The Porch of His Presence

The Stillness Before the Storm

A Story of Light

by Sol Aisling

The wind had begun its slow rise—not in fury, but in breath, as if the earth herself were exhaling. Whirligigs spun down from the silver maple, a quiet flurry of nature’s paper prayers, and the clouds above pressed low with the promise of rain.

Wrapped in a warm, earth-toned blanket and cradling a mug of nettle tea, he sat on the porch—not to escape the storm, but to meet it. The air carried the hush of waiting; birds had stilled their songs, squirrels had tucked away into hollows, and even the deer in the distance paused in their grazing, sensing what approached.

Yet he was not afraid.

There was something holy about the hours before the downpour. Something sacred in the silence that comes when creation listens. He didn’t need words. His heart spoke in the language of stillness.

God was in the storm, yes—but also in the porch. In the breath between gusts. In the warmth of the cup between his palms. In the memories carried by the rocking chair’s gentle creak. And in the unshaken peace he felt, deep in his bones, deeper still in his soul.

The storm would come.

But so would grace.

He would watch it arrive, sheltered in Presence, wrapped in peace.