By Rachel Heffington
I stare out my rain-spattered window entranced by the power of the wind--the reckless force that demands all to bow and pay homage to its passing. My heart yearns to be out in the gale, caught in the wild, erratic dance of the trees as they whirl and stoop beneath the winds, every leaf quivering and glinting quick-silver. I long to stand in the elements, letting the rain beat upon my face, neck, hands, and know He is God.
My secret Bronte has been roused and deep dreams, sweeping passions cavort in a stormy ring round my heart.
I need no companion. The storm is companion enough for my mood. I watch its passage across the field, the cruel way it tumbles over everything in its way and throws volleys of silver-fledged darts at the house. It is not a kind storm by any means, and I would not have it so.
I do not mind being a bit broody this morning--I sit alone in my room, not even turning on the light, but writing with a tar-black pen in the reluctant light that has survived the embrace of the hurricane.
I listen for a moment to the gale without and my heart throbs. Why does it ache so? Why do I feel that the same winds that bow the trees wreak havoc inside me, stroking the chords of my heart and eliciting music of a strange and wild nature? A quote from Jane Eyre springs to mind:
Rachel, Rachel, stop struggling so like a wild, frantic bird!"
And yet I am happy. Perfectly happy.
I have only once more experienced the bewitchment of a storm. Am I the only woman whose heart is shaken by the passion, the wild and haunting beauty, the untamed splendor of a gale in force? I do not know. But my heart cries for the unknown, for a glimpse of I can't tell what. I am drawn to the Lord, for eternity is in ever advance of the wind; Heaven in the benison of rain, hell in the voices that murmur and shriek through the veil of mist.
Oh, it is a queer, strange beauty, but it feeds my soul. God in His power holds the reins of the wind-stallions in his hand, guides the path of the rain with His eye, and fills my soul to tears with the flashing, wild love of His heart.