May 10, 2015
A severe winter storm warning has been posted—snow beginning by midnight and continuing throughout tomorrow. The wind is already rising, and the sky looks ominous.
Tonight and tomorrow (and in the cold that will follow tomorrow night when skies begin to clear) my baby plants will face a life-threatening weather challenge. They are still setting roots, and weathering this storm will not be easy in this harsh high country to which they have been transplanted. It is too much to hope that all will survive without injury. Next week’s farm report will carry initial damage estimates.
I feel the storm as it moves in.
I am watchful and uneasy and guarded. I find myself restlessly moving from window to window, looking out, and watching with rising tension the careless fury with which the wind tosses the young tree limbs. They are still tender and fragile; they do not carry the weight of new leaves easily. And I watch the sky become more threatening as night comes on and the dark deepens.
Annie, sensing the coming storm, has eaten an early nervous meal and taken refuge under the bed.
I am not yet skilled in the hallowing of the diminishment I feel tonight.
My reality is a warm home, a wonderful bed, a stack of interesting books from which to choose, and the delightful prospect of awakening tomorrow to worship and lunch with friends.
But tonight my neurons betray me.
There have been so many storms that have blown with ruthless fury into my life. I hear this wind. I watch this sky. I remember.
It is true that I survived those storms, lived even through those times when in the damage and chaos losing life seemed possible gain.
But that was then when I was young and strong.
And this is now.
Am I now over-matched? Is there strength enough remaining to survive this storm that pushes hard against the old walls and windows that remain to shelter me?
Probably. But . . .
Wondering with you how next week's farm report will read.