Lenten Meditation: Barnstorming

An unexpected southerly wind hit suddenly late last night, gusting up to 40 miles an hour and slamming the house with drenching rain as we prepared to go to bed. Chores in the barn had been done hours before, but as we had not been expecting a storm, the north/south center aisle doors were still open, and I could hear banging and rattling as they were buffeted in the wind. I quickly dressed to go latch the doors for the night, but the tempest had done its damage. Hay, empty buckets, horse blankets, tack and cat food had blown all over, while the Haflingers stood wide-eyed and fretful in their stalls. A storm was blowing inside the barn as well as outside it.

It took some time to tidy up the mess after the doors were secured but all was soon made right. The wind continued to bash at the doors, but it no longer could touch anything inside them. The horses relaxed and got back to their evening meal though the noise coming from outside was deafening. I headed back up to the house and slept fitfully listening to the wind blow all night, wondering if the metal barn roof might pull off in a gust, exposing everything within.

Yet in the new daylight this morning, all is calm. The barn is still there, the roof still on, the horses are where they belong and all seems to be as it was before the barnstorming wind. Or so it appears.

This wind heralds another storm coming this week that hits with such force that I’m knocked off my feet, swept away, and left bruised and breathless. No latches, locks, or barricades are strong enough to protect me from what will come over the next few days.

Yesterday he rode in softly, humbly, and wept. Today, he overturns the tables in fury. On Tuesday he echoes the destruction that is to happen.  Wednesday, he teaches, then rests in anticipation.  On Thursday, he pours water over dusty feet, presides over a simple meal, and then sweats blood in agonized prayer. By Friday, all culminates in a perfect storm, transforming everything in its path, with nothing untouched. The silence on Saturday is deafening. Next Sunday, the Son rises and returns, all is calm, he calls my name, my heart burns within me at his words and I will never be the same again.

Barnstormed to the depths of my soul. Doors flung open wide, the roof pulled off, everything blown away and now replaced, renewed and reconciled.

Alleluia!

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