The Raven and the Rain Dance, Chapter 45

Listen to audio (read by me!)

The Raven and the Rain Dance is the title of my new book, but it is also the title of chapter 45. 

I stated previously that there were 12 new, never-before-seen chapters in the book. Well, there still are, because I guess I can't count! There were actually 13. 

Hey, I word, I don't math. 

I recorded this a while back, but I decided that I don't like my voice. I don't really like the bookreader voice either, though, so I don't know what to do. Tell me which you prefer. 

Anyway, without further ado, I now present chapter 45. 

The Raven and the Rain Dance

9/5/21

When I was a little girl, I attended a little country Baptist church. This was in the 1980s; and the church was probably close to a hundred years old then. It is one of those little country churches you'll still find in the backwoods of Appalachia; the ones which might seem plain in their appearance, to an outsider. They're merely a whitewashed box with a little steeple amidst all the surrounding greenery, when viewed from a distance; and yet, they possess a certain quaint and comforting charm that no fancy-schmancy cathedral could ever hope to have. This church has two front doors, a remnant from the days when there were separate doors for men and women. The walls are covered in beaded ceiling. The hardwood floors creak and give slightly as you walk on them. I remember the peal of that church bell, echoing from the surrounding mountainsides.

This church has long been the home of "hellfire and damnation" preaching.
"You're a-goin' to Hell, I tell ya! If you don't change your ways!"
I recall lines like this from the sermons of my childhood. Of course, "Hell" would be pronounced as a two-syllable word, more like "Hey-yell" --and the preacher would be dabbing the drops of sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief, one leg propped upon the front pew. I remember thinking often, as a small child,
"What in the world did all these other people do? This man fusses at us every week! I didn't do anything bad this whole week. I wonder what everybody else did?"
I smile at the memory of those sermons now; because even though they were troubling at the time, they're part of my childhood, and dear to my heart.

We had Vacation Bible School every summer; a week-long course for children of all ages, with classes held in the evenings, so that working parents would be home in time to grab some supper before dropping their kids off. There is a sizable front yard at this church, directly across from the river where the congregation gathers for baptisms. After us kids had enjoyed our Kool-Aid and Oreos, under the picnic shelter, during our daily refreshment break, we'd be allowed to play in the yard for a while before going back inside around twilight for the concluding ceremonies.

One Summer, there were forest fires raging in our area. There had been a long drought; and the fires had burned for days on end, despite our firefighters' best efforts. The fires were getting close to home. All the adults were worried; therefore, all the children were too. We'd all heard our parents praying for rain; and for the week preceding the start of this Vacation Bible School, we'd watched in fear and awe as helicopters flew overhead carrying large parcels of water that had been pumped from the river, to drop them on the blaze.

Stephanie, being a few years younger than me, was just a toddler at the time, and if she came to Bible School that year, I don't remember it. She would've been in what us kids called "the baby class" anyway, if she did. Her older brother, "Ned", and I were in the same class, however. Having caught our parents' panic, as children do, Ned and I had already prayed for rain together, earlier that week, at his house.

Following a particular snack break that week at Bible School, Ned and I had one of our now-infamous "fabulous ideas." We proposed to the other children playing in the yard that we should do a rain dance. Where did we get that idea? I don't know for certain, but it probably originated from something we'd seen in a Western. We knew that it was a Native American thing, because I do remember us explaining to the other children that we should do a rain dance "...you know, like the Indians do."
"But how do we do a rain dance?" the other children had asked.
"Um... I dunno..." Ned said, "Just... dance... like this!"
He began stomping ritualistically while mimicking some sort of vaguely Native American-sounding chant. Myself and the other children joined in.
"Make a circle!" I suggested, and we all fell into a circle, doing our best to imitate a ritualistic Indian dance.

Looking back, I'm guessing that the adults, who were some distance away at the picnic shelter, didn't know what we were doing. After all, children were not closely supervised back then. We were having a bit of fun with it; but in truth, our intention was very serious. We danced that made-up dance with all our hearts, hoping against hope that it would work, that it would make the rain finally come.

