A Fair Wind Blowing

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We usually think of a fair wind as one that will blow us into our desired port. Autumn winds do not generally meet this description in my view. A late October wind can destroy two weeks worth of glorious leaves in one night.

The glory of the hills can last well into November, but only if we have no big storms. It was no breeze that blew through my hills. Goodly wind gusts ripped the golden glory from the hills and sent the leaves eddying like mini-cyclones on the streets.

I always grieve to see the Autumn foliage go.It will not return until next year. October winds are not fair.

It left me pondering, however, how we define a fair wind. I have a friend with lung disease who tells me that she doesn’t ever like the wind. She told me it feels like it is stealing her breath. I don’t mind the wind at any time but this.

I have read of ships becalmed at sea in the days of sail threatening death for all aboard. Sometimes we need the wind, at other times we do not. We typically define a fair wind as one that benefits us in the near-term.

Somehow all this left me pondering the Holy Spirit. The Greek word used to describe Him is the word for spirit, wind or breath. Do we define God as fair? A famous hymn describes Jesus as shining fairer than all the stars in the sky. What about the Holy Spirit? Does He blow us where we want to go? Or is it where we need to go? Do we define the way God moves through us based upon how much we want to go where He takes us?

I wonder if we categorize Gods’ will as fair or foul depending upon our pleasure? My opinion of wind is purely a matter of aesthetics. I’m contemplating whether I apply my standards to God as I do to wind. Who is the master and who is the unworthy servant?

Holy Spirit, blow me wherever You will. Forgive me for expecting You to fit my definitions. I recognize that You are infinite and I am not. Help me to go faithfully where you blow me and keep me always ready to call you fair. Amen.

The Lonely Rain

Today’s Poem

Tip, tap, increasing rap, someone’s tapping at my window.
Unlike a ring or tone that sings, no one’s looking for me.
My attention drawn, the torrent begins refrain long.
The sky looks sullen, grey, like a lonely specter wanting to come in.
Keep it out! Hide within! Cold blasts from the north whirl the soggy din.
I flip on lights looking for golden gleam, to keep out the lonely,
No one is looking for me.

The winds whirl, the boughs shake, the leaves are falling in the lake.
Washing down the golden treasure, fall’s brilliance is tricked by weather.
Never a fan of gore or fear, the holiday is not for me one of cheer.
I tuck myself in, with busy routine. I’m too busy to notice, they’re not for me.
The streets turn wet and quiet. All seek solace within, enough of the bustle.
Darkness falls early; the wind shakes the ivy, slaps the window, a sound that is churl-y.
No one is looking for me.

Tears from the sky, though none from my eye, force me to wonder. Why?
The path seems so long, courageous, forlorn, like a caricature drawn.
I wait in the wet, but dry indoors, sodden inside, I know the answer, “Not yet.”
Pitter, patter is a song of spring sweet, fall spits in my face, no one looking for me.
It shudders the windows, echo in chimney, I dine with the widows.
Wet-cold without, thawing in company, God lights a hope no one can see,
Surely, someday, someone, will be looking for me.

Jesus waits

Jesus waits

April Breeze

I love to hear the wind whistling with a whoosh and howl and a thud.

As April trudges across the landscape leaving daffodil and mud.
I pause and listen to the birds their carols with rapture sing,
As they gather the last of the dry twigs and take to their wings.
There is a palpable excitement carried on the breeze 
That bends low each blossom-encrusted tree.
The thrill is whipped on the wind, roaring all around town,
The scent of earth reviving our hills of grey-brown.
It blows through in such a hurry, these breezy April days
With Easter and First Communion flurry, we scarce notice spring’s ways.
Too soon the heat will reach us, new flowers rich will bloom,
Before I know how it happens we will pass from May to June.
I won’t pass this way again, I want to taste the season’s joys.
I’ll have to pause and ponder, plug my ears to the noise.
Today I will listen closely to the wind rattle the old window-frame,
Speak soft, whisper slowly, and hear the melody in the rain.