Dancing In The Mud
(short version)

Based on Joel 2:23-32 – God promises restoration to a people devastated by drought and locusts, pouring out Spirit on all flesh.

Mara waded through the knee-deep mud, the stench of wet earth and rotting crops thick in the air. The town of Larkswood, usually sleepy and quiet, had been swallowed overnight by the flood. The river, swollen beyond memory, had crept over its banks and carried roads, fences, and part of the bridge leading out of town. There was no way in, no way out. Help would not come.

A shout cut through the roar of rushing water. Mara turned and spotted old Mr. Jennings clinging to the roof of his collapsed shed, waving frantically. The muddy current tugged at everything, threatening to swallow him. Mara’s boots slipped as she pushed forward, balancing on a fallen fence. Her heart hammered in her chest, not just from the effort but from the thought that she might fail him.

It was chaos in every direction. Houses leaned like they had drunk too much, trees lay sprawled across muddy yards, and animals wandered lost, bleating or crying in panic. Mara had been up since dawn, moving from one house to the next, checking basements, climbing into attics, coaxing terrified families through broken windows. She was exhausted, but the worst part wasn’t the mud or the water, it was the people who refused to help.

Old Sam crouched behind a pile of crates, clutching a tin of beans and a bottle of water. Mara had seen him earlier, hiding supplies from the community, shoving bread into his sack while mothers begged for even a single loaf. His eyes flicked nervously toward her as she approached.

“You’re not going to take it all for yourself, are you?” she asked, voice firm.

Continue reading the full story here.

Dancing In The Mud

Based on Joel 2:23-32 – God promises restoration to a people devastated by drought and locusts, pouring out Spirit on all flesh.

Mara waded through the knee-deep mud, the stench of wet earth and rotting crops thick in the air. The town of Larkswood, usually sleepy and quiet, had been swallowed overnight by the flood. The river, swollen beyond memory, had crept over its banks and carried roads, fences, and part of the bridge leading out of town. There was no way in, no way out. Help would not come.

A shout cut through the roar of rushing water. Mara turned and spotted old Mr. Jennings clinging to the roof of his collapsed shed, waving frantically. The muddy current tugged at everything, threatening to swallow him. Mara’s boots slipped as she pushed forward, balancing on a fallen fence. Her heart hammered in her chest, not just from the effort but from the thought that she might fail him.

It was chaos in every direction. Houses leaned like they had drunk too much, trees lay sprawled across muddy yards, and animals wandered lost, bleating or crying in panic. Mara had been up since dawn, moving from one house to the next, checking basements, climbing into attics, coaxing terrified families through broken windows. She was exhausted, but the worst part wasn’t the mud or the water, it was the people who refused to help.

Old Sam crouched behind a pile of crates, clutching a tin of beans and a bottle of water. Mara had seen him earlier, hiding supplies from the community, shoving bread into his sack while mothers begged for even a single loaf. His eyes flicked nervously toward her as she approached.

“You’re not going to take it all for yourself, are you?” she asked, voice firm.

“Better me than you lot,” he snapped, tightening his grip.

Mara clenched her fists but moved on. Some things she couldn’t fix right now. There were lives to save, and time would not wait for morality to catch up.

The next house was a nightmare. Water had swallowed half the foundation, and a child’s cry echoed through the collapsing walls. Mara peered inside and saw twelve-year-old Elsie trapped under a fallen beam. She shoved her hands into the mud, gripping the soaked timber and heaving. Mud slid beneath her boots; the beam shifted with a sickening groan. For a moment, she thought she would be buried alongside it. Then, with a final grunt, the beam gave way enough for Elsie to crawl free. She pulled the girl close, wrapping her in a damp coat, whispering reassurances as the floodwater tugged at their legs.

Behind them, Sam bellowed, demanding they leave the supplies for him, but Mara ignored him. There were more houses to check, more people to find. As she climbed over a fallen fence, she glimpsed smoke rising from the collapsed bakery. Bread ovens and sacks of flour were half-submerged. Mara cursed under her breath. Food would be needed, but she didn’t have time to haul it all; she had to prioritize life over resources.

Hours passed in a blur of slipping, crawling, shouting, and wading. Every time she thought she had reached safety, another crisis appeared. The bridge had given way entirely, isolating the northern side of town. She could see families trapped across the widening gap, waving frantically, but there was no way to reach them. Her stomach knotted. How do you choose who to save when every life matters?

A sudden rumble turned her stomach into ice. Part of the hillside, loosened by the rain and mud, began to slide toward the road she had just crossed. She froze, calculating. If she moved forward, the mud could bury her. If she stayed, the families across the river would be left alone. Then, above the roar of the flood, she heard Mr. Jennings shouting again. He was already halfway through the mudslide, trying to guide others to safety. Mara’s jaw tightened. She had no choice. She ran.

The mud clung to her, sucking her down with every step. She reached the edge of the slide and spotted a small group of children huddled near a tree, their faces pale, eyes wide. She grabbed one, then another, urging them to follow as best as she could. They stumbled through the quagmire, her arms aching from lifting, pulling, supporting. The river roared beside them, but somehow they reached firmer ground.

And there, for the first time that day, she saw signs of hope. Across the mud, neighbours who had survived, soaked and shaking, were forming chains to carry children and the elderly. Mara realised the town was waking from panic to purpose. Even Sam, reluctantly, began passing supplies, though he grumbled every step of the way. Survival had forced cooperation.

By sunset, the floodwaters had begun to retreat. Families gathered on the high bank, muddy, exhausted, but alive. Mara sank to her knees, letting the mud coat her boots, her hands, her clothes. The town was battered, the roads gone, supplies scattered, but laughter and relief broke through the tension. Children splashed in shallow pools, adults exchanged hugs, and Mara, wet and filthy, felt a surge of joy she hadn’t expected.

She looked at the ruined streets, the toppled trees, the shattered homes, and realised that life could grow here again. Even in the mess, even in the mud, restoration had begun. It wasn’t perfect. There would be months of rebuilding, months of struggle. But today, the people of Larkswood had survived together. They had danced in the mud.

And somewhere deep down, Mara knew that the spirit of renewal didn’t arrive in a tidy package. It came wet, messy, and unpredictable, just like the flood.