Storms come in life. It's not always like the photo above. Sometimes it's a storm that blew through your home or your workplace. Whatever the storm, let it come.
I remember one physical storm. The evening clouds had a chaotic look--more wild than truly menacing--a rolling, layered strata of grey and olive and indigo. By the time I arrived at my destination my phone was bleating out warnings of hail and possible tornadoes, although nothing came but sheets of rain.
There's a helplessness in knowing that you can't stop the storm. You may sense its brewing, see its approach, but there's nothing to do but let it come. You don't control the wind.
After, the normally humid night air was oddly cool and calm. Only a few, far friendlier clouds remained. Peace from chaos. Beauty where danger had been hurriedly announced.
My radar for storms is finely tuned. I've created a portfolio of ways to counteract the chaos. But I've never learned to turn back the clouds. Lately, I'm learning not to try. To let the threat, whatever it is, come. To focus less on the warning bells, and more on the quiet "after" that's sure to follow.
A few days ago, I found this "Blessing in the Chaos." May it bless you, too:
To all that is chaotic
in you,
let there come silence.
Let there be
a calming
of the clamoring,
a stilling
of the voices that
have laid their claim
on you,
that have made their
home in you,
that go with you
even to the
holy places
but will not
let you rest,
will not let you
hear your life
with wholeness
or feel the grace
that fashioned you.
Let what distracts you
cease.
Let what divides you
cease.
Let there come an end
to what diminishes
and demeans,
and let depart
all that keeps you
in its cage.
Let there be
an opening in the quiet
that lies beneath
the chaos,
where you find
the peace
you did not think
possible
and see what shimmers
within the storm.
--Jan Richardson, The Painted Prayerbook
A huge storm came up. Waves poured into the boat, threatening to sink it. And Jesus was in the stern, head on a pillow, sleeping! They roused him, saying, "Teacher, is it nothing to you that we're going down?"Awake now, he told the wind to pipe down and said to the sea, "Quiet! Settle down!" The wind ran out of breath; the sea became smooth as glass. Jesus reprimanded the disciples: "Why are you such cowards? Don't you have any faith at all?"They were in absolute awe, staggered. "Who is this, anyway?" they asked. "Wind and sea at his beck and call!"
(Mark 4: 37-41, The Message)
I remember one physical storm. The evening clouds had a chaotic look--more wild than truly menacing--a rolling, layered strata of grey and olive and indigo. By the time I arrived at my destination my phone was bleating out warnings of hail and possible tornadoes, although nothing came but sheets of rain.
There's a helplessness in knowing that you can't stop the storm. You may sense its brewing, see its approach, but there's nothing to do but let it come. You don't control the wind.
After, the normally humid night air was oddly cool and calm. Only a few, far friendlier clouds remained. Peace from chaos. Beauty where danger had been hurriedly announced.
My radar for storms is finely tuned. I've created a portfolio of ways to counteract the chaos. But I've never learned to turn back the clouds. Lately, I'm learning not to try. To let the threat, whatever it is, come. To focus less on the warning bells, and more on the quiet "after" that's sure to follow.
A few days ago, I found this "Blessing in the Chaos." May it bless you, too:
To all that is chaotic
in you,
let there come silence.
Let there be
a calming
of the clamoring,
a stilling
of the voices that
have laid their claim
on you,
that have made their
home in you,
that go with you
even to the
holy places
but will not
let you rest,
will not let you
hear your life
with wholeness
or feel the grace
that fashioned you.
Let what distracts you
cease.
Let what divides you
cease.
Let there come an end
to what diminishes
and demeans,
and let depart
all that keeps you
in its cage.
Let there be
an opening in the quiet
that lies beneath
the chaos,
where you find
the peace
you did not think
possible
and see what shimmers
within the storm.
--Jan Richardson, The Painted Prayerbook
A huge storm came up. Waves poured into the boat, threatening to sink it. And Jesus was in the stern, head on a pillow, sleeping! They roused him, saying, "Teacher, is it nothing to you that we're going down?"Awake now, he told the wind to pipe down and said to the sea, "Quiet! Settle down!" The wind ran out of breath; the sea became smooth as glass. Jesus reprimanded the disciples: "Why are you such cowards? Don't you have any faith at all?"They were in absolute awe, staggered. "Who is this, anyway?" they asked. "Wind and sea at his beck and call!"
(Mark 4: 37-41, The Message)
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