for four winds below
Sometimes, all that was needed for a bit of contentment was the calm of the wind and a thunderstorm. It’s only the rumble that’s needed, really. Mix the wind with the scent of the storm and it suddenly smells heavenly, as if there was a bigger rain, more lightning coming. One that carried an air of change and peace unlike any other. Most would call it tornado weather, though. Not anything too life changing.
So many conspiracy channels and websites claim everything is demons, that everything that happens is a prophecy being fulfilled, but they forget themselves. They’ve claimed every other “tornado weather” storm is the one implied in Revelation 6:12-14, or perhaps it’s a repeat of Genesis 6-9, so why would they be right this time? But this church doesn’t worry about any of this, she’s not on the internet nor can she read. She worries more about what she hears of the Gospels, the Testaments, and the heretics, saints, or martyrs… and of the industrial-style victims that are her sibling churches.
This weather, though, she knows. And she loves it dearly. Her priest taught many years ago that these were the storms that proved God’s handiwork, that maybe the rain is His tears for the fallen state of the world He created. This church hadn’t necessarily grown up quite like the kids in Sunday school, as she is a building of concrete and limestone and sandstone that, inspired as an in-between of two of her sisters, but her years have been spent learning nonetheless. Her home is wooded and vastly mountainous, but she doesn’t care for trivial things like that of location. She cares for this storm brewing. This church wants to sit ever so still and watch this storm head-on through her window. She needs to feel this storm through the eye of her soul. Feel her numinous panes shutter and shudder, unable to look away. The wind is relentless, but that is the nature of this storm, the nature of most storms. Praying is unneeded, as she feels the divinity entwined with the rainfall, the battering wind, the blessed strikes of lightning. She feels the divinity in how the plants around her thrive in this weather, how the trees protect the weaker greens from the wind.
But even still, when the storm starts to subside, the church also feels the notable change of air. Air turning into that not unlike the air before disaster strikes. And maybe those theorists were onto something this time, because even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Her limestone stands anticipating and strong, but she feels her sandstone whimper as if it were once apart of the Tower of Babylon. Afraid of the strike to come. Maybe praying is needed, as she is decidedly losing her easy steadfastness. Will she, the church of over a century, crumble with the next “tornado weather?” She may be losing stubborn stones, but she doesn’t dwell. She never dwells. If she had dwelled, her plot and foundation would be uprooted by now. She won’t be uprooted now.
