Summer of Storms

This is the title of a book I thought I wanted to write somewhere along the pathway of my chequered life, but at no stage does the title seem more apt than today.

Another line I thought of to describe this season is that this is the year that summer forgot to visit. I live in a part of the world renowned for being warm, our summers gifting us with temperatures in the upper thirties. Not this year. Nope. We’ve had a couple of days where the mercury has proudly reached the thirty mark, but in the main we’ve hovered around the mid-twenties.

And now the storms have arrived. Yellow alerts light up our weather maps, rivers and streams are overflowing, many roads in the Kruger Park are closed, bridges under water, potholes are flourishing and laundry days are hit and miss.

I am great at seeing portent in the natural world around me and have long believed that spiritual battles being fought in the heavenlies are often manifest on earth, from storms to sunsets or sunrises of indescribable beauty, flowers, animal sightings, assuring that all is well in heaven and therefore on earth. I find it easy to see a correlation between global events with what is happening with our weather system locally.

As the thunder crashes and lightning flashes, forks, and streaks across our skies, as hurricanes cut devastating swathes through farmlands, flattening fruit and nut trees, I hear the echoes of bombs dropping in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Nigeria and Venezuela. When a bolt sizzles as it connects with a tree, or house, or electricity pole, I hear the crackle of rebel fire in Congo, Rwanda, Mozambique, Ethiopia, Myanmar, the list seems endless, time spent in prayer extended.

And yet, ever the eternal optimists, we determinedly sing out our Happy New Years, our hopes that this year will be a good one, whatever that means, but also the heartfelt cries for peace, for joy, for happiness. After all that is the message of Christmas, is it not?

How sad that the Bearer of the Gospel of Peace is the One who is blamed for much of the havoc. His simple injunction to love, love one another, love our brethren, love Him, care for His creation from the environment to animals to humans, shattered by lust and greed, a determination to have “my” way, come what may.

It cannot all be doom and gloom, for there is a light that cuts through the darkness, a resilience of human spirit that refuses to defer to the terror of evil, that determines to fight back, to ensure that good prevails. The old saying goes that evil flourishes when good men do nothing – yet around the globe I see good men arising, saying: enough! No more – there has to be a better way and I thank God for them.

I’m currently taking care of two cats while their owners are on holiday. They both hate storms, and last night we had a whopper. Two little felines crept off – I knew where the one was hiding out, but not the other. I closed shutters and curtains – I’m not that brave in violent storms and I was worried about my car being in the open if it hailed, which it did. Thankfully not too much and it fell as against being flung to the earth.

Earlier in the day, I was interrupted from the depths of my story by a loud caterwauling – I recognised Mr Kitty’s voice – Squirrel, the less intrepid of the two leapt up from where she was sleeping on a chair near me, wrapped in the tablecloth, and looked anxiously towards the area of the noise. I took off in the direction of the yowls, and call as I might, search as I did, no sign of Mr Kitty or his antagonist.

But I could see Squirrel looking intently over the fence to next door. There was another indignant wail, and I caught a flash of white. I changed vantage points and then I saw him, Mr Kitty, fire and hatred in his eyes, immobilising his opponent with the force of his glare. I found a light stick, and threw it, with expert aim I may add, at the offending cat, and he took off. Closely followed by Mr Kitty.

“Mr Kitty, you are not helping,” I muttered. “Let him go!”

This went on for the next fifteen minutes, before Mr Kitty let the offending party depart.

Peace reigned until a series of flashes to the west alerted me to the approach of the said storm. The cracks of thunder were deafening, some reverberating for many seconds, the lightning a display pyrotechnic artistry that this part of Africa always wonders at, although we should be used to it.

The storm ended after about an hour, two relieved kittens emerged, needing petting and consoling as we got ready for bed.

A loud roar of cat indignation had me to erupting from my bed in inelegant confusion at about three am. That darn cat was back and had the effrontery to be entering my bedroom where not only I, but both cats were sleeping. The bare faced cheek of the chap!

Mr Kitty was incensed as was I. I grabbed my sandal and took off, my nightie flapping, my feet sloshing through sodden grass, Mr Kitty and I defending our territory to the utmost. He chased and growled, I waved my shoe and said “shoo”. The intruder was stubborn, giving only a metre at a time.

Mr Kitty looked at me, and I understood the mission: get him out of here!

I lunged again at the cat again, trying to make contact with my shoe. Mr Kitty stood on my left providing the battle cry. We gained a metre, and then another. It was slow process but undaunted, Mr Kitty and I soldiered on until eventually Mr Marauder gave way and bolted for safety over the fence.

It took a while for us to settle but eventually sleep returned.

This morning, I awoke to the sight of two sleeping cats, one on the chair, the other on the floor beside my bed. I couldn’t help smiling, they were so peaceful, so relaxed. The battle had been fought and won, we were rested and ready to face another day.

As I thought over the night’s drama, I realised the fight is never far away, but it only overwhelms if we allow it too.

It’s going to be a good year! Welcome 2026!