(Emily’s note: I’ve been asked how my blog came to be named “Barnstorming” — most assume it is a doctor-farmer’s twist on “brainstorming” which didn’t occur to me until someone mentioned it to me. Instead, the name has nothing to do with brains, baseball teams, politics or daredevil piloting of small airplanes. It has everything to do with a storm taking place in our barn at the beginning of Holy Week a few years ago. This is a repost.)
An unexpected southerly wind hit suddenly late Sunday night, gusting up to 40 miles an hour and slamming the house with drenching rain as we prepared to go to bed. Chores in the barn had been done hours before, but as we had not been expecting a storm, the north/south center aisle doors were still open, and I could hear banging and rattling as they were buffeted in the wind. I quickly dressed to go latch the doors for the night, but the tempest had done its damage. Hay, empty buckets, horse blankets, tack and cat food had blown all over, while the Haflingers stood wide-eyed and fretful in their stalls. A storm was blowing inside the barn as well as outside it.
It took some time to tidy up the mess after the doors were secured but all was soon made right. The wind continued to bash at the doors, but it no longer could touch anything inside them. The horses relaxed and got back to their evening meal though the noise coming from outside was deafening. I headed back up to the house and slept fitfully listening to the wind blow all night, wondering if the metal barn roof might pull off in a gust, exposing everything within.
Yet in the new daylight this Monday morning, all is calm. The barn is still there, the roof still on, the horses are where they belong and all seems to be as it was before the barnstorming wind. Or so it might appear.
This wind heralds another storm coming this week that hits with such force that I’m knocked off my feet, swept away, and left bruised and breathless. No latches, locks, or barricades are strong enough to protect me from what will come over the next few days.
Yesterday he rode in on a donkey softly, humbly, and wept at what he knew.
Today, he overturns the tables in his fury.
Tomorrow he echoes the destruction that is to happen.
Wednesday, he teaches the people to prepare them, then rests in anticipation.
On Thursday, he kneels, pours water over dusty feet, presides over a simple meal, and then, abandoned, sweats blood in agonized prayer.
By Friday, all culminates in the perfect storm, transforming everything in its path, leaving nothing untouched.
The silence on Saturday is deafening.
Next Sunday, the Son rises and returns, all is calm, all is well, all set to right. He calls my name, my heart burns within me at his words and I can never be the same again.
Barnstormed to the depths of my soul. Doors flung open wide, the roof pulled off, everything blown away and now replaced, renewed and reconciled.
May it be done as he has said, again and yet again.
Barnstorming 