Under the Rug

We are swept under the rug today, curiously peeping out from behind safe windows at the wind-swept desert around us. We are like the Eskimos with many names for snow; we have many names for the wind. Today is an angry gale. My soul fights against days such as this, forced to hole-burrow all day, sometimes all week, until the chaotic atmosphere lies down for a respite, however brief.

Yet I know there is a purpose for all this wind. God wouldn’t have created it in futility. So I reflect that it must be God's cosmic broom. It’s His divine sweeper, clearing away the debris that pollutes the heavens. My only desire is to avoid becoming mixed up in the ferocity of the cleansing; hence, I stand behind closed windows and doors and watch with cosseted curiosity the scurrying madness of sand and sagebrush flung to and fro by the pervasive sweep of Wind's mighty hand.