I sit in my apartment watching the sky turn an eerily beautiful shade of cornflower blue as lightning splashes across the angry sky. The thunder doesn't boom so much as carry on a continuous one-sided dialogue of threats. Winds are making the trees rock and sway like they're in a revival meeting and the heavy drops that fall are the presence of God dripping off their limbs.
It's enough to make a girl praise God. The raw power of this writhing storm is awful and beautiful. Terrifying. Inspiring.
My God made that. His voice--His voice--makes the thunder quail and the lightning seem like a spark. His face...who can imagine? Who would dare? Even His beloved Elijah couldn't take it. He heard the voice of God and pulled his cloak over his head.
My God has spared me this night. I have escaped with nothing but awe and wonder running over me like the rain on the trees. But even if He should choose to take me, I would be so blessed. Because the God who spoke storms into being, spun flowers with his words, hung stars in the sky, and invented melody--that God, my God, knows my name. And I can't wait to hear Him speak it. All my love.