When will God send RAIN?

 As our crops dry up, so does our hope.  Unless you're a farmer who plants seeds for weeks in the Spring and watches them take off beautifully, it may be hard to imagine the grief we're experiencing as our work shrivels beneath the hot dry winds.  

  It's been about a month and a half since we've had any rain more than a few drops.  Praying and fasting have not brought rain so this drought must be straight out of hell.  Platitudes like "God is in control" or "It's for the best" do nothing to comfort a farmer's aching heart!!!  

  I always try not to write negative things here without giving the bright side.  Right now I can't see any bright side.  That makes me think I shouldn't even be taking your time since I can't see any ray of hope without rain coming this week.  However, should enough people pray for us to get rain, it may overwhelm the great enemy holding it back.

  I think often, from the book of Daniel, where he was praying and fasting.  Nothing changed.  Suddenly Gabriel appeared.  He said he was trying to get to Daniel for 21 days but the evil forces over the area kept him from coming to Daniel's aid.  After enough prayers had reached Heaven, God send Michael the Archangel to answer Daniel's prayers.

  Folks, our farm SEEDS OF HONOR needs more prayer to break this drought.  Will you please join us in praying for God to send rain to South Central North Dakota USA?   

  Most of the corn around here has shriveled up.  What  could have been a saleable crop, most likely will now be sold to neighbors who have cattle.  They'll bring in machinery to chop up the whole stalks into silage.  We'll get paid pennies instead of dollars.  Only once before, in our lifetime of farming, have things gotten this bad.

  Again, please pray with us for rain to come to South Central North Dakota.  May God bless you for your prayers.

  Pretty sad,

  Dawn  

THIRST MARK

Another week, the sky a blank sheet.

Everything just dries up, slow.

No one cares until the crack

is too deep, until the last thing dies.

My sad tomato plant, the only thing

I bother with. Water, poured slow,

disappears instantly into the soil,

like it never hit. The brittle grass

crunches under my worn-out boot.

Dust coats the porch rail, thick

as bad intent. A low, distant rumble,

just the sound of a dry riverbed

shaking itself apart. And nothing

left to say but wait.