Are you in a fog? It’s 9 months now for me.
ON MY DAY OFF, I bring my laptop to the screenporch to finish a letter. From here I’ll be able to see the repairman’s truck when he arrives. What’s the point of tucking myself away back in the far reaches of the house when I’m expecting someone, then running down the hallway every few minutes to see if he’s here?
The morning fog keeps me company and we are old friends.
I prefer a window seat when flying, to view ribbons of fog that lie in river valleys.
Since moving here by a river 18 years ago, though, I see fog from the other side, from underneath. It’s part of our (almost) daily existence, the fog rising most mornings and presenting itself to us for observation and study, then hurrying on. It is just part of our lives.
* * *
I COME TO THE PORCH to write. It’s warm and humid, even at 6:30 AM. I don’t need a sweater. Partway into my letter, though, I feel a sudden chill. Then another. I look up. The leaves that just a minute ago hung still in midair are moving. And the grass waves slightly.
It is always this way.
When the fog lifts, there is a stirring that seems to come from nowhere and go nowhere and yet, something big is happening. Reminds me of John 3:8.
The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.
I try to tough it out, wait for the chill to pass, but in the end I go get the sweater. Sometimes it feels like we are in a wrestling match – me, to tough it out, and it, to keep making me uncomfortable until I do something about it.
Fog can be dangerous and scary. I don’t like to travel in it anymore than anyone else, but there is this other thing about it. There is this stirring that is not to be missed. It happens every time. The fog always eventually lifts, and I don’t like to miss that moment.
My fog, by the way, is lifting.
Belinda writes about fog today and her words prompted me. Thanks, Belinda.