When the winds blow, dear
For a townie who grew up with sidewalks, it seemed like an adventure.
We were still in our 20s when Jim nailed the last board of cedar siding on the little structure we would call home and announced it was time to move up to this hill. He and his dad worked evenings and weekends constructing a three-level garage – our temporary dwelling. It was modest, but it was ours.
A few times horses nibbled stubble near the front sliding door, green snakes sunbathed on a rock wall, I was introduced to deer as neighbors, and once a bear rambled across our lower garden. Mr. Miller (the old farmer who I presume owned the horses), named our road Sunset Drive after hiking to the top one evening and viewing God’s handiwork. If it had been dawn, our address might have been Sunrise View.
It was the ever-changing vista that drew us, the curve of the mountains on the surrounding horizon, a farm with an iconic red barn in the valley below. It was postcard perfect – so perfect that one year the Gazette featured it on their annual Christmas calendar.
What I didn’t appreciate was the wind. That first winter, it scared me.
In those years Jim was on the road a lot as a sales engineer. Our million dollar view was accompanied by howling gusts that beat the siding like a giant intruder, pounding through the night as I huddled in bed with my two little kiddos, unable to block its roar. All I could think of was that unlikely lullaby, “Rockabye Baby.”
A teacher, our former in-town neighbor, grew up directly below us, on Elkin Avenue. When I told her where we were moving her eyes widened and she said, “The only tornado I ever saw blew over that hill.” Her words instilled fear that worried my heart each time the windows and doors rattled.
I
knew then—as we’ve tragically seen in Alabama—the devastating
force of tornadoes. Last week I listened to mourning parents on the
news and grappled as I always do with why. Why did some people live
and others die? Why did God let this happen? Answers to why questions
rarely come, however my friend Claudia shared something at a women’s
prayer breakfast last Saturday, saying the Lord once impressed upon
her: “God
never wastes anything.”
Back in the winter of ’75-76, another thought settled like a blanket upon me one restless night: The wind is not my enemy.
I now pictured the wind squall as the Holy Spirit, protectively encircling our perch like a mega, swirling, Mr. Clean. What a difference it made when my mindset changed! Think of Charleston Heston’s wild chariot ride in the classic film, “The Ten Commandments.” The psalmist says God makes the clouds His personal vehicle-of-choice, riding on the wings of the wind.
That phrase, the wind is not my enemy, quieted fear for seven winters to come, until we moved into our permanent, adjoining home. I saw the deep foundation Jim built and never once doubted the ability of this house to harbor my children through storms. Likewise, there’s no safer place to be than held by a holy God.
Life coach Barbara Croce wrote during February’s fierce winds: this heart of mine is strangely cozy in the midst of the wild. It takes lovely sips of Jesus moment by moment, breathing in strength from above. And I wonder if that is what grace really means – this unexpected steadfastness in the midst of a storm. (Accessed from Facebook, 2-26-19)
Isn’t that what we want when a storm hits?
Her thought underscores one by Graham Cooke I recently posted: contentment is the outward expression of an inward glory. Choosing not to worry is actually an act of worship . . .”
I hang onto these faith affirmations when turmoil shakes the wind beneath my wobbling wings. Thankfully, I’m not alone. Jesus, who knew all about storms, is with me.
The One who told the winds, “Be still,” also told Martha she fussed too much. He praised Mary for listening to her heart instead of to her big sis, for choosing worship over worry. (I like to think afterward she helped with the dishes.) Later, the Spirit ministered through them both as they welcomed Jesus into their home, a place of refuge before Passover . . . and Good Friday.
Lent began last Wednesday, an ancient period of self denial, reflection and prayer leading to Easter. Please join me in praying that His strength and peace are yours and mine when gales threaten to batter our pilgrimage toward the cross.
All will be well.
Texting Thru Recovery, Indiana Gazette
