14. Fog

Winding its way through the Ozark mountains, Interstate 49 is a beautiful drive through northwest Arkansas. It cuts into mountains, skirts along ridges, crosses high bridges over rivers and valleys, and even goes through a tunnel. It’s a countryside that wears the seasons really well - fresh green in spring, mature and lively in summer, striking colors in autumn, and even beautiful in the barrenness of winter when the rolling mountains turn to shades of dusky blue and the branches on the trees make tangly silhouettes and catch the lightest dusting of snow. 

I took the drive early enough on this particular fall morning that the wide open spaces between the mountains were saturated with heavy fog. The interstate seemed to wander aimlessly through thick clouds. I held the steering wheel with both hands, happily not anxiously, and leaned forward in anticipation, glancing upward and all around through my front windshield. 

Fog is a rare phenomenon in west Africa. We just don’t get it that often. Too hot and dry, I guess. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. I could almost close my eyes and picture quiet memories of winter mornings on the Buffalo river when the fog hangs low over the river. I splash ice cold water on my face and find it hard to believe that the water is actually warmer than the morning air. We have miles to go, either hiking or paddling, but something about the fog in the mornings makes time slow down. We won’t be going anywhere until the sun rises and lifts the fog, which it will, but we sip hot coffee and warm our hands by the fire, making more fog with our breath as we talk about packing up camp and moving out...eventually...after the fog lifts. 

So I sit in my car, giddy like a little girl as I remember a book from my childhood that explained fog as “clouds that have come down to dance with us.” I thank Jesus for the fog, tell him how beautiful it is. And I think about how the glory of God descending on the tabernacle must have looked like fog. 

Out of the fog, he spoke. Do you really love the fog? He was reminding me, not accusing me. Like a good father, he teaches his children by using what is seen in front of us right now to teach us about things unseen. For I had been begging God to make his path and plans known to me so that I could move on to what’s next. I’d been begging him to remove me from the fog of the unknown and undecided. Do you really love the fog? 

My heart did a flop, right over onto the other side. Like I’d been laying on one side too long and parts of me were going numb. I could see something more. 

The sun will rise, the fog will lift; so enjoy the beauty and the calm and the mystery of the fog while it lasts. Instead of wanting the fog to wisp away, I wanted the fog to linger, to slow me down, to surround and mystify me. 

Forget seeing better and going faster, which happened to be the things driving my ambition for the future. Going faster and farther sacrifices the beauty of being in the moment, the lingering, the unhurried practice of presence. God’s holy presence is wrapped in clouds descending on mount Sinai, clouds descending on the tabernacle. Even his guidance to Israel was a pillar of cloud. What did that look like if it wasn’t fog? Could God use even the fog to guide me?

Maybe that’s why God sends us fog. In not seeing what is ahead, we see him better. In not pressing onto what’s around the next corner, we press into him better. Instead of lunging, lingering. Instead of pace, presence. 

I hold onto the steering wheel and move steadily forward, winding through the mountains and the fog, knowing that the sun will rise and the fog will lift, yet enjoying it while it lasts. I keep praying and smiling and listening and whispering, Yes, I really do love the fog.