The evening news lulls me into a nightmarish sleep.
In the distance storm clouds are brewing. I hear the rolling thunder of division and dissonance. On the horizon I see lightning bolts igniting fiery hatred. The storm rolls in. Muscular columns of darkened clouds and densely pelting rain march in indomitable columns across the landscape shredding it under the weight of the storm. A deep-throated thunder seizes everything within its reach shaking it with invisible hands.
I smell destruction.
I see faces touched by desperation and hopelessness, their spirits crushed. I witness nation rising against nation, kingdom against kingdom. Cities turn to rubble. Bodies lay scattered about, the halo of violence lingering over the land. I’m told these things must happen. “There’s always another storm,” they say. “That’s the way the world works—snowstorms, rainstorms, firestorms, and war.” Some are fierce. Others are small, merely squalls and skirmishes.
I awaken with a start.
What if tomorrow vanishes in the storm? What if time stands still? And yesterday, if once we lost our way, blunder in the storm? Will we find yesterday again ahead of us where we thought tomorrow’s sun would rise?
storm clouds are brewing.
angry wind slows then changes.
winds of change blowing.