Snatching grass from its grave

Drought in northern Kenya.

When the rains fail during a season, it will be hardship in the coming dry season. If they fail two consecutive rainy seasons, then…

It has happened before, here in Kenya.

A pastor from Marsabit leaned against the hood of the vehicle and said the rains had not materialized last year. Their livestock were already perishing. It’s bad. The March rains have to come through.

I visited the region earlier last year.

A pastor from there sat in the front and guided us. He knew the road between the desert communities. He wrapped a scarf around his head so that only his eyes showed.

The tires hummed over the dirt track through the Chalbi desert. The stretch of salt flats glistened in the sun and reflected the sky like the shimmer of water at the beach. Further North still, the rocks on the road kicked up into the wheel well like hot popcorn. It’s hot up here.

A cloud of dust trailed the vehicles everywhere. On winding sections of the road, the wind blew the dust right back through the open windows. A thin film covered everything — the backpack zippers and in the seams of clothing. It covered glasses, watch faces and phone speakers. You could feel the fine dust and sand on your scalp, in your ears and nose. Turns out we all should have worn a scarf around our heads like the pastor. He knows how to travel these roads.

Little towns are separated by vast open spaces. It’s in the spaces that you’ll come across shepherds. They alone seem to be out there, trekking on foot between water points and grazing grounds. Each town seems more like an outpost. You stop the car in a heap of dust at the all-in-one store and stare up at the shelves to see if there’s anything you need. A packet of apple cream biscuits bought in a shop weighed almost nothing. The desert air had demanded the last bit of moisture from the cream filling.

Worship outside a store in northern Kenya.

It’s only gotten drier since I was last there, the pastor leaning on the hood reminds me.

The grass is dead and gone, buried deep in the ground — a tomb locked shut until the rain comes and opens a way, snatching them from their earthy grave.

Pray for a cloud, even if it’s as small as a man’s fist. Pray for it to grow into rain. Pray that the rain would resurrect the grass that is dead and buried.

This too is a miracle. And we’ve seen this type of miracle before.

As improbable as it was.

Outdoor worship in Kenya’s North.

A time when there were clouds.

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Pray for the rains to come to Kenya’s North.