As spring rain drums against my window, I’m compelled to share a profound message of hope – a letter that changed my perspective on spiritual freedom. Written by one of our congregation’s most beloved elders, whom I’ll call Your Sister in Christ, her words continue to transform lives with wisdom as gentle and persistent as the rain itself.
Dearest Brothers and Sisters in Christ,
The spring rain falls steady outside my window today, painting our world in shades of silver and pearl. My old eyes watch the droplets gather and fall, gathering and falling again, like the steady rhythm of God’s grace in our lives. Through these weather-worn windowpanes, I’ve watched sixty springs come and go in this same house, each rain bringing its own measure of glory to His creation.
These gentle waters bring to mind how our Lord has always used rain to speak to His people. Noah waited through forty days of cleansing flood, watching old things pass away so new life could begin. Moses led God’s children through walls of water toward freedom, while David sang of rain that refreshes the weary land. And our precious Jesus, who promised living water to all who thirst, knows every desert in our souls that needs His gentle rain.
In all my years of watching His people walk through seasons of trial and triumph, I’ve seen how we all face our own Egypt, our own wilderness, our own Jordan to cross. Some dear ones serve tirelessly in His house, like Mary’s sister Martha, so busy with much serving that they forget to sit at His feet. Their hands are always moving, but their souls are parched for living water. Oh, how it gladdens my heart when they finally rest in the shelter of His grace, discovering that His yoke truly is easy, His burden light indeed.
I think of others I’ve prayed for through the years – souls caught in chains of various bondages, much like the demon-possessed man who lived among the tombs. Some trapped by bottles, others by habits that grew into prisons, all needing the same delivering power that sets captives free. I’ve seen them try to break their chains with human strength, only to discover that freedom comes through surrender to His strength alone.
The rain falls harder now against my window, and I’m reminded of Elijah praying for rain on Mount Carmel. Seven times he looked toward the sea before seeing the cloud as small as a man’s hand. How often we too must pray and wait, pray and wait, until God’s renewal breaks through like spring rain on dormant soil.
My old heart has learned that freedom in Christ rarely comes like a sudden cloudburst. More often it falls like these spring rains – steady, patient, persistent – softening the hard ground of our hearts one droplet at a time. Each ping against my windowpane echoes His promise that He who began a good work in us will be faithful to complete it.
Dear ones, as I watch the rain continue its patient work outside, I pray for each of you. These eyes have seen enough seasons to know that the God who makes the rain fall on the just and unjust alike is working in every season of your lives. Whether you’re facing your Red Sea or walking through your desert, remember – the same Lord who turned water into wine can transform every trial into triumph, every ending into a new beginning.
Let these spring rains remind you of His faithfulness. Like the rainbow after Noah’s flood, like the waters of baptism that signal our new life in Christ, these rains speak of His endless grace. “I will be their God,” He promised, “and they shall be my people.” What comfort to know that His mercies still fall fresh as morning dew, as certain as spring following winter, as sure as His steadfast love that never ceases.
In His tender care,
Your Sister in Christ
Her words stir something deep within me about the nature of perseverance in our spiritual walk. The exodus from Egypt wasn’t just a dramatic moment of liberation – it was the beginning of a forty-year journey of transformation. I see this pattern throughout Scripture: Noah waiting through forty days of flood, Moses waiting forty years in the desert, Elijah looking seven times for the rain cloud, the Israelites waiting for the Promised Land. Waiting seems to be woven into the very fabric of God’s redemption story.
In my own struggles with anxiety and fear about the future, I often find myself in these waiting seasons. During the hardest times, when uncertainty looms large and old fears threaten to overwhelm, I sometimes forget the most crucial truth – that these very moments of waiting are opportunities to know God more intimately. Like the Israelites learning to trust God for daily manna, each anxious moment becomes an invitation to experience His faithfulness in new ways.
The sister’s words about spring rain remind me that transformation rarely comes as a sudden cloudburst. Instead, it falls steady and gentle, one moment of trust at a time, one small victory after another. Even now, as I face my own seasons of uncertainty, I’m learning to see waiting not as a barrier to freedom, but as part of the liberation process itself – the patient work of God making all things new.
And so I join in her blessing: May your spirits be as receptive as spring soil to the gentle rain of His presence. May you find that His faithful love falls fresh each morning like dew on tender grass. Whether you’re standing at your Red Sea or wandering in your desert, trust that the Lord of all seasons is working in yours, bringing freedom through surrender, strength through submission, and new life through His endless grace.
P. S.
The rain has stopped now, and a rainbow arches across the eastern sky. How like our Lord to seal His promises with such beauty. Remember, beloved – after every flood comes the rainbow, after every exile comes the homecoming, after every death comes the resurrection. He makes all things new.
