This Alabama girl knows a thing or two about tornadoes. There was one summer when I was a little girl where we had a tornado watch every afternoon for a week. Watch, not warning. Warning = something might happen. Watch = get in the hall bathroom and hunker down. Last week during a run-in-the-mill rainstorm, my radar went on high alert. The back door blowing open was my first clue. Then the sound. There's nothing like that sound. Then stillness. I hunkered down in the hall bathroom. Hubby joined me. That scared me worse than anything. He usually says I overreact to weather situations. That he didn't argue everything was fine meant something was definitely up. Didn't last more than a few minutes. Then it was quiet. The power was out for a while due to some fallen trees down the street. There was no damage at our house except the power. Friends had a line of fenceposts sheared off at the ground clean as a whistle. And their camper got picked up and set down off its blocks a few feet away. We had what is called a microburst. We scrounged around and found three scented candles and two little flashlights. And by little I mean flashlights attached to key chains little. The house smelled like a holiday potpourri of balsam, citrus, vanilla and cinnamon. Pleasant, actually. We tried to remember what was turned on when the power went out so it wouldn't startle us when it came back on and then settled down to wait it out.
The thing about microbursts is that there's already a storm, an expected storm. One that's in progress. One you've gotten used to. But in the middle of it there's this intense surge of energy that kicks it up a notch. Grief is like that. There's the expected cloud of mourning or sadness that becomes the new normal. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, you get knocked sideways. And rush-limp-crawl to the nearest safe place to hunker til it passes. Nothing to do but wait it out. Alone sometimes - but blessedly together, too - in the dark places. Prayers wafting like fragrance. Clutching onto tiny light-sources - just enough to keep from falling down - too far down. Heart-pounding. Then sudden-still-over. For now. You breathe and stretch out to check for damage then wait for the power to come back. Pounding slows and restoration eventually comes. Always comes. Eventually.
You'd think it would be less traumatic after a few years, but no. Emotions that spin up out of nowhere are powerful every single time. But. And this is big. Joy does the very same thing. Joy bursts on the scene like a mini twister - equally disruptive. Equally surprising. Out of nowhere, there's a grace-encased bubble that rises up and knocks over the melancholy domino soldiers. Guards around the tender places that keep out pain - but also healing. Side effects of hope stream in. And peace. Balm of Gilead. Breathing is less hitched and the future looks purposeful again. Strength banks up. Tomorrow comes. And it is well. With my soul.
There's a new year on the horizon. Close enough to touch. May it be well. May we be well. Selah.
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come.
Let this blessed assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed his own blood for my soul.
My sin,oh the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul.
And Lord haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well, with my soul.
It is well. With my soul. It is well. It is well with my soul.
Horatio Gates Spafford
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