Finally. At last, the moment has arrived. Teeth have been brushed, pajamas slipped on, favorite parts have been told to my half-listening ears. Sheets provide shelter for small ones that have needed nourishing all day long. Relief sweeps over me like much needed rain falling down on parched field. Field that has labored hard all day long, been beaten down by sun. But now it’s here. Quiet. Just me and him. I look at him long, ready to hear something other than needs. The words roll off my tongue slowly, “Hey Hun…” And the truth is I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Hey Hun, I love you. Hey Hun, how was your day? How have the sermons been coming? Hey Hun, I know supper was crazy. And I know I don’t seem to have a plan for things lately, and the kids were cranky, but thanks for doing this crazy with me. Hey Hun, let’s share the trials of our church. Hey, what are your expectations for vacation? Hey Hun, I don’t actually have words planned out, but saying those two words makes me feel like all of you is here with all of me…best friend of my heart ready to just soul share with me. All I can utter are those two words before my gut drops with the roll of thunder. And suddenly I finish my sentence. “Hey Hun, just wait for it, she will be here any moment.” It came as a surprise the first time she appeared, but I’m used to it now. My exuberant one, she crumbles under the lighting and thunder a storm brings. And as sure as morning follows after night, there she is with little sister in tow. Two girls gracefully glide into our doorway, brought by rain to father and mother.
I sigh deep, threadbare, “Hun, I can’t do this.” Little ones are holding hands tight, afraid of the uncertainty. Afraid of the clamor. Afraid we will turn them away, yet trusting maybe we won’t. I have nothing more to give. No more reserves tucked away. No solace to provide. No comfort to cheer their way. I am worn. I want to tell them it’s just a storm, to get back in bed, to please leave father and mother alone to their sharing. He slides out of bed, gathers them strong into his arms, places them close on his lap. Two lambs caught in the tight embrace of father. It’s beautiful. “God is watching over you girls, you know that right? And you know that He loves you? He will be with you even in this storm.” He squeezes them strong, yet gentle. “Dad loves you girls, ok? Head to bed, and we will be right here.” They hang on to his words and make their way to their room. Thank You God for husband.
Rain pelts hard making sleep difficult. It doesn’t take long for another crack to break open sky. To break open stifled cries from room next to ours. My heart does an inward moan as thunder spews forth it’s daunting strains. “Lord…” I can’t finish the sentence this time. I don’t dare because I know it’s complaint. Lord, I don’t feel like nurturing. Lord, I am tired. Lord, I have tended all day. I am walking weary. Lord, I’m afraid. I don’t have words for them, what if I fail? I hear Him over rainfall, steady and true as Father always is to me. “Cherith…” Spirit dwells within, helping my infirmities. He makes intercession for me with groanings I cannot utter. “Cherith, you don’t need words. Just be. Trust.”
I am suddenly sheep being carried to daughters’ room by hands of Father. He stops me near their bedsides. He scatters their tears sharp into me. Just be…just love…Lord, help me to love. Their sobs pause as I come near. I tell them it will be ok. That Father loves them. That He sent this storm, so it has to be for our good. I assure them that rain causes growth. The pain brings forth fruit. They are listening close, but they are unsure. Sky ignites in terrifying fire. They want to believe, but each crack is a crack in their trust. I understand. I remember well. I recall an adult telling me thunderstorms were God’s way of showing us His anger. That when firmament ruptured, we should remember that God was provoked. I know they meant well. That the flood, and all that rain that came upon Noah was God’s punishment on the world. But every time thunder erupted as a child, I remember wondering what I did to make God so angry. I beat myself down, questioning where I had grieved God. I still fight the fear the tempest can bring. “Get out of bed girls. Let’s watch it close. Let’s find God near in the fear.” They hesitate, but somehow, they believe mother has them. We three girls walk hand in hand down the steps to the front porch to take God in.
