Today is a day of rest.

Really.  A weekday, but I’m resting. 

Outside though, there is a whirl and a hurry, the wind bustling through in a tremendous rush to get somewhere—anywhere, it seems, but here.  And, since I’m resting, I listen to the wind.

My friends in the backyard don’t want to listen.  The black labs are terrified of the voices they hear in the air about them.  For ten seconds, while I was out to care for their physical needs this morning, they came out to scramble for my attention.  Ten seconds only, and then they dove for cover as the wind began to sound through the treetops again.

They’re not resting.

I am, though.  The last weeks and days have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, caused by the illness and passing of a family member.  Sadness and concern for her and those left behind have overwhelmed me.  Our love for them demands the activity, but the body and soul are rebelling, making demands of their own.

And so, overwhelmed, I sit at my desk, listening to the voices of the wind outside my window.  Almost, it seems to me, God’s creation sings a concert of glorious praise.  The dogs would disagree, but what do they know?

The man-made attachments add their voices.  I hear the neighbor’s ceiling fan on her porch, as it whirls—now wildly, now lazily—on its way. Whup, whup, whup, whup, whup. On and on, it provides a rhythm to the song.

The wind chimes crash crazily and then tinkle lazily, a tuned accent to the constant voices through the limbs of the trees.  From the clang! clang! clang! to the almost indiscernible ting ting ting, their bell-like tones add depth to the various voices of creation.

The Rose of Sharon against the wall brushes noisily in rhythm, as its wire-thin stems almost whistle from the breath of the wind.

The apple tree, ancient though it may be, adds its airy voice.  The bedraggled and crooked branches lend a whispering tone to the choir.

Over in the neighbor’s yard, the magnolia, evergreen that it is, claps its leaves in the gale, the great fronds clattering along as branches surrounding them wave and whirl about.

And the pines?  They are the tenor voices, holding forth as only the self-assured tenors can.  It is a wild chorus, held in check only by the waning of the wind at intervals, as if to keep their voices from overwhelming all the others.

But the oaks. . .  Ah, the oaks—they are the basses, their voices booming along on the low pitches, a low, throbbing tone, giving a foundation to all of it.

I love the oaks in the neighborhood.  Solid and strong, they are not afraid to sing out, standing firm, and yet, their heavy branches wave to the listening audience a little as they are buffeted. 

I almost imagine a little vibrato in their song, as they shift about—only a little.

I understand the dogs.  I too, am afraid of the wind at times—fearing all I possess will be blown away.

I remember the story of Job, thinking of all he lost, blown away seemingly in an instant.  Everything and everyone.  Gone.  

Life is so fragile, so thin.  We seem to hang, as a tiny spider, on a shredded web, waving in the tempest.

But, I have seen the strength of that web.  The web of family and of friends.  The web of faith in a God who holds both us and the storm in His hands. 

The web of His mercy and His grace.

With the prophet, I affirm that it is because of His great mercy we are not blown away in the storm.  We are sustained by His great and unfailing faithfulness.  (Lamentations 3:22,23)   

His grace is enough.  In the storms of life, it is enough.  (2 Corinthians 12:9)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. Share on X

I am not saying a limb won’t tumble to the ground, nor even that a great oak might not someday be uprooted.  There is pain and sorrow in the world.

There is.

But, the one who can silence the wind with a word from His mouth still offers peace in the midst of chaos.

Songs in the storm.  Harmony in the turmoil.

Beautiful.  Music.

It is a day of rest.

 

 

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
(Isaiah 55:12 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
(Alice Oswald ~ British poet)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.