With apologies to those who are concerned with harvesting huge fields of corn rather than with tending tiny pastures for horses, I confess that I loved the gentle rains that came to our little corner of Kansas in the past twenty-four hours. Hardly ever more than a sprinkle, often like a mist, and occasionally a bona fide shower, it came slow and gentle. It came so gradually that it barely even ran off of the patio and sidewalk.

No gushing over the retaining timbers at the base of the round pen sand, no spilling down the ditches, no sweeping layers of dirt and muck out from the paddock. Just a sort of seeping from the clouds, quickly soaked up in the cracked seams of dry earth that formed in the late heat of summer. Nearly every drop, it seemed, drawn into the dirt to nourish the stems and stalks, the blades and leaves.

Sometimes, that’s how I read Scripture—trying to absorb every nuance of meaning, every nourishing bit of truth. Hoping to let nothing pass by without benefit: instruction, conviction, reassurance, edification, encouragement. Some sort of cultivation of greater understanding, some gain of insight, some stronger sense of faith, hope, or love.

Of course, it would be well beyond exaggeration to claim that’s how I actually read. It seems to me that would be rather impossible. I do mull over a particular verse or even a phrase within a verse from time to time. Sometimes building an entire sermon on what seemed like some random fragment until it floated up off the page and engaged my thinking for several days—or even years.

But what I find is that whether my contemplation lasts for five seconds, five minutes, five hours… or even longer, it’s always worth the time. The nourishing growth lasts longer than the showers and the land is blessed beyond the day.