A storm, a metaphor

When the storm has swept away,
the wicked are gone,
but the righteous stand firm forever. Proverbs 10.25

Wind pelts my face with daggers of tiny water drops as I rush headlong into the crashing clouds, blowing trees, and dark mist. Cringing with cold and a stab of fear, I brush my dripping hair off my face and stare intensely into the swirling mass. I don't know what's out there. But this is a storm. And it hurts. Slowly, I keep walking. Each time a huge gust of wind comes, I have to stop and brace my feet; I take my hands out of my pockets and face my shoulders straight into the wind, baring my body to the storm's wrath. I plant my feet on the ground, one foot slightly in front of the other, and wait for the surge to pass. It moves me back a few steps, I sway slightly. I pray for mercy.

To the bone, I am soaking, I am freezing, I am afraid, and I am hurt.

But the wind eventually dies, and the sun peeks through the swirling, dissipating thunderhead. I pat my body in disbelief as water oozes from my clothes.

I am still standing. And then I walk on. I look around me, and others walk on too.