Storm

A quiet evening. Children tucked into beds, adults sharing a game and quiet laughter around the table. But it was coming. The wind. The rain. Hints of it had lingered in the heavy air all afternoon. My shirt soaked from the heat of the kitchen as I made pizzas for them all, I wished for relief. A breeze. Rain.

But not like this. Not a storm where the rain is blown across rather than down. My comfort is nothing compared to the trauma that this storm will cause.

All around us, the rice paddies stand full and green. Each plant with its head bowed low, heavy with full grains. But not yet ripe; not yet ready for the hands that will cut each stalk, one by one. The storm season has been gentle this year. But this storm, in this place, will cause untold suffering. Delicate fields will be flattened under the weight of their still-green food and the force of the assault. The heads will have no chance to ripen once their stalks have been broken.


Already, our neighbors are suffering. Their staple provisions cost more than they can pay. So many are starving, some quickly, most slowly: the slow death of perpetual hunger.

I whisper, Lord, have mercy on these who don't even yet know you. Spare their fields. Give them another day, month, year to hear your Name.

Tonight, all is dark and quiet. The storm has passed, moved southward on its destructive path. Only the light of day will show the result. Thousands will wake early and survey their future.
Let the rice stand, Lord - and stand in the gap for those whose food has fallen.