They’re funny things, they are. Storms.
You can see them coming. You can feel them. Like when a person walks into the room and you just know that it means trouble. Your skin prickles. The air is harder to breathe, even though it whips around you, pulling at your hair and your clothing.
The world gets darker. The sun is hidden and your environment, once bright and filled with singing birds, is now dark and hushed, save for the wind, who shushes every other sound so it alone can be heard.
The sky may still be blue, but now it’s black-and-blue—a bruise on the eye of the heavens. The sky is hurting, and tears tumble from her bruised eyes.
Wailing, the wind rakes the trees, tearing handfuls of leaves from the branches or ripping whole trees down. Cracks of lightening split the air, every explosion heralding the death of some tree or some other unfortunate creature caught in the crossfire.
If a person had never seen a storm before, he might think the world was ending.
But the world doesn’t end. Not yet. No, the clouds rumble away, the sky dries her tired eyes, and the sun leans down to inspect the damage and warm the survivors.
Peace. Be still.
We get used to storms. They come, the happen, they go. Every storm is different—some are milder than others, and some make you want to lock yourself in the basement until the earth stops shaking. But there is one thing that all storms have in common:
They all end.