Showers of Blessing
Showers of blessing! Showers of blessing we need! Mercy drops round us are falling.
But for the showers we plead.
The haunting words of this melody live in my childhood. They ring in my memory as clearly today as when I sang them. But the tune they sing has been changed by life.
Birthed in heaven, it requires the fertile soil of dependency to drink the showers in before blessing’s fruit ever appears. And it takes believing to till that soil, breaking up the soil’s hardness, so that it can drink in the fullness of each drop.
I know when I use to sing this song as a child, I confused the blessing with its fruit. Because what I really desired was the sweetness of the fruit. I wanted to savor its richness as it lingered on my tongue. I wanted to gather it in basketfuls, beautiful to behold. Secretly, I wanted others to envy how God loved me. I wanted to garner armfuls to prove to myself that truly I was a special child to God.
Blessing, though birthed in heaven, is refined by fire. And the packaging of fire is fraught with pain. Unfortunately, independency is hard to kill. It clings tenaciously to life, wanting its own way, searching out its own path.
One doesn’t need to look past Eden to hear the song.
Showers of blessing . . . . Discontentment continued to fill her heart as she gazed upon the tree. It wasn’t the first time she had been here. More and more frequently Eve found herself drawn to this spot. To the fruit-laden branches. Branches remaining beyond her grasp, if she was to obey.
Showers of blessing we need . . . . But her own desires blinded Eve to Eden’s paradise. Wandering throughout Eden day by day, full to overflowing with all good things, a cloak of independence settled about her. As she walked in the evenings with Adam and the Lord, she cast furtive glances in the tree’s direction. Thinking the glances went undetected, she missed the sorrow filling the Lord’s eyes even as He spoke to her lovingly, "Nothing have I withheld from you. You lack no good thing."
Mercy drops round us are falling . . . . Passing by trees of every description, each bearing fruit, ripened, sweet, dripping nectar of goodness, Eve departed the stillness of the evening walk with the Lord, leaving the feast she could have shared with Him untouched.
But for the showers we plead . . . .Until she stood beside the forbidden tree once again. Discontent combined with yearning, ‘til the whisper of the serpent became her own cry. Reaching forth, she took, and bit deeply. And the tune changed.
Frantically attempting to weave together leaves for her covering, Eve began to realize she had misunderstood Blessing, confusing it with fruit. And fearing Blessing lost, she hid herself when she heard Him call her name.
And so the refining fire was turned up. And in utter dependency, Eve accepted the covering that was bloodstained. Wrapped tightly around her with Blessing’s own hand, she wore it, as she was led from Eden, where it had been so easy to focus on the fruit.
Thus Eve began a sojourn, blazing a trail we all follow.
I didn’t understand Blessing’s real tune when I sang the song as a child. Even now, I am still learning its true melody. And though my heart eagerly seeks after it, my flesh is not as quick to pursue what my heart longs after. My flesh fears the fire. The pain. The loss. All those ‘fruits’ I cling to so ardently make a trail of dependence hard to choose.
But looking back at my own life, Blessing’s true ‘showers’ have come at moments of utter darkness. The death of my marriage. The anxiety-filled life of raising four small children, alone. The death of my youngest son, my heart-child. The loss of Eden’s shadow.
When I had nothing left within me to go on, Blessing’s bloodstained covering reached out and embraced me, holding me fast.
And that is the tune I sing now, however tremulously, knowing the fire will be turned up, but also with the knowing that Blessing will come.