I took the longer road one morning.
The prettier one.
The road that winds a bit—
asks a little more patience,
but whispers something lovely the whole way through.
And that morning, it whispered in fog.
Let me back up.
I take a road trip each week – two hours each way – to see my grandparents who are in
a nursing home on hospice. They are 96 and 99 and sleep through most of my visit, but
it’s so worth the trip.
I usually take the quicker route – more highway than pasture. But this time, I felt the
Spirit nudge me.
Go slow today. Take the longer way.
So I did.
I wound my way from my hometown through a series of smaller towns.
I drove through those kinds of towns where the speed limit goes from 65 to 35 in the
matter of two miles and then ramps back up just outside of town.
With each mile, a thickening fog descended over the countryside.
Pastures became beds made up with white patchwork blankets.
Gas stations and mini marts hid behind a canopy of mist.
At first, I drove like normal.
But eventually… I had to slow down.
The fog was just too thick to keep my normal pace.
It felt like a metaphor for the proverbial fog I was walking through in my life. Fresh
trauma and its sister – grief – left me so astonished I couldn’t see my way through
anymore.
I felt stuck.
God used the weather pattern that morning to help me understand,
“I don’t need to outrun this. I just need to be real in it. I need to slow down and trust
Him.”
I didn’t try to force my way forward.
I didn’t try to speed past what I couldn’t see.
I just slowed.
And somewhere between fog and surrender,
I realized this:
Even when truth is hard to find,
Even when the path ahead feels hidden,
I still get to choose clarity.
I still get to choose what’s right.
I still get to pause, breathe,
and let the Lord tend the aching places in me.
When this kind of shock comes suddenly, it seems like everything else takes a backseat
to the stupor. Routine tasks pile up until I finally get past the ache.
At the thickest part of the fog, I realized – grief upon grief had piled up in my life like
laundry, but my soul is not a machine. I cannot run on spin cycle alone – but I can lean
on grace.
That’s when the tears came – slow at first, then overwhelming sobs until I was all cried
out. I began to pour my heart out to God in surrender. Questions came faster than
answers – but more than answers, I needed His presence.
I prayed and worshiped my way through the fog.
Then just after I crossed the state line, the fog began to shift.
It’s as if I passed through something.
A border.
A veil.
And even though the fog lingered for a while,
it began to lift.
It wasn’t coincidence, it was covering.
It was my Father giving me a clear picture of my heart.
I’m a writer/poet. My mind runs on metaphor. He knows this. So He let me drive through
a metaphorical image of myself.
So I’d know He knows me. ME!
So I’d know He’s with me.
So I’d feel His heart wrap around me like that same fog—
gentle, comforting—
not to blind me, but to slow me,
not to hinder me, but to hold me,
not to hide me, but to heal me.
Or – to hide me so that He could heal me.
He even caused the fields I passed to be covered in white.
Like His grace covering me.
Like a wedding veil, ready to be lifted.
Like His mercy quilt spread over old, soiled ground.
~ Where in your life is God inviting you to slow down instead of press through?
~ What fog might actually be His covering, not your failure?
~ Could the pause you’re experiencing be more about healing than about
hindrance?
~ Are you running your soul like a machine, when what it really needs is mercy?
Even when the road winds, He walks it with us.
Even when the fog settles in, so does His mercy.
Even when we can’t see the way forward,
we can trust the One who holds the road—and our hearts—in His hands.