The wind was high and the wheat was ripe in the peaceful village.  Not a soul was in sight.
Oh, how the people within their small homes felt that the storm would soon come.

 And then came the rumble as the thunder roared and lightening flashed in the sky.
The farmers, forlorn, behind their closed doors only opened their mouths to sigh.

 A tenseness and tightness gripped at their hearts, for their lives were dependent on crops.
If the rain was too hard or the wind too strong, their hopes of a living would drop.

 But the clouds gave way and hurried on, and the village was filled with glee.
For all of the wind, the rain, and the fright, had strengthened their crop of wheat. 

We, like the people of the village small, are often afraid of the storm.
But God lets it rain and lets the wind blow, not ‘til death, but until we take form.