The Words of a Thunderstorm

They called me a hurricane and said that my love would destroy every one in its path.

They told me to settle down, dry up, stop spinning. They begged me to stop shaking up their perfect little homes that hold the secrets and lies they’ve grown comfortable to keep.

They used to point to the ocean, telling me that’s where my kind comes from. In their not-so subtle comments and struggle to tolerate me, they would dig their shoulders into mine and try to scoot me back out to sea.

I knew I was a force, that I was strong, that something about my presence always seemed to be accompanied by wind and rain.

What I found out later was that, I’m a thunderstorm.

Lightening causes a rumbling sound; that thunder is the after effect of a really bright light. There is a roar that comes with that light. Things get loud when a light comes breaking into darkness.

I decided I’ll take it. I’ll be that light, the one that tells the darkness that it isn’t allowed to stick around. I’ll let Him use me as the light that crashes into all the lies people believe about why they’re not good enough, and why no one ever sticks around.

Still, I’ve learned when you answer the call to be a thunderstorm, you’re taking a risk of people locking themselves away from you.

And they might cover their ears when the thunderstorms come, but baby, human hands can’t block out heavenly sounds. 

It will always get loud when someone stops being afraid to speak truth. I believe there is a sound from heaven that will back you up when you decide to be a flash of light to cold black skies. 

I will always want the best for you, and I’ll never become a walking apology for that. I’m not going to enter and exit rooms carrying the words “I’m sorry” when I storm in fighting for you.

I’ll tell you that I think you’re worth being fought for. That somebody should’ve told you this earlier, but that you are worth a thunderstorm barging in. You are worth hearing that you were made for more than being judged for your past, criticized for your present and terrified about your future. You deserve for light to come loudly into your darkness, even if it’s fierce and a little scary. I know how hearing words like “you’re enough, you are not your past, you are made for mighty things” are words that will shake you to your core every time. They’ll push you to want bigger and better, I won’t ever apologize for that.

I know it’s inconvenient when your papers get blown away and your computer and iPhone get wet. You may not like it when I show up at your door to tell you that you are meant for an in-person, face to face kind of love. But when you’re on my radar, it’s not enough for you to just get some words on a screen, I’ll tell you that you deserve more than a text message happy birthday.

Your instincts will tell you to stay inside, hide away, shut the doors, and move away from the windows because you might get struck by this lightening.

But you see, I grew up with a daddy who takes to the porch with his coffee when storms come rolling in. He loves to watch the flashes and hear the grumbles and he never flinches.

And I also learned these things from his mother, who pulled her grandkids to the back bedroom and laid us on the mattress in the middle of storms. She’d say “Stay still, the Lord is speaking” and we’d listen to the rain on the roof, the clanging of chimes swinging wildly in those strong winds.

She called it a beautiful thing, a mighty thing, when the skies started to shake.

They never meant it as a good thing when they called me a hurricane, but it’s a wonderful thing how it taught me that I’m a thunderstorm. I can’t even be sad about those words any longer. I won’t be sorry for being the light. I won’t apologize for being what comes before a sound that says God is wanting to shake your house of lies that say you were made for anything less than incredible things.

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