Tornadoes Simply Could Care Less

They say life is a mystery. I think it's full of pain, real or imagined. They don’t differentiate themselves at this point in my life.

If I want real, honest-to-goodness truth, where do I find it? In a church, blasted from a pulpit? In a book written by men? In my own heart of hearts? My imagination? The whisperings of God? How to know that what you want so to trust is really true? Some things really split you open, like the wily aftermath of a tornado. You can’t choose which part of the barn will still be standing after the storm. Will the south wall be in place, but the stalls gone? Will nothing be left of the frame, but inexplicably all the hay lie untouched on the floor? Will the roof be gone, but the eggs still in their nests, or nothing but a pitchfork tossed a mile westward from its place against the eastern door? Who can tell and who could choose the damage they’d like to have?

No one knows, and this, too, is another mystery. The whole damn thing is a mystery.