Along the river, a line of Ohio hills begins to disappear behind a milky curtain of rain.
On our West Virginia side of the river, an uneasy calm suggests that all will not be well for long.
Suddenly, a mean wind breaks the stillness, tossing tree boughs and sending birds flying toward the shelter of a nearby thicket.
Raindrops, one...two...twenty...thousands wash across the land.
Lightning cuts a jagged ridge through the sky and thunder cracks and rumbles loudly, as though shaking rain from the dark clouds.
No longer someone else's storm, seen from afar, this storm is ours to claim and endure.
After holding our attention and setting a mood of uncertainty over the valley, the storm moves on, its fury prepared to bully other communities down river.
Rain slows, lightning offers pale flashes of light and thunder
sounds in weak, far away claps.
For awhile, what seemed like confusion and threat held us in its grip.
In fact, the storm was always in the process of passing.
The clouds were always moving and evaporating.
Wind, after reaching its gusty peaks, was ebbing into a light breeze.
The storm was not the constant.
The constant was the blue sky and the sun above the clouds, out of sight, but ever present.
Hope is like that...always there, in spite of the appearance of troubling circumstances.
The beautiful words to the old song, Whispering Hope, say it best:
...Wait tll the darkness is over,
Wait till the tempest is done;
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone.
Whospering Hope, oh, how welcome thy voice;
Making my heart, in its sorrow, rejoice.
Blessings, Sandra
