The Tempest
Tempests rage in hearts and mouths. The Master sleeps— He feels no fear— Sister Young sleeps on too, under sheets of rain and age, and years, and years as chorister for the Pioneer Valley Fifth Ward. The ups and downs and lefts and rights of guiding congregations through the thick green book of praises never wore her down, apparently, till now. Fermatas looking down upon our hymn bare witness to the slowing of the winds; the beating drums of rain must now relent beneath the outstretched hand of Sister Young. Perhaps a mercy for the priest whose piano lessons Paid their paltry dividends upon the ward, the congregation sang and held their tongues all while the quartered notes and letters in the trenches stayed, but this was different from the natural slowing we had seen, for Sister Young had slowed from with praise to humbly many times;now whole notes claimed more than their usual bar or two or three — her outstretched hand that never faltered hung now on the skies The organist eventually lifted his hangs from the keys and stood to see if Sister Young was okay but didn’t know to do anything more than ask Are you okay Sister Young to which he would receive no reply The bishop’s trust of Sister young knew no bounds and as he waited patiently for her to carry on whenever she was moved upon by the holy spirit and she didn’t and she still didn’t something in his countenance changed and tears flowed freely down his cheeks dripping like gentle rain on the backs of his hands
This poem originally appeared in my first book Signs and Wonders, which you can purchase here: