Howling wind outside my window
Threatens to whirl away
Whatever I have left untended
(Did I fully latch the storm door?)
In echo of the prophet’s mountain storm
Swirling around the Mount of God
As he sheltered in the cave.
“But the Lord was not in the wind.”

Fire blazing in a city apartment
Tragically bereaving
Leaving a neighbor grieving
For the children whose small shovels
Moved away the snow.
A fire unlike the one which left
The burning branches unconsumed.
“But the Lord was not in the fire.”

Still, small voice
Whose gentle tone does not conceal
Its disappointment:
“What are you doing here?
You’re out of place, Elijah
(Insert my name here).”
Voice of direction.
Voice of command.

Lend me the wisdom, Holy One,
To distinguish between your still, small voice
And the whispering desires which are mine.
Lend me awareness so that you need not repeat yourself
(Too often, anyway)
And the humility to recognize
When your impatience with my inattention
Rises to the wind and fire. 

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