Windmills, Star Wars, Don Quioxte, and West Texas

I’ve always liked windmills. The whole idea of making energy from something so present and so free conjures up a romantic feeling of being green and wise, saving the earth one turn at a time. I think reading about Don Quioxte fighting  windmills as if they were dragons might have influenced me more than I thought.

As I rode through west Texas, the windmills changed from being a novelity to a little bit too sci-fi. I began to wonder if they were marching when I wasn’t looking, it was like I could almost catch them moving. The more I tried to catch a movement, the more the windmills looked like the soldiers in Star Wars in their white plastic uniforms. I think maybe my imagination was working a little overtime, or I’ve watched my nephew play his Star Wars game a little too much. It’s a bizarre experience to drive among the windmills all planted in rows like peach trees in an orchard… only much taller.
The center of the windmills are the size of an 18 wheeler. The blades are 3 rail cars long. I’m talking hugely huge! Yet, the wind blows them as if they are the little twirly things you blow to make them spin.
At midnight, I sat rocking on the porch of the retreat center; red lights blinked atop the windmilling monsters. I couldn’t decide it they were preparing for Christmas or signaling to their home planet!
The longer I rocked, my soul became quiet. I could hear God whisper, “its my breathe that gently blows the blades of those giants.” The very breathe of God; creating power from The Ultimate Source of Power. His gentle breathe sets the blades to turning, but does so much more. It sends a refreshing reminder of spring in the last days of winter. It blows away the tears from the broken hearted. And stiffens the resolve the of the weak. The breathe of God blows strong and without fail; unpredictable, a hint of mystery. a mystery that builds a sense of security in knowing that it will always be there.
I remember a few lines from a 2nd grade poem, “the wind comes knocking, knocking, knocking, as it is blowing, blowing, blowing.” Not the best poetry, but the airiness of it is itched on my mind.
The breathe of God comes knocking, knocking, knocking… as the windmills slowly work a pattern across the west Texas sky.

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