I saw your Spirit in a thunderstorm.
Saw? No, for the wind I could not see.
The day was hot. I felt oppressed and tired.
I hid my eyes from the glaring sun.
Even as the heat pressed on me
I knew that this meant rain.
Not a cloud, not a flicker of a breeze.
Just heat and glare but the time was right for rain.
My spirit is not like a thunderstorm.
The life of my soul is baked and dusty
Like a field before the rains.
Did I pray to bring the rains?
Did my dancing and ceremony hasten the storm?
To stand in the storm is to be baptized by water and by fire.
We long for the rain and the cool breeze
But when the storm hits we run for cover.
Now I hear the storm.
The clouds press upon each other.
Wind scatters the dust and fallen leaves.
I hear the rumble long and low.
The storm is a threat and a gift.
Your Spirit hovers overhead and I wait
with terror and hope for the unleashed storm
released in my soul by your habitation,
electrifying and saturating.
