The last time I saw green grass was before everything burned.
Our village had been dry for years—deep cracks underfoot, rivers shrinking to dusty paths, children coughing from the ash in the wind. My mother told me it hadn’t always been like this. She said the Sycamore trees once shaded the streets, and figs grew so big you had to eat them with both hands. But I was born into the dry years. I'm Mara, and I've only ever known thirst.
We tried everything. The priests fasted and pleaded. The elders rationed what was left. But even the streams below the mountain vanished. People said we were cursed—our fathers had turned from God, and now we were living their punishment. I didn’t know if that was true, but sometimes when I looked at what was left of the land, when I saw the fever on my baby brother’s face from drinking dust-tainted water… it felt true.
One night, the ground trembled. Just slightly—like a whisper under my feet. I sat upright in the dark, listening. Nothing. Silence thick as wool. But the next morning, I saw it.
There, where the old road to the temple ruins disappeared into the cliffs, a silver glimmer moved like a snake in sunlight. I ran toward it, barefoot, not caring what might be hiding in the brush. Water. Flowing, clean water was spilling down the stone steps—water I had never tasted in my life. I dropped to my knees and cupped it in my hands. Cold. Sweet. Alive.
Others found it too. My neighbors, wide-eyed as if waking from a nightmare. We shouted and laughed and cried, splashing water over each other, faces tilted to the sun. My brother sipped it and stopped coughing. The baby’s lips stopped peeling. Our animals drank and stood taller. And the trees—dead all my life—shivered into bloom.
That evening, the oldest man in our village opened a worn scroll. “Revelation,” he whispered to himself, and then louder, so all could hear, “John saw a river like this. Flowing from the throne of God. Clear as crystal. Giving life to everything in its path.”
“From God’s throne?” I asked. “Here?”
He smiled but shook his head. “No, child. Not here. But this river—this mercy—it’s a taste. A shadow of what’s coming. A promise.”
That night I lay on a rock warmed by sun and listened to the laughter again in our village. We’d nearly torn each other apart when the drought was longest. Fear does that. But this river—it didn’t just cool our throats. It softened our anger.
I used to think strength meant holding on. But now I think it also means letting go—of blame, of fear, of why this happened at all. The river came not because we deserved it. But because He doesn’t forget us.
When I dream now, I see trees bearing fruit in every season, their leaves never dry. I see children climbing branches without fear. I see a throne, brighter than stars. And a river, always near.
I still live in the same village. But I don’t feel empty anymore. Because I’ve tasted the river that flows from hope—and now I know it’s real.
The last time I saw green grass was before everything burned.
Our village had been dry for years—deep cracks underfoot, rivers shrinking to dusty paths, children coughing from the ash in the wind. My mother told me it hadn’t always been like this. She said the Sycamore trees once shaded the streets, and figs grew so big you had to eat them with both hands. But I was born into the dry years. I'm Mara, and I've only ever known thirst.
We tried everything. The priests fasted and pleaded. The elders rationed what was left. But even the streams below the mountain vanished. People said we were cursed—our fathers had turned from God, and now we were living their punishment. I didn’t know if that was true, but sometimes when I looked at what was left of the land, when I saw the fever on my baby brother’s face from drinking dust-tainted water… it felt true.
One night, the ground trembled. Just slightly—like a whisper under my feet. I sat upright in the dark, listening. Nothing. Silence thick as wool. But the next morning, I saw it.
There, where the old road to the temple ruins disappeared into the cliffs, a silver glimmer moved like a snake in sunlight. I ran toward it, barefoot, not caring what might be hiding in the brush. Water. Flowing, clean water was spilling down the stone steps—water I had never tasted in my life. I dropped to my knees and cupped it in my hands. Cold. Sweet. Alive.
Others found it too. My neighbors, wide-eyed as if waking from a nightmare. We shouted and laughed and cried, splashing water over each other, faces tilted to the sun. My brother sipped it and stopped coughing. The baby’s lips stopped peeling. Our animals drank and stood taller. And the trees—dead all my life—shivered into bloom.
That evening, the oldest man in our village opened a worn scroll. “Revelation,” he whispered to himself, and then louder, so all could hear, “John saw a river like this. Flowing from the throne of God. Clear as crystal. Giving life to everything in its path.”
“From God’s throne?” I asked. “Here?”
He smiled but shook his head. “No, child. Not here. But this river—this mercy—it’s a taste. A shadow of what’s coming. A promise.”
That night I lay on a rock warmed by sun and listened to the laughter again in our village. We’d nearly torn each other apart when the drought was longest. Fear does that. But this river—it didn’t just cool our throats. It softened our anger.
I used to think strength meant holding on. But now I think it also means letting go—of blame, of fear, of why this happened at all. The river came not because we deserved it. But because He doesn’t forget us.
When I dream now, I see trees bearing fruit in every season, their leaves never dry. I see children climbing branches without fear. I see a throne, brighter than stars. And a river, always near.
I still live in the same village. But I don’t feel empty anymore. Because I’ve tasted the river that flows from hope—and now I know it’s real.
