The Hot. It comes quickly and sits oppressively on top of us for too long.

This is the name I’ve given our summer months in PNG (October-February), and I’ve been bracing myself for it since June. Despite my stewing, when The Hot arrived three weeks ago I was ill prepared. Last year Ray tolerated The Hot very well. Heat rash was something “other people’s children” got (snort). I now know that she wasn’t getting heat rash because she wasn’t moving all that much (oh…). This year The Hot came during a night and the heat rash immediately flared under her chin, to serve as a mocking reminder of my smugness the year before. It seemed to explode overnight, eventually covering her entire body. Down to the fingernails. I hate The Hot.

Our house has a tin roof and not much insulation that we’re aware of, so it’s basically a people oven. The inside does keep the cool relief of the night for a few hours in the morning, but it doesn’t let go of the daytime heat until well after we’re asleep. As each day passes and we find ourselves deeper and deeper in The Hot, I lose energy and stamina. Sometimes in the afternoons while the girls are napping I just sit and think about the weather. My limbs have ceased to respond to my commands, so what else can I do? It’s too hot in The Hot for sweeping, they say. It’s too hot in The Hot for washing dishes, they say. Cooking?!?! Are you kidding me? NO, they scream. My brain isn’t much stronger than my limbs. It’s too hot in The Hot for thinking, it groans. It’s juuusssst right in The Hot for wallowing, it declares. So I wallow and move my limbs as little as possible.

Growing up in North Carolina prepared me to face The Hot, but temperature controlled housing really does wonders. My childhood summers were intense, but I could always escape back inside. I used to reach out my fingers and touch the air it was so thick with humidity. Sometimes I held onto it so tightly I was sure, just sure, I would be able to see it in my hand. It never worked. Actually swimming through the air didn’t work either, in case you were wondering. I don’t touch the air here like that. It doesn’t have that dense presence to it. Even so, the heat is an overpowering force that feels like another being in our house. Hello Brian, in your loud $3 PNG Christmas shirt. Hello Ray, riding your Bronty toy. Hello Willa, tottering at the door. Hello Heat, unwelcome as you are. I hate The Hot.

Part of our human condition dictates that we need to be uncomfortable in order to notice small blessings. As much as I hate The Hot for the discomfort, it gifts me with the ability to notice the otherwise forgettable. For instance, a random burst of cold wind that blasts through the door, shoots down the hallway, and flies out the window in Willa’s room. It’s a straight shot from the door to that window, and those breezes hardly stop to nod a hello. But in The Hot I see them. I feel them. I remember them.

During the seasons of my life when I’m comfortable, the PNG winters or the North Carolina Spring/Falls, I don’t notice God’s gifts. I feel secure in the things immediately surrounding me or “creating” that comfort. I don’t hunger for Him or pray unceasingly. I don’t notice the ways in which He is working in and through me to advance His kingdom. He could be a gale of cold wind around me, and I wouldn’t even look up from the dishes or the stove because I think I don’t need that cold wind. It’s during The Hot that I sense the wind coming, anticipate it, wait for it, and then soak up every second as it dashes past.

If The Hot binds me closer to Him, reminding me of my dependence and His grace, why do I hate and dread it so much? Quite simply because I’m human and full of self-preservation and a pursuit of happiness. In my better moments I don’t pray for good health or steady finances or freedom from persecution. In my better moments when I recognize the eternal beauty found in The Hot, I pray exactly for that. Because the only thing that truly matters in this life is our relationship to Him, and according to Him what matters the least is that I preserve self.

So I don’t hate The Hot.