Susan LaffertyThe tropical rain was pounding the pavement, flooding the side yard, pouring dense and loud. Riah laughed and said, “We call this a rich man’s rain.” Oh? I looked up curiously. She continued, “On days like this, the poor man cannot work. And when he doesn’t work, he doesn’t get paid. And when he doesn’t get paid, he doesn’t eat and his family doesn’t eat. That’s why we call it a rich man’s rain.”
Our first home in Bandung, Indonesia, was on a street called Rancaherang. When I told people where we lived, they would nod knowingly and say, “Ah, mata air dari batu”—the source of water that comes from the rock.
It was a known source of pure water that came from somewhere deep within the earth. Thirst-quenching, garden-drenching water. Always flowing, always abundant.
And there was no water shortage in that whole neighborhood. In fact, it started as a stream in our yard, flowed through a pond on the side of our house and into a stream that ran down to the next house. And on to the next house after that, and so on.
Each yard had a pond of fish and ever-flowing water.
In the midst of a difficult season in Delhi, I remembered Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are. And started a gratefulness journal. I numbered big and small reasons to give thanks.