I pull them close on my lap. One on each knee. Hardly room for all of us in my safe place, on my rocker, but we make it work. We draw blanket over our bodies, giving warmth to our cold places. The heavens continue with their sound. Light blazes. Thunder claps. The whimpers begin. I tell them I understand why it seems scary, but we need to listen. And maybe when we listen, it won’t be as scary as it seems. I try and make them see something other than the fright. Something different than the anger. I preach to my 8-year-old self that it’s more than displeasure. It’s God’s power. I rest my head on theirs, and as the porch shakes just a little, I whisper, “See? That’s just God talking. He’s telling the rain where to go. The plants need rain to grow so we can eat. The flowers need nourishing to bloom.” Another zigzag kindles the night sky. They tense. Like prey meeting the eye of predator, they fear. “No, it’s ok. God is showing the rain where to go with the illumination. He’s setting fire to sky, touching rain where it needs to fatten earth. God is giving rain to give us growth. He is Father. He would never do anything bad for us. Even though it seems scary, it will be good for us.” Younger sister is limping, almost given over to sleep. But older sister is still afraid. “It’s ok Bethany. God is sending rain because He loves us. He is near. There it is again…that boom? God is commanding the rain where to fall.” If I’m being honest, I don’t know if it’s all accurate, or what I’m embellishing. But I know God is close. That as we rock our chair, He is really the One rocking us. That this storm is nothing to fear. That the One who stills the storm is stilling us. “Mom LOOK! A shooting star!” It’s a satellite, but we go with it. I tell her Jesus is the son of David, the bright and morning star. That this light can blaze fierce in the middle of the lighting to remind us Jesus has us by hand. He is our Star. Jesus who left the multitudes to find rest upon boat. Jesus who was awoken by fear-stricken disciples as water beat ship. Jesus who slept through storm. Star who rebuked wind, causing winds to cease. Son of God who gave calm, great calm, to turbulent waves and fears. This man…what manner of man is He that winds and seas obey Him? He’s our Star. Keep your eye on the star.
“It’s time now girls. Mom is tired. The storm is raging, but God is protecting.” “But Momma, the sky. It is smoky. I think it’s on fire.” Grays and blacks intermingle. This child notices much. Explosions and brightness continue. “Momma, where is the star?” She’s alarmed, feeling she has lost something of importance. I tell her maybe it’s a satellite. Maybe it disappeared. And then, “I see it! The shooting star! There it is!” Yes, there it is. Faithful. Our God is faithful. When we are afraid we can trust in Him. She caresses my fingers with her own. “Like the song Mom. Just like the song goes. When I am afraid, I will trust in Him. I will trust in Him. I will trust in Him.” Yes, like the song. “Could we sing it Momma? Can we stay this way a bit longer?” God keeps me seated firm. Sure, sweet one. Jesus, help me still this storm in her. Be the Stiller within her. We sing it slow so as to remember and let it wash over us. We sway a bit longer, taking in more than the anger of God I felt as a child. We see the power, and we feel the love. He is here. And we must go now, resting in Father’s care. Us of little faith must pray for greater faith. “Can I sing it in bed too, Mom?” Of course. There is never a time you can’t sprinkle prayers with praise as you express your fears.
We try this again. I pray this time is enough. That God will keep them feeling secure. I kiss their foreheads, assure them of my nearness and love, and tell them to pray. I find shelter near my friend, tuck myself in snug, and petition for sleep. Thunder knocks on the door of our home yet again, and immediately the music enters my ears. “When I am afraid, I will trust in Him…I will trust in Him.” She sings it like she doesn’t quite believe it, but like maybe if she keeps rehearsing it, it will ring true. She knows deep within that its truth, but the way she quivers it out, the way she presses on in her child-like faith, it’s lovely. It’s the walk of every child of God. And it strikes me. We don’t always feel it. We don’t always have that deep gut emotion of safety. But feelings are deceptive. They can’t always be trusted. But God can. And we know. We know it’s accurate that God is good even in the storms.
I tumble back out of bed, phone in hand, ready to catch it on video. I want to remember. For a day down the road when I’m sifting unsteady on sand, feeling washed upon seashore. For a moment when I’m old and gray. When I feel alone, and the feelings are overtaking reality. For a time when God needs to be made big in my small life. I creak the door ajar and press play, gathering the melody of child-like learning faith. And I store it in deep within. I plant one more kiss on her four-year-old self. I tell her I’m proud of her, that she is a godly little girl. She smiles at me sleepily. She is at peace, continuing with her song. I go back to bed, look over at my earthly safeguard. Content lines cross his sleeping face. Thank you, Jesus, for stilling our storms.
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