Well, sure enough, a few minutes into this performance, a loud clap of thunder resonated through the valley, and little droplets of rain began to fall on us. We squealed with delight as we continued our dance.
"It's working!" we cried, as we danced even harder, until momentarily, a breakthrough downpour drenched us, and we had to make a run for it. Back inside the church, seated respectfully on our pews, and with our heads bowed, we shivered from our excitement and from the shock of cool air on our wet clothing. We grinned triumphantly at each other, and giggled happily as the preacher thanked God for the rain.

Was it a coincidence? Would it have rained anyway? Who can say that for certain? We were children, we were not very observant of weather patterns. I don't think the rain was expected, however. I remember that the adults also seemed pretty surprised about the sudden shower; and that they had, earlier that day, still been praying for rain themselves. In retrospect, I'd think they would've switched to thanking God for the rain sooner if the sky had been gradually darkening all day, or if rain had been in the forecast. It didn't matter to us kids either way, though. In our eyes, we had done something magical.

I never would've dreamed that one Saturday afternoon, thirty-five years later, would find me sitting on my back porch retelling this story to my Father. I certainly never imagined that, as soon as I'd finished telling it, a demon who'd been haunting me for some months already would comment,
"Well, well, well. If that was not your first miracle."
The following day, as I drove home from church, I noticed a crow by the roadside eating what appeared to be a piece of bread. As I passed it, it took flight, a chunk of bread clasped within its beak.
I immediately thought of St. Benedict, and one of the few stories I'd read about him at that time; a story in which a crow carried away some poisoned bread that someone had sent him. I smiled, interpreting this instance as a message, a "Hello" to me from St. Benedict.

Upon arriving home, I checked my email, and discovered that I'd been sent a short e-booklet from Belmont Abbey College. I'm on their mailing list. This booklet was about the miracles of St. Benedict, and it contained some stories I'd never read before. One of them, included as a bonus story, was about a miracle which is actually attributed to his sister, St. Scholastica.

In this story, St. Benedict was visiting with St. Scholastica for the day, and this visit was a rare opportunity for the siblings, who, at that point in their lives,  hardly ever got to spend time together. St. Benedict had traveled to meet with St. Scholastica at the place where she was lodging; but, needing to return to the monastery before nightfall, he could only stay for the day. Apparently they talked until it was pretty late into the evening, discussing spiritual matters; and when the time came for St. Benedict to leave, St. Scholastica beseeched him to stay the night and continue their conversation. When St. Benedict refused, proclaiming that he simply must return to the monastery, St. Scholastica began to pray. Suddenly a storm came, with downpours of rain that made traveling impossible; thus forcing St. Benedict to honor her request.

After I read that story, the only thought I had was,
"Wow."
I couldn't help noticing the similarities between that story and mine, nor could I help recalling the demon's words,
"...your first miracle."
At that moment demon said,
"See? Benedictus prays you a saint too."

Demon(s) have been referring to me as a "saint" since around that time. I don't think they actually mean a "big-S" Saint, such as the ones venerated by churches, like St. Benedict and St. Scholastica. I think they mean a "little-s" saint, which is a term that has been applied, in some writings, to every soul in Heaven. I think what they're really saying is that I'm a "little-s" saint-in-the-making because I have chosen a side.

What I think about those messages, however, is that the sighting of the crow, as well as the timing of that particular story being sent to me, were messages to me from St. Benedict. I think that, rather than saying that I'm a saint, he was merely saying that he enjoyed hearing my story, and that it reminded him a bit of something St. Scholastica would have done. I think he was saying that the request that Ned, our Bible School classmates, and I made with our little rain dance was granted --by God-- and that, even though we didn't ask in quite the right way, our hearts were pure, and that was what mattered. I think he might have been trying to tell me that miracles do happen, and they can happen to anyone.


Choose a side, my friends, and soon; because time is running out.

May God bless you all.