Drought was devastating to the farmers of yesterday. Even rich, fertile ground becomes cracked and hard. Healthy crops wither and begin to die. The farmer’s life, money and hope is tied up in the wilting crop as he waits for rain. The occasional clouds that float past are only hollow promises. He waits, because that is all the farmer of yesterday could do.

Every conversation turned to the same concern, "When is it going to rain?" Even in the little white church between the rows of wilting corn, the wrinkles that creased their brow and the quiver in their voice mirrored their fear, "When is it gonna rain? This drought can’t hold out forever."

Somebody suggested it, no one was sure exactly who, but everyone agreed it was a good idea- a prayer meeting was scheduled. They were going to pray for rain. What a spiritual idea. After weeks of drought they finally decided to pray.

Everyone came. They were desperate. The entire town depended on those crops. They came with dust on their shoes and deep furors of concern etched in their heart. Some were wrinkled and white haired, some were young and strong from hard work and good food. Some held tiny babies in their arms, but they all came to pray.

They all came to pray except one little girl, she made her way to the front row where she laid it down on the pew. The others came to pray, but she came to get rain. Why would I make such a bold statement? Because I saw the red umbrella that lay beside her on the pew.

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