The humidity feels terribly heavy, like some great faceless weight. It surrounds you in an enveloping cloud, the perspiration making your clothes suddenly weighted and your eyes suddenly blinded by the thin streams sliding down your skin. It feels almost foreboding, the obvious calm before a storm. The world waits for the skies to break. It hangs to whatever lies closest to it with all of its might, desperate to survive the storm.
There is a hand veiled by the clouds and a voice veiled by the storm that cuts through their constricting folds... with a gentle peace.
The world looks, and wonders. Someone is holding the storm in the palm of his hand, holding it, and reaching out a gentle hand... for the world to hold.
Jesus waits, beyond, within, and before the storm. The air grows still and light. The sky sheds its dark clouds like a widow her raiment of mourning. Day has come again. Light and life have overcome.
-Written last evening, in the calm before the storm. We are still waiting... watching the weather reports and the sky... and waiting.