It's a mild Sunday afternoon in early March. The temperature is in the high seventies. We're enjoying the hour on the front porch. Lucy is perched on my lap--at fifty pounds redefining the meaning of a "lap dog"--surveying the quiet country lane before us.

Suddenly we hear a roar from up the road; we look to the left expecting to see a muscle car hurtle down the lane. Instead, we see the wind. We see the wind. The leaves and other debris trace the crest of the wave as it passes in front of our house. Cowabunga, dude. As it sweeps by, the temperature instantly drops thirty degrees: the sky grows dark and foreboding, the wind blows cold and penetrating. From that moment, for the next thirty-six hours, we're under a winter weather alert.

It's not everyday you sense the weather change with a deafening "whoosh."

The presence and power of God is a bit like the weather. In some seasons, it's more evident than in others. In some moments, it's more evident than in others. Rarely do we get an audible. But, we can be confident that--like the weather--he is always near, immersing us in his presence, whether it's in a "whoosh" or in a "shush."

How liberating could it be to know that the presence and power of God is near even when your senses and emotions suggest otherwise?