Half a Shower's Worth

In the past year and a half, I’ve encountered water in a new way. 

I had the privilege of visiting the site of a World Renew project in the south of Madagascar. When I first arrived in Antananarivo, the capital, I noticed watercress paddies—the kind of agricultural feat that requires a steady input of water. After disembarking my flight in the southern city of Fort Dauphin, I still saw green fields, healthy trees, and hearty harvests.

But as we drove the four hours west to the region of Abovombe, the verdant view began to literally fade before my eyes. Fields became brown, rich dirt was replaced by sand, and where I’d seen trees and bushes, I now saw only spiny cacti.

“This used to be a forest,” he remembered.

One of the village elders I met shared his perspective: he had experienced the same thing I had, only much more slowly. “This used to be a forest,” he remembered. “Before, even if there was drought, we could still eat fruit from the forest, but now there’s nothing to eat. We’re hungry. We’re thirsty.”

Some Malagasy people have to work for a day to be able to purchase a day’s worth of water for their families (one jerry can, or about half a shower’s worth for me).  

Without water, the list of things that become nearly impossible grows quickly: staying hydrated, getting clean, washing your food, cooking, nourishing your animals, and growing crops.

Meanwhile, as I found myself adjusting as a guest in the area to the lack of clean water, I was mostly thinking about how to brush my teeth. I could afford to pay for my food and shower and bottles of water.

Perspective is a strange thing. As it happened, I flew home via Switzerland as I had an opportunity to attend a conference there. The first thing I was told was that in this city of Zurich, I could drink the water from any city fountain. On my first morning in town, I witnessed a man freely filling up two jerry-can-sized containers from one of these abundant fountains. It struck me that despite all the privileges we usually enjoy and consider, water is the most essential.

“Only God can make it rain,” I replied.  

On our last day in Abovombe, we visited the local market. The crowded hillside was packed with community members selling produce, animals, and charcoal. As I walked along, I found people were eager to welcome me and engage in conversation. But none of these passing chats were as memorable as the one I had with one woman, Celestine, who sized me up and said: “You could make it rain. So make it rain.” I was taken aback.  

“Only God can make it rain,” I replied.  

“You’re right,” she responded. “So, ask him!”  

“Can we ask him together?” I asked her. Celestine nodded her agreement, and we prayed together, right there in the bustle of the market. Then Celestine was on her way. 

But I have been thinking about this exchange ever since that day, and I have realized that Celestine’s declaration that I had power in this situation was not as far off as it first seemed to me. I stand by my statement that only God can bring rain in the desert, but I have power as a Canadian that many people do not. I have a voice, material resources, time ... So how am I using that power? How can I stand up for people facing injustice—for people like Celestine who are struggling with hunger?  

For me, this means I aim to consider the climate in how I shop, how I vote, and what charities I support—including World Renew (learn more at worldrenew.ca/creation-care). And, as Celestine challenged me to do, I continue to pray for rain.

Photo provided by the author: A woman carries a jerry can of water from the town to her village, about a 7-km walk