in a proper storm, everything is a little boat, tossed to and fro; the clouds crackle overhead with visions of God's face too fast, too fast to see; and thunder, the tumult of warrior shields or the ninepins game of giants (so the stories say). I am not soothed by the electric light, the glass windows of this room, for thunder brings out the animal in us, reminds us that we are small; the lightning flashes, the walls, my face, exposed illuminated I whisper: oh! wow! that was a good one!
We spent most of the weekend staring up. More than usual, I would say. It started on Friday afternoon, when a tremendous and repeated roar brought us out of the house, looking around for the source, only to see a fighter jet doing tricks not far from us. Texting a neighbor brought the answer: a local airshow this weekend. That would explain it!
For three days we were treated to a slight change in our routine, dutifully heading outside after lunch to peer up and catch glimpses of old propeller planes and stunt craft and fighter jets zipping overhead, the roaring of engines enough to shake your bones. As a rule, I don’t pay much attention to airplanes, don’t know much about them. But it’s difficult not to stand in awe of a trained pilot, doing death-defying tricks at horrific heights, spinning and falling and flipping without a hitch.
The fighter jet became a particular fascination for me. As it passed overhead in a low flyover, I found a cheer torn from my lips, involuntary. My inner child, awed into voice. Waving cheerily, even though I knew the pilot couldn’t see me.
It’s strange, how our bodies react to being small.
The weather was fine most of Friday and Saturday, blue skies bright with puffy white clouds, but there was a strange quality to the air. And by Saturday evening—long after the airshow had ended for the day—that quality coalesced into a powerful thunderstorm, buckets of rain and bright, rippling flashes of lightning, wild winds and thunder enough to shake the house and send the dogs wide-eyed into our arms.
And me? I watched the sky, office window open, that same breathless awe forcing its way through my lungs in a whoop every time the lightning flashed, every time the thunder cracked. I couldn’t help it.
Watching the sky—or the sea, for that matter, or the mountains—has a way of reminding us of the proportions of everything. It all shuffles back into perspective. I am very small. Smaller than the fighter jet, certainly. But the fighter jet is also smaller than the thunderstorm, bows to its hierarchy. Delicate is delicate, in the face of God’s strongest tempests. The loudest jet wouldn’t stand a chance.
I am often guilty of looking down too much. In, also, and around. But not up. And if this weekend taught me anything, it’s that “up” is a good place to look. Because nothing within our control is up there. Nothing is within our reach.
And sometimes, that’s a healthy reminder.
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We just sat out undercover on the deck, taking videos for our kids and hollering "wow, that was a loud one!" every 30 seconds.
As usual, you captured the perspective just right. Loved this.
This is lovely--thank you. We experienced the same storm a little north of Seattle. My youngest daughter was scared, and said, "It sounds like the ocean was dammed up and then someone blew up the dam and the ocean came crashing out again!" 💛