My husband had to go to the beach yesterday to check on clients’ properties for storm damage, and I rode along with him. As we got to the top of the bridge that crosses the intercoastal waterway, I looked out past the port and glanced a patch of aqua that took my breath away. It was the ocean—more vibrant and pristine and beautiful than I ever remember—a gift left by the storm we all dreaded and cursed—even ran away from.
I have a few storms in my personal life, things I don’t understand, that I seem to keep running up against without finding a way through or around or over. It’s like God is trying to give me something new and precious and beautiful, but right now, all I can see and feel are the hurricane force winds that seem to be ever knocking me down.
And I find myself resisting, defending, running.
I keep looking at those piles of branches up and down my street, snapped off because they refused to yield, thrown aside and left in a heap to be carried away to wither and die.
So I choose to accept the storms that come because they ultimately come bearing the gift of new Life—clean and vibrant and beautiful—if I let them.