Mostly, when the storms of life ruffle our feathers, we squawk and flap. But the storm pays no heed to our misery. The sleet and rain of disappointment pelters us relentlessly until we can think of nothing else. Like the wet chicken, we squawk and flap until we fall over and then self-pity becomes our drug of choice. The more addicted we become to our pain, the more it batters and buffets us.
Storms happen to all people.
I know you can identify yours and that you would rather soar on top of it than be buffeted about by it. But a wet chicken will never glide over a storm and you will never walk over your angry waves unless you notice the nail-pierced hand that reaches out for you and trust Jesus enough to step into the storm with Him and never look down.