Every once in a while — this being Texas, after all — I run in the fog. The clouds visit earth and make the location their habitation. Fog tendrils drift and swirl, filling every nook, cranny, and corner of the clouds’ new quarters. Sometimes, the fog comes with a small force. It seems ghostlike and wispy, utterly transparent. I look out and ahead for a few miles. Other times, the fog brings its entire battalion. The surrounding world turns opaque, and I see only five to ten feet in front of me.
The second occasion changes the entire environment. I lose the senses of sight and sound. My vision dims; I recognize a car’s approach by lights pinpricking the gloom two seconds before it overtakes me. The lights flash the world into blazing light, and I temporarily see nothing. I am like Paul, attempting to understand what has happened and floundering onward to Damascus. In this fog, the hearing diminishes, too. Everything seems muffled, as though I’ve been thrust underwater.
When I can’t rely on anything I know, think, see, or hear during a fog-laden run, I become more careful. I watch every step, testing the ground before committing to it. I’m not certain who or what is approaching, and my body tenses. It goes on alert, readying itself for fight or flight.
Life is like that run. It sometimes appears clear. I look toward the horizon, and the sun rests exactly where I expected it would. Other times, life becomes a little murky. I can still see but not as well, and I exercise circumspection. I evaluate next moves, investigate what I’m currently doing or not doing.
Still other times, life gives no idea as to what lies ahead. It is a wall of fog that I cannot penetrate with sight or sound. In those moments, panic builds and crests. Control is lost to me, and I don’t know what to do. Then again, maybe I do. An anguished cry: “God, what are You doing? I don’t understand.”
I don’t expect to hear an audible reply or even some resounding boom in my soul. God isn’t like that. He doesn’t have to explain his reasoning to me; he’s God, and he’s big. However big he is, though, he is near to his children. He tells me to trust in his nearness, goodness, and bigness. I might not have anything under control, but he does. The fog belongs to him, just as I do. I can trust and run toward him for he remains my path and my home whenever life, or a run, fills with fog and confusion.
Image: Jeremy Segrott (Creative Commons)