Rain soaks her hair, pouring off that water-logged canvas of wind drenched grey.
Saturated to the bone, she stands there, feeling like the storm,
Angry, isolated, and crying alone. .
Lightning strikes around,
and she’s afraid,
but she holds her ground. .
She just closes her eyes and listens to the sensations of the wind,
Of the rain and of the earth.
She can hear it all by the way it feels.
And so, she whispers silently, “Oh how much we miss when we don’t close our eyes.
The wind humming,
the lingering vibration of clashing thunder,
the mud bubbling up beneath our feet…
So many notes,
So many lyrics we miss.
There is much to detract our fragile hearts. ” .
the rain continued to cry with her,
water falling through her brokenness,
and into her cracks;
Filling her up,
quenching her thirst,
curing her dehydration. .
She knows that even in this storm,
The Sun is painting.
When He breaks through that ink splattered sky,
His fanning beams of unseen hue,
refract through her raindrop covered being,
masterly creating a mosaic of only imaginable colors. .
They’re fluid, always moving and changing,
But continuously tinted in a heavenly,
Hugely damp, misty pink.
Clothed in this wholeness,
She will never again,
to be distracted, thirty or broken. .
And so she wraps her arms around this hope,
Pulling it tightly against her chest and keeps it there
until her own heartbeat matches its life-giving pulse. .
And then it does,
and then she opens her eyes,
and drinks a hot cup of tea.