Wind whips loose leaves, swirling them around me. Nothing about the warmth—73 degrees—on this early November day in Minnesota makes sense, but my hopes quicken. Two old hits spring to mind, and they meld. If Bob Dylan and the Scorpions collaborated on their change songs, I don’t know about it. But I think of them now, and as I log my steps, I sense mystery in the air. I turn my hearing up a notch.
Is there a message for me in the wind?
My expectation stirs like the foliage, and I listen, likely wondering the same God-question as Elijah. In the story, a great wind crumbles the mountains. An earthquake splits the ground. A fire blazes. But God isn’t in the wind, earthquake, or fire—not that time anyway. In comes quietness, though. A thin silence. What follows is a whisper. And God is in it.
Maybe the ancient man’s situation—running for his life when the queen is out to kill him—affects his listening skills. He wants loud, I’m guessing—I do too when I’m in self-preservation mode—but he needs the quiet Voice and the message that follows. Same here.
I take more laps around the neighborhood because I want the steps. I need the warm wind, further direction, and inner calm too.
The whirlwind of leaves subsides now. And I listen for the Whisper.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.