The Hand by Which the Wind Blows
On faithfulness and trust in the storms of life
The wind was a wild ocean last night, waves of roaring gusts surging through the woods and bending cedars and firs into low bows, subservient to the driving rain. I awoke just before three in the morning, that mystical hour, and gazed through the slider at autumn leaves blasting off the maples like confetti. I wondered if our generator was ready, if our gasoline cans were full of fresh fuel. Snug and warm in my cedar cabin, I wondered if I were ready for anything at all, a multitude of wet realities pelting upon the rooftop.
In case you blessedly have been asleep, we are no longer a Christian nation, asleep in the mild weather of ease. Of course, we could quibble whether we ever truly were, I have my own grim doubts, to begin with, but certainly society and culture borrowed from Biblical principles of justice, charity, order, and family. And I hardly need to soil this ess…