Originally posted on FaithWriters.com as part of a writing challenge. Topic: Storm My grandmother’s wing back chair hugs me, as I curl into it, in the dark. I focus through the steam of the coffee I have clutched in my hands, and struggle to see the shapes of trees outside my window. The sun should be rising, yet there is no sign of pale pink hope on the horizon. The wind begins to blow and only then can I distinguish the large oak tree from charcoal sky. I pull an old afghan around my shoulders like a shield as if the storm brewing outside could reach in and drown me with it’s tears. Eyes closed, I listen for the rain. I can hear it, off in the field, inching closer to the house. The rain drops begin to patter on the window pane and I pull my cup closer and savor the warmth of a first sip. The thoughts that rage inside my mind, the ones that wake me from my sleep in the wee hours of morning, they are like thunder, scary and spreading fear across my heart. So desperate to silence them, I call out to Him. Please, I pray, I need peace. My grandmother’s wing back chair hugs me as I curl into it. Her old afghan lays across my lap. I open my eyes and look out across our land. The proud oak tree is glistening majestically in the morning light. A pink hue has spread across the sky, creating puffs of purple clouds scurrying off into the distance. I have been lifted up out of a storm of my own creation.