Storm inside the house of the Gods

PROLOG

　In one of my other story HUBS, I describe a graphic picture of a heavenly scene that includes Christ, painted on a ceiling in a music room. That description is contained in my "Inspiration" hub. In still another, I tell of an Italian Christmas tradition, where the young children are confined to the same music room on Christmas Eve, until they hear santa's bell, the all clear signal to run out of the spooky second floor piano room and down the dimly lit hall adjacent to the piano room to the stairs and head for the first floor where the Christmas tree is and Santa has left all your toys and goodies. This hub makes reference to both.

THE STORM

Close your eyes for a moment while I paint a tick in your clock of fear. You are a child of five. Think very dark, very damp, you enclosed in a cold and dismal environment, claustrophobically confined to the piano room, (another story,) cuddled up tightly in one corner of the couch in front of the Steinway, the street light outside with its tiny bulb eerily reaching to light the porch about ten feet away. Think --- howling winds rattling the windows till you’re certain they’ll shatter. Light leaping from the pole to the giant tree next to it, causing its branches to cast eerie, dancing finger like shadows across the glass panes, the cacophony of sounds, the insidious low moan of the wind screeching in your ears , the pinging of sleet on the metal frames almost drown out the raging storm as it crashes all around you, thunderous pounding shock waves inside your head, swelling your breast with fear, filling your brain with terror till you feel you will burst. There is no escaping the maelstrom, no chance of survival--none. Suddenly, an electric sizzle of light forces your body into spasm as another crack of thunder explodes the room into a kaleidoscopic strobing of everything in its path. You cringe to escape the ominous figure of Jesus, on the ceiling ready to jump you, His body animated to electrifying life--there's no where to turn. The monstrous Steinway hovers inches above the floor as another frightening wave of crackling thunder and lightening jolts the room-- cascading over your jellified bones-- forcing you deeper into the arms of the unyielding couch --you pray for invisibility-- to no avail. Something is floating in the air. What is it? A dark, shadowy shape of-? You can't make it out! You pray, silently--" Please, God, make it go away, please!" Your prayer falls upon deaf ears.

The static and white lightening continue, mercilessly filling the room with dancing objects and figures, each possessing a life of it’s own. You cringe, sweaty hands clamped tightly over your ears in an attempt to block the sounds of pelting sleet upon the windows, pounding them to death. Your eyes locked down tight, squeezing tears of anguish from them. Surly, God’s wrath will wrench His Son from the clutches of His entombment within the earthly ceiling above your head, commanding Him to His side, freeing Him from His prison. You fling your arms over your head as your body quivers, you scream at the top of your lungs, bursting with suffocation. Tears burn down your cheeks like hot lava -and then, suddenly-- somewhere nearby a low rumble of thunder disappears slowly into the void, angrily seeking anonymity within the sanctuary of the multitudes of ominous black clouds strung across the horizon, reluctantly giving up its grip of steel on the inner sanctum of your mind. You are, after all, a mere mortal.

Soon, a light, slanting snow blusters through a broken window following the darkness moving off in the distance. And finally, one last, soundless streak of sheet lightening glows brightly in the room for a brief moment, as if to tip its hat in farewell. It plows invisibly through a solid wall, seeking the outside in order to catch up with its master on yon horizon lest it be left to its own fate. Almost as suddenly as it started, it was over--for a moment there’s blessed silence. Almost as a permission, the momentary silence is suddenly broken by the sound of Santa’s bell. The signal--- Instinctively, you fling your tortured little body to the floor and scurry from the safety of the couch out of that horrible room. You run as fast as your little legs can carry you, with only one thought in mind--please don‘t trip--just run--make a quick U-turn to the left and bolt down those stairs --into mom’s arms---as usual. “What’s wrong?“ I heard her say.” Nothing-- I--I just love you a whole bunch, mommy.” Right.

　 RETROSPECT

Anyway, do you remember the rule about not being allowed to run until Santa came and was about to leave after depositing all his presents--and not until after he rang that stinking bell-- loudly? -- The part you don’t know yet is the panic that engulfed your instinct. When finally you did hear it-- all hell broke loose. You’d jump up and move out as fast as you could to catch him in the act. Of course, in doing so, you‘d necessarily have to run right past the legs of Christ which seemed to dangle just above your head . For the record, that Holy landscape I described to you earlier was painted, life size, on the concave ceiling a very short eight feet above your five year old head--run? You can bet, that when you heard Santa’s bell from that dimly lit room , and the Lord Jesus was glaring down at you with stone cold eyes, you’d definitely create a record for the fastest kid on ANY planet as you bee lined it for the stairs out in the hallway. You were forbidden to go into Grandmas room through the sliding doors with the glass handles, uhh, uhh, You had only one way out--under His robes-- you dared not look back, ‘cause you knew HE was right on your tail. What a predicament--Santa hightailing it out the front door on the first floor, you hightailing it down the second floor hallway to get away from Christ, robes flowing in the wind, who was hightailing it down the same hallway right behind you, or so you imagined, His fingers just inches away from your spine, hands held out, palms up, in a gesture of love and understanding --right! Got the picture yet? (You weren't about to tell your mom about THAT scene, now were you? Not on your life! Keep painting--it gets better! Go read some more of my hubs---Enjoy!