Tempest Touched, Father Found

‘Neath clouded, bruised sky

and wind-whipped gusts of misty rain,

I stand, rivulets dripping down cheeks as pain.

The lightning that comes has flashed its warning cries

multiple times already this night.

Thunder sounds distantly,

and observer becomes the observed.

Tempest-touched,

hush falls silent and still,

clouds parting to make way for the Will.

Features form of clouded, flashing light,

within arms outstretched toward my plight.

Father found in meditations and heart,

Son formed,

and Holy Spirit’s clarifying sight.

Head uplifted to heaven’s fury

and rained slurry,

I speak with voice lost to violent nature’s stormed lashing:

“They told me You spoke in the thunder!” she cries.

A flicker flare,

a glimpse, gone now,

but unmistakably there —

the Father’s smile as He breathes the air:

“I do, I can, yet why would I do such only to prove?

Why, when hushed and still,

and oh so tenderly I can whisper and you hear?

Why not fall silent in the quiet and listen without trying?

Only then will you see clear.”

The storm breaks,

winds going and gone,

slowly drawing back.

“I thought You were far away!

They told me You were up high,

and to approach was to defy.”

I weep openly before the torrential downpour

of spirit and soul.

Once more in weathered visage,

the vision draws near:

“You are never alone,

because We live within,

and without, deep and surface,

truer than bone in marrow We endure,

ever-present to deny the power of death and fear.

We dwell in holy tabernacles

of flesh and fire,

linked inextricably to the soul

that seeks its Sire.

Sight and sound,

fury both, yet still and silent at once,

a heart’s desire.”

Through yonder clouds,

the Son’s image as radiance draws near to dispel darkness.

The Father fades in the face of fury,

answering with comfort and unity.

The Holy Spirit,

as indwelled,

overshadows emotive furnace’s flame

for the Name.