The hurricane rages. I sit a thousand miles away under a blue sky. Why? And how? How will my friend’s child and grandchildren fare, who live on one of the battered and troubled islands? How will my friend bear the weight of waiting? How will I wait? Small. Sobered. Bewildered. Broken-hearted. Held.
“For the mountains may be removed and the hills may shake, but My lovingkindness will not be removed from you and My covenant of peace will not be shaken. . . .” Isaiah 54:10
“The rain to the wind said, ‘You push and I’ll pelt.’ / They so smote the garden bed / That the flowers actually knelt / And lay lodged--though not dead. / I know how the flowers felt.” Robert Frost