I don't think whoever dubbed Chicago, "the windy city" had traveled as far west as Oklahoma. Then again, if Chicago is "the windy city," Oklahoma has to be the "windy state."

The wind always blows here. If you are a runner or a cyclist, and you have been taught "the wind is your friend," when you transplant here, you stop believing. It can be just annoying. I don't know any other place where it is normal to walk at angles other than 90 degrees. Those who lean to the right or to the left aren't politically motivated. They are responding to their environment.

One of the good things for me in all of this, is that I like wind chimes. We have 3 or 4 sets of small ones, and they didn't get much of a work-out in Indiana. I like the big ones, you know they have tubes that are as tall as Deanna? I can't afford those, even though they sound cool. They bellow low and long.

In this state, it is rare when I do not hear them beckoning to me. I can tell which one is singing by its voice. I can tell what direction the wind is coming from by how many of them are pressed into service. In a sense, they are indicators of what is happening at my house.

Recently, we had a front blow through in the wee hours of the morning. All chimes were adding their measure. It started out sounding quite beautiful. Soon, it took a nasty turn.

It was not long before I could tell the harmonies were being rung at awkward angles. A while after that, their voices were drowned out completely. They were now steadily strained, perpendicular to the ground. Soon, hail began. Occasional loud clangs would whisper above the din of the storm as the chimes were taking heavy hits from this artillery of precipitation.

Laying awake at this hour and listening for the faintest reflection of their former beauty, I could no longer discern what they had to say. In the heaviest of battles, they had grown silent. While under attack, they could not speak.

I am intensely grateful that my Father can always hear my voice. No matter what the nature of the storm or the violence of my refrain, He knows it is me. He hears me when I praise Him. He listens when I cry out. He is aware of my whereabouts in the most mundane of conversations.

I wonder what He thinks in the "dead of quiet" (BJ) when my voice is silent? When the perceptions of the seekers are heightened, and I am reclining at my ease, does not my indifference scream volumes above the raging sea? Do these ballistic battles confront my motivation, or do they simply light up my 80" flat panel tv screen while I nod discontent from an overstuffed sofa?

If a "revolution is being raised," it has no voice amid punctual perils.

I am "Asleep in the Light." My sword is sheathed. My heart beats contentment. My singular song does not rise aloft on the wind, it is buried deep within my apathy.

Who am I?

My name is American Christian!



The sincere innocence and beauty of a lonely, lilting melody, offered from a surrendered son or daughter will quiet the rampage of a violent prince.

I must offer up mine.