It’s Friday night. The wind is screaming, and you can hear the hammock crashing against the house. It’s pouring rain – it has been for the last week. The river’s rising, the roads are flooded, and you’re watching the weather channel nervously. You’ve seen flood watches before, but you always thought the odds were too low to cause worry. That was before this storm. 

You haven’t checked your email in days. The inbox has taken on a persona, a drugged middle aged man sending you death threats. You smirk in the darkness. Oh yes, the power is out too. You know the rain is shredding your tulips. You planted them in cracked, brittle ground last fall, and watched in secret amazement as they came up all tender green. They were starting to bud the last time you checked. But the storm’s ripping fragile petals to pieces. 

Why can you never live up to your peers’ expectations? You can’t even grow tulips without invoking a freak May flood. You can barely connect to your own Wi-Fi. And yet you’re expected to go on like the storm didn’t chill you to the core. The soil keeps eroding from under your feet, and you’re scared. Life is becoming this massive, tangled problem, and you’re starting to wonder if the clouds will ever close. 

What day is this, again? You pick up your phone. Oh, that’s right, Friday night. You quickly lay down your phone, ignoring the ominous rumblings from your email. You light a candle, and remember another Friday night where history was written by a Carpenter on a cross. The sky was suffocating and the Light was gone. What a painful, black night. 

You try to live intentionally, maximizing your time. You start the little trendy hobbies everybody raves about, but now your closet is full of half-finished skeletons. You put real effort into your relationships, but it seems like most of them crash and burn before they’ve reached the runway. And now the storm’s ruining your flowers and your self-respect.

Your vision grainy. The candle’s flame flickers at the edge, pulling you back. Jesus was so scared, in that garden. You wonder if tulips are a Middle Eastern flower. He probably didn’t even notice the flowers – it was so dark.

But, bleeding and breaking, He went to the cross anyway. And He calls you, clumsy and messy as you are, His child.  

The lights flicker, and the power comes back on. You slip into your crocs and dash through the rain to take down the hammock. You decide to answer one email tonight, then you’ll light more candles and brew some lavender chamomile tea. 

Because storms, and Friday nights, always end. The weekend tells more of the story, and you know even if the water keeps rising and the wind keeps blowing, it will be okay because of Who wrote it. 

And you will see the sun again. It’s just a matter of time.