Storms Pass
Storms pass, and the sun has to wait patiently, just like us, until God decides to part the clouds. Many of us, truthfully, don’t weather storms well. We anticipate the slightest sign of clear skies after showers of rain. Clear skies tell us it’s okay to move. It’s okay to get on with it, whatever “it” is. Storms are revealed to be an album’s interlude rather than a quiet five-year hiatus in between projects.
The bliss on the other side rarely replaces the anxiety and angst we experience while in the eye of a storm. Hurricane season is disquieting. We juggle restlessness in our curiosity and worry about the degree of calamity. Even when a storm comes and leaves, we’re usually stuck to endure the damages.
Coincidentally, my second mother texted me around 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon while writing this, and I could strangely sense her uneasiness through a green bubble. “Worried about you. Are you prepared for this storm?” The weight of her question slowed my thoughts, and the sound of raindrops echoed in my head as everything else suddenly became silent.
I don’t weather storms well, not in real life or metaphorically. But being reminded of the sun eagerly anticipating its own arrival makes thuds of pitter-patter and strong whistling winds feel like a rite of passage for the coming of peace. And I’m tempted to peep through my blinds to witness the peace of God’s handiwork or allow the ambiance to be a setting for sleep.
In the abstract, we can’t prepare for storms because we rarely see them coming. As good as I believe myself to be at anticipating pain, I fail to brace my heart for letdowns. Every rejection letter, denial, and decline of anything I have to offer is a slow, painful experience. Even if I hear the thunder bellowing in the distance and see the dark clouds convening in the sky, it still inconveniences my life.
Over the last two years, I've observed and felt my body, emotions, and mind form a protective barrier, making them appear to be durable. This isn’t to imply that I’m now prepared for anything the world leaves at my door. Rather, our bodies change inside and out as we’re met with adversity, grief, and trauma. We see ourselves to be weathering the storm perfectly when we might be learning along the way. It takes a storm to prepare us for one. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the pain I sat through, but sitting through it is where I learned how long I could hurt.
After walking in the rain for so long, we no longer broaden our strides to cover ground or move with haste. We walk lightly in drenched clothes that slow our movement and accept the storm we’ve been caught in. Noah found solace in knowing that the same water clouds couldn’t hold were what God used to cleanse the earth.
Around this time of the year, Walmarts and discount stores are congested with shoppers looking to prepare themselves for something that, truthfully, many of us have experienced. Carts loaded with water and all the basics. Things we need to survive are rarely essentials until we truly need them to survive.
People evacuate and find comfort with loved ones in areas of the state believed to be out of a hurricane’s reach. This is so many of us. But we can’t always run from storms, some of us have no place to run. How many flowers would we see if seeds were just as afraid of storms as we are? Whenever it rained, I was always told, "that just means God's working." As a child, I believed this. My innocence wouldn’t allow me to think God's work didn't always look or sound beautiful.
As subtle as my fear was of storms, believing that even a warning before catastrophe was Him at work made thunder sound more like songs, and lightning seemed like ornaments decorating the sky. I look for dark, low-hanging clouds now. The smell of rain isn’t a warning, but a sign. I stopped covering my ears, and the blackest of skies just reminded me that God was on His way to work. I stopped running from God's work.
Told by: Kwon
