For weeks now, our corner of northeast Washington has lived under the shadow of fire. Seven or eight major blazes burn within fifty miles of our home, and the smoke has been an uninvited guest—thick and suffocating at times, thin but still choking at others. There have been days when the haze blotted out the view, and the simple act of breathing became labor. It presses on the chest, dulls the senses, and reminds us just how fragile our human lungs—and our human spirits—can feel.
And while we may retreat indoors, run an air filter, or find a place to escape for a little while, the animals of the forest have no such refuge. The deer, the elk, the eagles, the smallest chipmunks and songbirds—all must breathe the same smoke day and night. They cannot turn a switch to make the air cleaner. For them, the struggle is constant until the fires finally cease.
But yesterday, the heavens opened. At first it was just a sprinkle, almost teasing us with the sound of drops against dry earth. Then, in the quiet of the night, a downpour arrived. Not a miracle cure, not a flood to quench raging flames—but a gift.
This morning the air is different. We wake to freshness we had nearly forgotten, the kind of clean air that makes you pause, breathe deeply, and thank God for lungs that fill without struggle. Dust has been rinsed from the leaves, the world smells green again, and for the first time in weeks, the breeze feels like a friend. The animals, too, share in this small mercy—a break in the smoke, a chance to draw easier breath, if only for a little while.
The fires are still there. The battle isn’t over, and we know it. Yet rain has given us a reprieve—perhaps even a small advantage for the firefighters who fight so tirelessly against an enemy that doesn’t sleep. It may not be the end of the story, but it’s a chapter of mercy, a reminder that even in the fiercest droughts and seasons of trial, there are moments of relief, moments that remind us of beauty, and moments that whisper hope back into weary hearts.
And isn’t that the way of life itself? Our struggles don’t vanish overnight. Pain lingers. Hardship remains. Yet, God sends showers—sometimes small, sometimes drenching—that restore our breath, refresh our spirits, and remind us of His nearness.
Today, the smoke may still hover on the horizon, but I will breathe deeply of this gift of rain and let it remind me: after the fire, after the smoke, after the longest nights—renewal comes.
Tales of Benny Brook 