It’s been a difficult summer in the Midwest; drought conditions in 98 of our 102 counties here in Illinois — with no signs of letting up.

Friends who do more business travel than I do have relayed how sad it’s been as they approached O’Hare and have seen the dusty yellow patchwork of crops where they’d usually see rows of green. I have been watching my own backyard as a barometer of our earth’s thirst. I volunteered for the job of cutting the grass shortly after John and I moved into our new home and expected this would be a weekly chore. With so little rain, the lawn has not needed cutting nearly this often.

Just before I was convinced our backyard lawn would never make it to the fall, we had a series of thunderstorms. We saw fancy lightshows and crackling thunder. I gave a few prayers of thanks that I was not driving when the deluge came. “Good soakings,” we called them, episodes that were more than a passing summer shower yet fortunately not as fierce or quick as to overflow drains and fill our basement (again).

And everything green seemed to perk up again.

Once again, it was slow-going pushing our mower through the dense pile of grass in the back yard. The rain seemed to summon the weeds to sprout up in between the cracks of cement in our alley. And the trees flanking Whipple and Leland and Wilson seemed to block the sun’s rays more completely than the week before.

Things looked summertime lush again.

The farmers still have much to worry about, and I am under no illusion that we have escaped our drought yet. But the quick response grass and trees made to the rain gave me a huge infusion of hope.

I want to think the extreme heat and drought has brought more attention to the topic of climate change. Of course, I can’t tell. But beyond a wake-up call to be more conscious of how human beings can adversely impact the very nature we depend on, it feels like a summer shower is also a harbinger of hope.

Nature is an incredibly resilient force. There may come a time when the damage we have done to the earth is too much to overcome. But, after thinking about the Dust Bowl of the 30’s and how farmlands were restored in the Midwest, and, after considering the lush, re-greening of my neighborhood after a few long rains, I have to have some hope.

And hope, even in the form of a single rainstorm, is no small thing.