Here I am, safe and snug inside, listening to the howling winds and pounding rains of Hurricane Irene as it vents its fury. And I am reminded once again of the strange irony of storms.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved to lie safe in my bed at night during a summer storm, seeing the flashes of lightning out my window, listening to the powerful crashes of thunder as they rolled majestically across the land. I used to marvel that the thunder sounded exactly like God bowling.
The fiercer the storm, the louder the lashing rain against the window, the more I liked it. I think there was something about experiencing this while snug and warm in bed, protected by the powerful shield of my parents’ house, that made it clear how fortunate I was to be loved and safe and protected.
I know that not everyone is as fortunate, and that by the time this day is done Hurricane Irene will have taken her victims, as hurricanes do. Yet as odd as it must seem, there is a part of me even now, listening to the ebb and flow of the raging storm, feeling the power of the elemental forces just outside my window, that journeys back to that time long ago, and becomes a child who is warm and safe, and loved.