[hey poet, tell me a story] or, #7 Holy Water

Greetings my friends! Well, my summer is drawing to a close… God willing I will be flying back stateside in 8 days to start the first semester of my Junior year at the end of August. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for school to begin – but, well, here we are. 😀

The older I get, the more convinced I become that time moves increasingly quickly. But it does – I’m sure of it! If anyone knows of a technique that slows specific portions of time down, let me know – I really could use it right now. 😀

Anyways, there is still a bit of time before my summer is officially over, which I intend to use to read as many books as physically possible. 😀

But first, I get to share this final poem with you today! 😉 I really hope that you’ve enjoyed this narrative fiction story that I’ve posted over the course of this summer. It’s been a pleasure to share, and it has reminded me of how much I enjoy writing narrative poetry. I’m really hoping I will find some time to create similar projects in the upcoming months!

So, without further ado, may I present to you the 7th and final part of this story, entitled Holy Water.


It comes when we aren’t expecting it.


Mama’s lap is full of sewing

while Daddy sits heavy-eyed at the table.

He stumbled home after first cock crow,

hasn’t said a word since.


I sit in the open doorway

watching clouds roll by on a slate-grey sky.

The wind is picking up, blowing dust across the yard.

The corn rustles, warm and still too brown.


“Behold, I will do a new thing.”

The Reverend’s voice echoes in my head.


And then all at once

it’s here.

Rain spits down, sporadic at first,

then harder, hitting the hard earth in a burst

of wet relief.


Before we know what we are doing,

Mama and Daddy and me are standing outside,

faces turned up 

like sunflowers towards the storm clouds,

rain pelts our heads, rolls off our cheeks

soaks our clothes.


Water trickles quick across the yard,

rivers running towards the field.

“Streams in the desert,” I whisper.


I think I see now why Mama says the word


like it’s something holy.


I can tell Daddy doesn’t see me

for the rain

(or maybe they are tears)

dripping down his face.


This time though

I don’t mind.


So there you have it. What do you think of this finale poem? I’d love to hear your thoughts and reactions to this story in the comments!

Author: Hannah

Jesus follower. writer. bibliophile. dreamer.

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