As I walked outside to my cranked truck, its engine warming before our commute, I noticed tiny drops of water falling through the beams of the automatic headlights. My initial thought was to wonder if it was rain, but as I watched the tiny drops dance on the super-highway of light cutting through the darkness, I knew it wasn’t a spring shower. The moisture floated lazily, like a seed pod floating on the wind, but I was much too tired to give it another thought. Other than weird, perhaps.
Coffee in hand, music on the radio, I pulled out of my sandy, grass drive. Into the darkness I drove away, but it seemed darker to me than usual. I adjusted the heater, turning on the defroster, and I hit the button that made my side beams come on. I still couldn’t see that well, I realized, while simultaneously turning up the defrost and turning on the wipers. Weird weather.
My window had mostly cleared as I exited my neighborhood, but still my view felt obstructed. I hit the windshield washer fluid, thinking perhaps if I cleared some dust and dead bugs I might have a better vantage through the glass that separated me from the outside.
It didn’t help, and as I pulled out onto the main road I realized why. Fog. Thick fog covered the roadway. My fog lights already on, I next tapped my high beams, even though I knew they’d make it worse. I released the button allowing the headlights to return to normal. The blast of bright light had only magnified the blanket of wet air that blocked my way, a barricade of water molecules standing firm in solidarity. It was like they formed a Red Rover chain, and their obstructing presence cried out, “you can’t come through.”
That’s what the dancing drops had been, I understood, and I knew they’d dissipate just over the next ridge. But as I crested the small hill I realized I couldn’t really see the road beyond. Slowly I drove forward. Just up there on the main road, it will clear. My optimism cheered me along.
But it didn’t clear after I pulled out on the highway. If anything, it only grew thicker. Like pea soup my truck trudged through the heavy fog. It curled up from the side of the road, as if a smoky set of hands tried to take me in its grasp. I stared squint-eyed towards the tiny piece of asphalt illuminated before me. Couldn’t see much beyond that.
The curves of the road jumped up out of nowhere. A yellow Bear Crossing sign cut through the mist as I passed it.
Now would not be the time for that, I thought. I’d smack it for sure.
The turnpike is just ahead. I repeated it like a mantra. Surely visibility would improve on higher ground. The exit for the turnpike came up suddenly to my left, and had my GPS not forewarned me, I might have driven on by in a pre-caffeinated fog of my own. So hidden was my go-to landmarks that foretold its location.
As I accelerated on the Florida stretch of smooth asphalt I realized the fog persisted. A 70 mph sign waved me on my way.
No chance of driving that fast today.
I mean, I could barely see a thing. It’s like the square of muted light in front of my truck shrunk as I drove faster, and I realized if I didn’t know this roadway I’d feel a bit unsettled by the lack of distant vision. It was only knowing from past experience what lay ahead of my vehicle that I drove with any confidence at all.
Life is like that, you know.
The wisdom of God spoke to my heart. Yes, I agreed. I stilled my heart for more.
So many times you cannot see what lies ahead.
That was true enough. I mean, how many times in the last year had I gone forward having no idea what lay ahead. Selling 95% of our stuff, trading in the minivan and smart car for a gas-guzzling diesel pickup. We had bought that truck to pull a fifth wheel we didn’t yet own, at the time. We had taken on a huge truck payment we didn’t have enough money to cover. We had loaded a suitcase apiece, a few rubbermade totes into the back of that truck, and we had taken off for the unknown. A new job, new city, not enough money in the bank account to continue staying more than a month where we had reservations. Crazy to some, I’m sure.
But it was the light. It lit up the way ahead of us, and though the certainty of God’s plan lit up the direction we needed to go, it only showed a small piece of the road we would travel. We certainly couldn’t see ahead. It was frightening, but still the light shined on.
Go this way, it whispered.
So we went.
It’s your past journey that tells you going forward is safe.
And that was true too. Just like my knowledge of a straight and true turnpike kept me driving forward that dark and foggy morning, so too did our knowledge of God’s sovereignty in our lives drive us forward a year prior.
He was faithful. He never left us. He wouldn’t forsake us. The plans He had for us were to prosper our future. So many times His provision and power had saved us. I had meditated on all the times He had worked miracles in our lives, and those remembrances had kept me moving forward bravely even when my flesh wanted to pull over in panic.
I drove along the dark road pondering these things when suddenly the path in front of me cleared. In an instant I could see miles of smooth interstate ahead. As if a veil had been lifted, I could finally see. Like passing through a curtain, the fog was left behind me. Ahead only lay clarity. Gratitude. The blessing of being able to see. The fog was gone. Clear skies before me. I once was blind, but now I see.
We had indeed passed through the fog this past year. We had come out on the other side of it strengthened, our faith deeper, our dependence purposeful. We had come out closer to the light. In the thick of uncertainty we had been forced to press in, lean forward and squint at the small square that lit the way ahead. For that, we were blessed. When we came through the thick mist we had known immediately who delivered us safely. We had praised Him in the fog. And we had praised Him in the after. We had praised Him when we could not see. And we had praised Him later when we could. Because then, we could see even clearer than before. Praise the Lord.
So I drove on to work with a smile on my lips. The clear roadway ahead. I knew that if the fog came again, here on the 429, or even in the fleshy, frightened places of my mind, that He would lead me forward in the way I needed to go. He was my light.
Dave says
The 429! Brings back memories! I drove that highway through every type weather Florida has! It can be scary on any road in the fog especially this highway of life! Thank you for encouraging words that fit the template of so many of us! Your faith in God is so admirable and I know it helps me and so many others to trust the Lord more! Happy travels young lady!!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much!
Penny L Lozon says
Thank you for your words reminding us of God’s love and guidance. He is always there, even when we can’t see for the “fog”.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you!
Lisa Pierce says
Thank you for that great reminder of God’s provision in our lives. It reminded me of the song that says ‘our Lord knows the way through the wilderness, all we have to do is follow.’
I love your descriptions in this post. I’ve driven in fog like that once in my life and pray I never have to again. I was terrified.
You are such a great writer Brie. I hope you publish a book in my lifetime!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much.