Why I Love Storms
7:55 PM PDT, 9:55 PM Ark Time, 10:55 PM EDT, September 15, 2007
When I was nine and ten years old, my parents, sister, brother and I lived in a grand old house that sat on about a half acre of nicely landscaped property on the corner of Fifth Street and Eastern Avenue in Aspinwall, a small town just outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Indeed, the house was the original house in Aspinwall and had a fascinating historic past by which it was reputed to have had underground tunnels leading from the basement to Squaw Run Road, some miles away, part of an "underground railroad" system via which Negro slaves from the South were able to escape to freedom in the North during the Civil War era.
The house itself was fun to live in. It had a root cellar with a dirt floor, a carriage house out back, wormy chestnut wood paneling in the living room, a dumb waiter, and nooks and crannies galore to feed the mind of an imaginative child. There was even an efficiency apartment where an elderly woman named Nell Marsh had lived for years, and when my family moved in, she was allowed to stay. We called her "Auntie Marsh" and sometimes "Grandma Nell." Her door was across the hall from my bedroom door. She also had a private outside entrance. I spent many an hour with her, being regaled by her tales. She had been born in 1880, the same year as Helen Keller, about whom I had been reading around that time. She told of her mother (or grandmother, I am not sure now which it was) who had escaped from hostile Indian attack by swimming across the Allegheny River -- which flowed right past Aspinwall -- with her baby on her back.
The house had a grand, wide wrap-around porch with a solarium on one end where I kept my toys. A flight of eight cement steps led from the sidewalk to a landing, and from the landing another flight of wooden steps of comparable number led to the porch itself. Anytime I was outside playing on the porch, the mailman would bargain with me to meet him half-way (on the landing) to receive our mail. It was a good-natured joke between us that my mother often witnessed and approved, also with good humor.
During that period of time, I sustained a serious injury by falling off of my bicycle, headfirst down that flight of cement steps. I was knocked unconscious. My brother (who held me on the way to the doctor) feared I might die. Amazingly, I did not receive any broken bones, and my skull was not even fractured, just bruised. Plans for me to go to Girl Scout camp the next day were thrown off track, much to my disappointment, and I spent many weeks that summer convalescing, most of it on the porch glider from which I could watch the world go by from a relatively safe and private vantage point.
It was during this convalescence that I remember spending many summer evenings on that same glider in the crook of my father's arm, watching summer storms, also from a relatively safe and private vantage point. We would frequently do so while eating popcorn my mother had made for us, the "old-fashioned" way, by shaking it in a heavy pot on the stove, the way I still make it for my family (I am still a "purist" about a few things, and popcorn is one of them). We would make a game of watching the lightning then counting, "one thousand one, one thousand two..." until we would hear the rumble of the thunder. My father explained about how fast light travels and how much slower sound travels and that by the time we heard the thunder, the danger from the lightning had already past. It was a life lesson with application far beyond those sweet and lazy summer evenings when I was getting well in my father's embrace.
So, I love storms to this day. Thunder is a very comforting and beautiful sound to me, for I remember the safety on that porch at my father's side, in the shelter of his arm, and I know the danger of the lightning is already past when I hear the thunder. Even when the lightning and the cracking sound come so close together there is no detectable delay, I love it. Even with the hurricane season that was so busy in 2004, when we were housebound for several days, I loved it. Even when lightning came inside my house the other day, I shouted and threw my keyboard and my heart raced from being startled, but not because I was truly afraid, for I was not.
It is no wonder that during this most important period of my life, God is speaking to me so often, so clearly, and so powerfully, through storms, through thunder. He knows how to speak to me, how to comfort me, how to excite my senses, how to quiet me. He knows me, for I am His.
It is also no wonder that God has been unpacking for me meanings embedded in the name and imagery of Niagara that are so relevant, including "thundering waters" (which I have heard before) and many others I have not heard before. I think all that is worth a separate post, it is so rich.
That is a little bit of why I love storms. What a beautiful Lord, wonderful Savior, to prepare me for a life that would hold so many storms, to prepare me in such a way to praise Him in those storms.
Praise You in This Storm
words by Mark Hall/music by Mark Hall and Bernie Herms
I was sure by now,God, that You would have reached down
and wiped our tears away,
stepped in and saved the day.
But once again, I say amen
and it's still raining
as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain,
"I'm with you"
and as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise
the God who gives and takes away.
