The wind is blowing so hard outside this morning. I can hear the house crackling in various places. It sounds like the rushing waves of the ocean are crashing out there. A trash can is beating about the alley that runs behind our house. Our wind chime seems to be very busy.
I had let my dog out and looked up to see an edge of clouds in the pre-dawn sky. It appeared to be violent. My back door faces the southwest. It is where the weather fronts usually roll in from. The dog’s short walk this morning before returning to the door reminded me of the turbulent places I have quickly fled.
I recall a vivid memory of the distant past. A memory of my dad standing in an open door with nothing but a screened storm door standing between him and an evening much like this morning. I remember the emerald-green color of the lighted sky. The wind, much like the present. My father’s bravery as he stood with one arm high on one side of the door frame, leaning against the other. The calmness and coolness he displayed as he puffed on a cigarette. He had no fear of the storm, perhaps? My father; the macho man. I suppose the storm that raged within him was lost within the much bigger storm outside that day.
I carried that storm. The same one that he chose to bottle up was poured out onto my mother and I. His inner-conflict became ours. The fighting. That rage within him. The physical and mental abuse. His storm was much more frightening than this morning’s wind. Much more violent than that evening of severe storm of a past time.
I sit at times and wonder just how my father is these days? He sits in a little apartment, alone, about twelve miles from here. I have tried to have a relationship with him throughout the years, but I quickly see the crashing wave still at work. Each time we had made progress, that same violent cloud edge appeared. That same emerald-green ambiance filled the room. His storm remains. I just don’t understand what pushes him to remain in that place of torment?
My father can push the Bible verses down my throat with a look of contempt on his face, or quickly do the same on the phone before hanging up. He can leave me with questions. Never answers. He places himself back in the little boat and rows back out into the raging sea of disgust. I believe he enjoys his storm. Maybe he has no shelter? No retreat?
I pray for the man. I love that troubled guy. It has taken me years to remove the bitter taste from my mouth that directly came from his storm. This shelter of mine may crackle, and the mind may wander back to those days of his turbulence, but I am safe. I’m safe, within the arms of He who calms every storm. My Lord. He is the unmovable refuge. Maybe someday He will calm my fathers’ troubles? Maybe someday my dad will face His storm?