Jack rabbit slim

Yesterday, leaving Alpine and heading toward Fort Davis, I witnessed something that has stayed with me.

A beautiful West Texas storm was rolling across the desert, headed straight toward us.

You could see it coming from miles away.

The mountains were disappearing beneath those dark clouds. The sky was changing colors. The wind had picked up, carrying that unmistakable smell of rain across the desert—the kind of smell that makes you roll down the window and breathe a little deeper.

There was thunder somewhere in the distance.

And then we saw him.

A massive jackrabbit standing alongside the highway.

He stood up tall on those long legs, lifted his head toward the darkening sky, and just stayed there.

He wasn't running.

He wasn't scrambling for cover.

He wasn't afraid.

For a few seconds, it almost looked like he was welcoming the storm.

Like he could feel what was coming.

Like after days of West Texas heat beating down on that dry earth, he knew those clouds weren't bringing something to fear.

They were bringing relief.

Man...

I could relate to that jackrabbit.

I know what it's like to go through seasons where everything feels dry.

Where life beats down on you.

Where you're tired. Worn out. Dusty from the road. Carrying things nobody else can see.

I've lived through enough storms in my life to know what destruction looks like.

I've watched things fall apart.

I've lost people I loved.

I've made mistakes I can't undo.

I've walked through some dark places and wondered when the sky above me was ever going to clear.

But somewhere along the way, life taught me something else:

Not every storm comes to destroy you.

Some storms come to save you.

Some storms carry the very thing your soul has been begging for.

Relief.

Comfort.

Healing.

Renewal.

A chance to breathe again.

That's what rain feels like in the West Texas desert.

After all that heat, dust, dryness, and relentless sun, the first drops hit the earth and everything changes.

The smell changes.

The temperature changes.

The mountains change colors.

The plants lift themselves toward the sky.

Creeks that looked dead begin moving again.

The desert breathes.

And sometimes...

so do we.

Maybe that's why seeing that jackrabbit affected me so deeply.

For just a moment, I didn't see an animal standing beside a highway.

I saw something that understood survival.

Something that had endured the heat long enough to recognize mercy when it saw it coming.

And there he stood.

Face toward the heavens.

Not asking the storm to go around him.

Not running from it.

Just waiting.

Ready to receive whatever those clouds were carrying.

There was something almost spiritual about it.

Like creation itself was reminding me:

You've survived the heat.

You've survived the dry seasons.

You've survived storms that really did come to hurt you.

You don't have to be afraid of every dark cloud anymore.

Some clouds are carrying rain.

And maybe that's where I am in life these days.

I'm learning not to automatically fear everything that looks like a storm.

I'm learning that sometimes the sky has to break open before the earth can drink.

Sometimes things have to get dark before the rain finally comes.

Sometimes what looks frightening in the distance is actually carrying the answer to a prayer you haven't even known how to put into words.

That jackrabbit wasn't afraid of the storm.

He was waiting for it.

And standing there beside that lonely West Texas highway, with those mountains behind him and that storm rolling toward us, I understood him completely.

Sometimes the storm isn't something you need shelter from.

Sometimes you stand there, lift your face toward heaven, close your eyes...

and let it rain.

Because sometimes the storm is exactly what you've been waiting for.

God, I love these West Texas rainstorms.