Chorus:
And I'll praise you in this storm
and I will lift my hands
for You are who You are
no matter where I am
and every tear I've cried
You hold in your hand
You never left my side
and though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm
I remember when I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry to You
and raised me up again
my strength is almost gone how can I carry on
if I can't find You
and as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
and as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise
the God who gives and takes away
Chorus
I lift my eyes onto the hills
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth
I lift my eyes onto the hills
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth
Chorus
The house itself was fun to live in. It had a root cellar with a dirt floor, a carriage house out back, wormy chestnut wood paneling in the living room, a dumb waiter, and nooks and crannies galore to feed the mind of an imaginative child. There was even an efficiency apartment where an elderly woman named Nell Marsh had lived for years, and when my family moved in, she was allowed to stay. We called her "Auntie Marsh" and sometimes "Grandma Nell." Her door was across the hall from my bedroom door. She also had a private outside entrance. I spent many an hour with her, being regaled by her tales. She had been born in 1880, the same year as Helen Keller, about whom I had been reading around that time. She told of her mother (or grandmother, I am not sure now which it was) who had escaped from hostile Indian attack by swimming across the Allegheny River -- which flowed right past Aspinwall -- with her baby on her back.
The house had a grand, wide wrap-around porch with a solarium on one end where I kept my toys. A flight of eight cement steps led from the sidewalk to a landing, and from the landing another flight of wooden steps of comparable number led to the porch itself. Anytime I was outside playing on the porch, the mailman would bargain with me to meet him half-way (on the landing) to receive our mail. It was a good-natured joke between us that my mother often witnessed and approved, also with good humor.
During that period of time, I sustained a serious injury by falling off of my bicycle, headfirst down that flight of cement steps. I was knocked unconscious. My brother (who held me on the way to the doctor) feared I might die. Amazingly, I did not receive any broken bones, and my skull was not even fractured, just bruised. Plans for me to go to Girl Scout camp the next day were thrown off track, much to my disappointment, and I spent many weeks that summer convalescing, most of it on the porch glider from which I could watch the world go by from a relatively safe and private vantage point.
It was during this convalescence that I remember spending many summer evenings on that same glider in the crook of my father's arm, watching summer storms, also from a relatively safe and private vantage point. We would frequently do so while eating popcorn my mother had made for us, the "old-fashioned" way, by shaking it in a heavy pot on the stove, the way I still make it for my family (I am still a "purist" about a few things, and popcorn is one of them). We would make a game of watching the lightning then counting, "one thousand one, one thousand two..." until we would hear the rumble of the thunder. My father explained about how fast light travels and how much slower sound travels and that by the time we heard the thunder, the danger from the lightning had already past. It was a life lesson with application far beyond those sweet and lazy summer evenings when I was getting well in my father's embrace.
So, I love storms to this day. Thunder is a very comforting and beautiful sound to me, for I remember the safety on that porch at my father's side, in the shelter of his arm, and I know the danger of the lightning is already past when I hear the thunder. Even when the lightning and the cracking sound come so close together there is no detectable delay, I love it. Even with the hurricane season that was so busy in 2004, when we were housebound for several days, I loved it. Even when lightning came inside my house the other day, I shouted and threw my keyboard and my heart raced from being startled, but not because I was truly afraid, for I was not.
It is no wonder that during this most important period of my life, God is speaking to me so often, so clearly, and so powerfully, through storms, through thunder. He knows how to speak to me, how to comfort me, how to excite my senses, how to quiet me. He knows me, for I am His.
It is also no wonder that God has been unpacking for me meanings embedded in the name and imagery of Niagara that are so relevant, including "thundering waters" (which I have heard before) and many others I have not heard before. I think all that is worth a separate post, it is so rich.
That is a little bit of why I love storms. What a beautiful Lord, wonderful Savior, to prepare me for a life that would hold so many storms, to prepare me in such a way to praise Him in those storms.
Praise You in This Storm
words by Mark Hall/music by Mark Hall and Bernie Herms
I was sure by now,God, that You would have reached down
and wiped our tears away,
stepped in and saved the day.
But once again, I say amen
and it's still raining
as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain,
"I'm with you"
and as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise
the God who gives and takes away.
Chorus:
And I'll praise you in this storm
and I will lift my hands
for You are who You are
no matter where I am
and every tear I've cried
You hold in your hand
You never left my side
and though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm
I remember when I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry to You
and raised me up again
my strength is almost gone how can I carry on
if I can't find You
and as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
and as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise
the God who gives and takes away
Chorus
I lift my eyes onto the hills
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth
I lift my eyes onto the hills
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth
Chorus
