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Lullabies of Thunder

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As a child there were times when the violent Ozark mountain weather would scare me. One place we lived had my bed in a kind of loft right below the metal roof of the house we lived in.  That loft had one window at one end and during summer storms the pounding of the rain on that metal roof, the flashes of lightning and the repeated rolling sound of thunder would scare the young boy sleeping right below that metal roof.  Eventually the lightning casting shadows into that room and the sounds of thunder would become my lullaby and I learned to sleep pleacefully through it all.  Even now, decades later, I sleep best when it is storming outside.

The sun has taken a day off, sleeping in blankets of silver while the Earth dances a slow pirouette, like the venerable ballerina she is, on her axis. I ponder the grayness while thinking of haiku to pass the time, wondering of what the sun dreams during its times of solar slumber. A rose awakens, blooming with the kisses of dewdrops caressing her brow. The heavens softly weep. I know not whether for joy or sorrow. These tears of God are shed this morning, but the land and I are cleansed and nourished. The fabric of the sky is rent by sudden streaks of violence that shatter the peace of my reverie and threaten to unsettle my soul. Sabers of lightning duel throughout the morning to sate their anger. Their fury sends fear to my heart’s threshold, but it finds the door safely barred by the still waters of the Spirit’s serenity, keeping me untouched by disquietude. I find lullabies in the thunder, and the sleep of newborns follows into a realm where the storm dissolves within the calmness of God.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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