“Pray For Rain”: Finding Miracles in the Desert

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” -The Serenity Prayer

Utah is a desert. And with drought comes heat waves, toxic air, and wildfires. This year alone, approximately 380 wildfires have scorched tens of thousands of acres of Utah land. In response, last week the governor declared a “Day of Prayer and Fasting for Rain,” calling for “divine help.” My teen daughter, ever creative, suggested that dancing through the yard with a spray bottle might be more effective than prayer.

In my experience, she might be right.

Growing up, “pray for rain” was nearly as common in my Utah Mormon sacrament meetings as “pray always.” But as I look at the expanse of asphalt gutters and paved parking lots that unnaturally funnel rain away from thirsty tree roots and dry river beds, I wonder whose prayer won’t shrivel up and die in this desert land before it evaporates into the cloudless sky and becomes rain. 

The first memory I have of prayer is one of stagnation. My best friend in preschool lost her mom’s diamond ring on my front lawn. Our little hands touched every blade of grass, searching for that ring. After a brief, serious discussion about how to do it right, we pressed our foreheads together and prayed to find the heirloom. But it was gone forever, and neither our tears nor our prayers could bring the miracle we wanted.

Another time, home alone with sickness while my family was at church, the cordless phone resting on my belly rang. I groggily answered and was hastily told to pray for my aunt, who had been rushed to the hospital. Awkwardly, I prayed for the aunt who made me ribbon necklaces with painted wooden beads. But a few minutes later, the phone rang again. My prayer hadn’t worked. 

I prayed to find my rollerblades, and I found them. I prayed not to die from a blood infection that I watched scald my skin as it spread up my arm, and I didn’t die. I prayed for my parents to return safely, and they always did. I clung to those answered prayers like a succulent’s fleshy leaves cling to moisture. 

But then I prayed for my nephew to live, and he didn’t. I prayed for my brother-in-law to heal, for doctors to work miracles; they did, but he didn’t. I begged God to let me keep my baby, but he was taken away. 

My prayers are like this desert I live in, wind-torn, burned, and cracked with drought. It rains when it rains, but mostly it doesn’t. I’m learning to live in this dry land and find beauty in xeriscaping.

I no longer hope to realign the universe with my prayers. My prayers are thankfuls now. No faith needed, only gratitude. My prayers are now filled with moments of awe that I witness in my teenagers’ lives, conversations I rehearse with people I love, and crying for the pains and stresses of this world. I pray to understand another person’s anger or hurtful words. I pray, trying to find connections between ideas and replay books in my head. Prayers, for me, now, are acceptances of what I cannot control, and wonder for this precious life.  

In my experience, life, death, and Mother Nature are untamed and immune to our prayers. Praying doesn’t influence these things one way or another. But it influences me. It helps me live a conscious life; it helps me recognize the things I can change.

A staggering 75% of the wildfires in Utah this year were caused by humans. Human choices are things we can control.  

So, Governor, instead of praying for rain, I will pray for the generosity to donate to local fire departments and for the consciousness to follow the safety guidelines in preventing accidental human fires. 

I will accept what I cannot control—the weather—and pray for the self-control to take fewer and shorter showers. I will pray for the heart to let my unnaturally grassy lawn go thirsty. I will pray for the desire to listen better to the land and plant drought-resistant plants that thrive on little to no water. I will pray to love this desert that bakes and scorches every living thing.

Ultimately, even though I do not believe in praying for rain, I will keep praying—not to change the sky, but to change myself. I will pray to live more fiercely in this dry and burning world. I will pray for wisdom to know when to act and when to accept. And I will pray with my hands, my habits, and my hose turned off. Because perhaps the miracle lies in accepting what we cannot control—and having the courage to change what we can. The miracle is in how we live—carefully rooted and resilient in a rainless desert.

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Photo by Malachi Brooks on Unsplash