Like The Wind | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Like The Wind | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
10/20/25
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Some of the younger prophets think they’re fast. They don’t know the meaning of the word. When the sky split open with fire, when the smallest cloud showed on the horizon, and when I ran before Ahab’s chariot, now that was fast.

The sharp tang of scorched earth rising from the altar, the unhindered shouts of people standing before the sacrifice, the fear and wonder as the opposing prophets were eliminated. My heart had soared. Years of drought, and the silence of the heavens, added to the spiritual wrestling against the forces of darkness, and the run before the king, had emptied my spirit. I expected revival and vindication to break out like the rain across the land. I felt fast, invincible, fearless, almost immortal.

Then the queen’s message came- “By this time tomorrow, you’ll be as dead as the prophets you slaughtered.”

I ran. Fast.

Now I quiver. Triumph as empty as a waterjug. Fire and rain are behind me. I am hollow. Empty. Alone. Jezebel’s laughter reverberating like the thunder and horse’s hooves as it chases me into darkness. Even the wind mocks my feeble efforts as I curl beneath a broom tree in the desert. Stuck. Abandoned. Trembling.

The grit of the sand works under my sandals and into my tunic. I’ve had enough. “Take my life. I’m no better than my ancestors,” I declare. The silence is deafening and I sleep.

Waking to baking bread on coals nearby, and to a jar of water gleaming in the morning sun, almost feels like being back when the ravens came, or the widow gave me the last of her supplies. But that was then and this is now. I eat in a stupor and sleep again. And then repeat it again.

The third day is like a resurrection. Strength is in my limbs, but not yet in my heart. Gentle words probe me. “The journey is too much for you.”

Forty days of blistering sun. Forty nights of icy winds. Fasting all the way. Stumbling across the wasteland toward the mountain of God. A mirage in my memory. My skin feels as cracked as my sandals. Hunger gnaws at my ribs, fears and failures tear at my mind. I move like a ghost, haunted by it all.

My destination rises like a jagged scar against the sky. The descent from victorious champion to disconsolate wastrel happened quickly. Carmel to Horeb. The trek of broken pilgrims under the crushing hand of the Almighty.

I stumble into a cave and lie entombed, out of the sun, the stone cool against my palms. The weight of loneliness crushing my spirit.

“Go stand outside on the mountain, for I am about to pass by,” the Voice said.

I huddled in my cave, pondering. A hurricane-like twister arose. Rocks shattered all around. The wind threatened to tear me apart. But Yahweh was not in the calamity. I huddled in place. An earthquake tore at the heart of the sacred refuge but Yahweh was not in the earthquake. Then a fire ripped at the surface of the throne of the Almighty, but Yahweh was not in the fire.

Then a whisper, as clear as the call of a friend. I covered my face with my cloak and stumbled outside.

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

My hands tremored in awe, rather than fear. His presence filled the hollow spaces the wilderness had carved out. He wasn’t loud, just steady. For the first time since before Carmel, I breathed deeply, no longer desperate to flee.

A warmth wrapped around me, like a shroud or a blanket on a winter’s day. A promise of life yet to come.

“Go back the way you came. Go to the Desert of Damascus. Anoint kings. Anoint Elisha. You are not alone. Seven thousand stand without having bowed to Baal.”

On Carmel, I was fierce and full. On Horeb, I was left humbled and empty. A new dawn glowed on the horizon, the wind gentle now, the dust heavy in my hair and beard. I shook it off, my legs aching

When I stepped from the cave, dawn stretched gold over the peaks. The wind was gentle now, brushing dust from my hair. My legs still ached, but I walked—one step, then another. Slow this time, but sure.

I had run fast from fear, fast from faith, fast from myself. But now I learned a slower rhythm—the pace of grace, steady enough to rebuild hope.

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