And we danced in the rain.

Chad’s climate is made up of two seasons—the rainy and the dry. For the past six months I have lived through the first dry season of my life.

The beginning of the dry season is welcome. When the rains stopped last October things got a lot easier. Roads that were once lakes became roads once again, mud became dry ground, the mosquito population decreased, and my route to school changed from a roundabout route around the water to a straight shot to the school. January and February brought nice, cooler weather—a welcome break from the fierce Chadian sun. But January and February came to a close and March and April brought heat.

The hot season in Chad is an experience. March isn’t bad. The day is hot, but the night is cooler. The winds of harmattan keep the air moving enough. But the winds kick up the dust—the sand—and it covers everything. Water is scarce. And April brings the real heat.

When April arrived several weeks ago, it made itself known. The sun heated things up to over 40 degrees Celsius and the nights brought less and less respite from the heat. And to make sure I felt the heat...I mean really felt the heat...the power went out...for the month. The big generator that provides power to the city of Moundou was broken. Heat is one thing. Heat with no fans, no light, and no cold water to drink is another. And then there was my bedroom...

Nice buildings in Chad are made brick by brick, then covered in cement. My bedroom is a nice building. But take a cement box and put it in the sun on a 105 degree day...then sleep in it. At 101.8 degrees at night, according to my body temperature thermometer, my bedroom was running a fever. And I wanted no part of it.

Most Chadians sleep outside in the hot season. And so I joined them. We laid out our mats on the hot sand, under the stars, and prayed for rain.

Easter Monday was the day of the presidential election in Chad and so a jour ferié. Everything was closed and most people stayed at home observing their right not to vote (since there really was no opposition.) It was a good day. Rose came over and we enjoyed some chatting, some mangoes, and a nap in front of my fan thanks to the miraculous return of the electricity.

When we woke up from the nap the clouds on the horizon were blue, black, thick with rain. The wind picked up and the sand added a yellow, red, brown haze to the rolling thunderheads. Rose and I sat outside on the veranda. We felt the sand on our skin, in our hair, in our teeth, and we waited.

And then the rain came...drip. drop. a little. A LOT. And we danced in the rain. And the rain was thick and the wind was cold and we were alive.

My sisters sat on the veranda and laughed at the nasarra’s playing in the rain. But my fifteen year old brother Roland came running out of his room—in his short, tight, pink spandex underwear—he cartwheeled, ate a mango off the mango tree, dove into the mud, and drenched us with a bucket full of water.

The rain was wet. And the air was clear. Clearer than it had been in six months. And we could see. And breathe deep. Life was restored. Green. Washed clean by the rain. The dust and death of the heat was wiped out. Trampled down by life from the sky.

Christ is risen, bringing life to the earth. Happy Easter.