Silos are tumbling, and trees are toppling. Flooded crops, washed out roads, downed city signs, and snapped limbs abound across Saskatchewan.  Tornadoes have touched down, roofs have lost shingles, barns have lost roofs. Around Canada and in the US, citizens battle devastating rains, floods and fires that threaten entire cities.

Summer isn’t supposed to be like this is it?

Death and taxes, they say, are the only sure things in life. Weather forms a third, I say. But it’s fickle this summer—sunny and sweet one day or three, then churlish and vindictive for a long spell.

A gutsy, gusty day last week reminded me of another afternoon, years earlier, when galloping winds churned the treetops as though with a colossal egg beater.

I heard the mammoth aluminum tumbleweed before I saw it, merrily rolling along our side yard, making a terrible clatter as it headed for the neighbour’s backyard. Our screened gazebo, it turned out, making a bid for freedom. We had to chase it down and disassemble it before it destroyed something. The shelter itself escaped unharmed.

On a blustery day last week, I sat at my desk, sniffing the sweet fragrance of wind-battered lilacs, watching my deck chairs topple and our maples get whupped; guessing the identity of the speed-crazed shapes zipping past the garden door.  

Then, emerging through the whoosh of wind, I heard the sound of cheer. Birds, carrying on as best they could. Singing. And in the midst of a fickle season, I spied a faith to aspire to.

Creator God—the fourth and topmost certainty, let us learn from your birds.