Center of The Storm- A Heavenly Call to Action

It's time. Over the past couple of years my family has faced many changes and I have allowed myself very little writing, but the Spirit cries out and finally I have had the sense to answer with Samuel, "Speak Lord, I am listening." In order to make it easy on myself I am beginning by posting some things published in The Belton Journal in the spring of 2007, before the recession and the housing market collapse, and the bailouts and the government takeover of our banks and auto industry and even before Cap and Trade was written, and we had Czars in the white house and cries of racism and socialism on the streets. How strange to think what has changed, and how quickly, and yet I find that the things I wrote them continue to be largely relevant today. People are people, God is God and so the World only spins but never changes course. How comforting, and how constant. No matter how bad it gets, it is always coming round to a new day under the watchful eye of a loving God.

The heavy air hangs around me like a quilt and I am enveloped in its wet warmth. The brilliant green grass is a sponge beneath my bare feet and from the thick grey sky a wet hand reaches down and veils my upturned face, its fingers run over my cheeks in streams, through my hair it becomes a river, down my neck a flood, and I am drenched. The splat of each drop on the rooftops, street and sidewalk run together into a kind of roaring symphony, while the forgiving earth absorbs its share silently and fragrantly. I look down at my son, his round face peeking out from the garish yellow towel in which I’ve wrapped him. At just over a year old he is normally 25 pounds of wiggle, but now he is perfectly still in my arms, captivated as I am captivated by this baptism of rain. Being out at this moment is not an accident, the southern Oregon rain calls to me, beginning with a gentle voice and rising in urgency with every exploding drop. Today I have succumbed, and here I am, white legs glowing beneath faded shorts, sodden T-shirt stuck to my back, and dark hair in slick disarray. Rooted at the center of my small lawn I am the only person visible in the long corridor of pastel townhomes, a spectacle for my neighbors, soaked through and staring into the sky.

I have never seen rain like this. It mesmerizes me. The rain of my childhood was constant and drizzly. Damp and cool in the summer, cold and slushy in the winter, the air was in a constant state of wet, each tiny drop permanently suspended like the beads in a hippy bead curtain. This rain is different, the giant drops plunging unprovoked from an irate sky. On and on it chastises the earth, nagging and ranting until slowly its’ rage is spent and calm restored. I admire this petulant sky and its’ unwarranted passions, and am comforted by its’ unabashed display. A natural coward I have long since learned to bury deep all such brazenness in myself. I do not advertise my beliefs. I do not defend my point of view. I do not incite, ignite or offend. A chronically pale blue sky above a tepidly correct world, I sustain and refresh nothing.

Refusing to storm, I have inflicted parched calm on my little world. Mindlessly proud of the unworn banks of my dry creek beds I did not notice their irrelevance. I have mimicked peace without accomplishing it. Steadfastly choosing stagnant tranquility over fruitful discord I did not see that suppression is the lying twin of peace.

Today is different. The sky above my new Texas home is nearly shattered by thunder. The fervor of this storm makes those of Oregon seem a toddler’s tantrum in comparison. The heavens will be heard. I open all the doors and windows, layering the sills and entryways with towels to protect the wood, then curl into the couch to enjoy the gusting wet vehemence of natures passion. The phone rings, a dear friend from my old home. “You sound really happy,” she says.

“Do I?” I pause, considering the source of my joy. “That’s because it’s raining.”