Gainesville, Georgia, wraps around the often-beautiful and busy, Lake Lanier, north east of Atlanta. It is a man-made lake and provides respite, recreation venues, and tourist income for an area that still reels from the recession.

It's also dry - at one point this winter - 20 feet below "normal".  Winter rains have raised water levels and things are "looking up".  I think about the lake daily because the route to work takes me over two bridges that cross it's north eastern fingers.  After a longish day at work, I crossed the first bridge and wondered, "how is that lake ever going to get full again?"  This thought followed, "it can't fill itself."

And then I wondered if I was like the lake, draining away strength and hope and expecting the wrong things

to fill me up again - like DOing, serving, and - these days - living a too-quiet life.  Life clicks along and parts wear out, fuel depletes, and changes challenge the mechanics of our living.  Often, we scramble to backfill or patch our weary lives hoping that effort and energy will solve the drought.

What do you do when you are depleted?

Like Lake Lanier, you cannot fill yourself.  Google Lake Lanier 2001-2009 to see photos of the drought that nearly decimated the lake and added strain to the local economy.

The lake depends on water flows it (and really no one) cannot control despite a system of locks and dams and the wisdom of the Army Corps of Engineers.  Ultimately, rain or snow falls overhead or upstream and the lake slowly fills. 

Where do you go to be refilled when your fresh water is running dry?  When your peace and rest is challenged?  When your faith and hope ebbs to reveal the rocks and debris beneath the surface?

It would be easy to say, "I read my Bible more" or pray more or worship more or hang with my friends...or tromp around the woods.

Sometimes, that doesn't cut it.  Our levels cannot be "fixed" by our own efforts.  My life is one long illustration of that.  And I'm still not certain how to receive fresh water without trying to rain dance or bail it in from some unseen spring.  I'm still learning.  

Each morning and afternoon, I am twice-reminded of my need to be refilled.  Each trip across the bridges includes a small prayer to be refilled - both me and the lake - and for wisdom...a miracle really.  As I write this, two thoughts keep circling back to my mind: the lake is beautiful - even now - and could host such wonder and inspire such peace - awe maybe - as it fills.  Gratitude, too.  And while the fresh water has receded and uncovered the forgotten and ignored junk beneath the full-level's surface, what can I do to clear the debris?

Probably much of what will fill the lake eventually...trust, seeking first an unseen kingdom, celebrating the life of the present, gratitude...relying on a love I cannot see. We have reaped the whirlwind and know too well (self-)incrimination. We really don't need the wagging fingers of assumption.  We need wisdom, compassion, and a way to renew the free and flowing passion...hope in a loving God that we can't see nor feels very present or interested at times.

What are your thoughts about the dry lake?  How do you sustain through drought?

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Did you know that Gainesville, Georgia, hosted part of the Atlanta Olympics and still hosts water sports at the Olympic Venue?  Can't wait to see the Dragon Boat festival next fall, http://www.gainesvilletimes.com/archives/55611/