cheeks, dimpled elbows, steady breaths. And rain. I can scarcely imagine anything sweeter.

I see outside, the new mother hen sitting under a big mesquite bush, covering all six of her chicks.  She lets the rain drip over her while keeping her babies dry and safe and warm. The guinea, who has strangely taken it upon himself to be their guardian, stands nearby, keeping watch.

This morning we read from Matthew, “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his span of life?” (6:26-27) 

See these little chicks? They would have no chance of survival but God has ingeniously designed protection and provision for them and written it into the laws of nature! How good He is. How wise, how kind. I do still have so many anxieties all the time (today alone I woke up feeling the weight of needing to convince people of something important, have worried about things I have no control over, and have become easily offended over several small things- and it’s only afternoon!). But right now I am just so sure of God’s provision and want to remember.

A cool day in September. Lung-filling breaths. Finished tasks. The fact that headaches don’t last forever. A mother hen’s instincts to cover her chicks. Warm, snuggly, napping babies and toddlers. Rain in the desert.