The Right Volume

“It’s foggy in here!” I shout into the dark. “It’s foggy!”

He sounds far away at first, but I begin to hear Jon laugh, as if from the end of a long tunnel. He gets closer and closer and then, “What? It’s foggy?” he says. I see his smirk even with my eyes still shut, feel him pretending to take me seriously. The lightness of his mood, having just slipped into bed, adds fresh fuel to my determination.

“Samantha, you’re dreaming!” he spits out after several failed attempts to stop my shouting.

I must have bolted straight out of covers when I launched into this tirade because when I come to my senses I’m upright and still clinging to my weather report. Jon quite enjoys his little opportunity to poke fun while I roll over to sulk, groggy under sleep’s spell but hell-bent on my conviction IT REALLY IS FOGGY!

(I hate being wrong.)

It was the wee hours of a morning which signaled big change. As it turns out, I was right. (Told you.) It has been foggy.

New boundaries, new bearings, whatever the case, change is unsettling. Should one really set out on a new course without knowing where it leads? Is that even wise?

…

It’s with these fresh-cut questions that I settle deeper into pillows on a Friday night. There’s no big sectional like the pages of a slick magazine but we make it work anyhow. Only crusts remain atop five plates on foldaway trays and I tuck in the blanket a little tighter around my toes.

Within arms reach our bright-eyed boy sits cross-legged and folded into his father’s lap, excitement freshly painted across his angelic face. This is no lazy, fluffy flick but an edge-of-your-seat, next-in-the-series he hasn’t yet seen.

Luke: “With the blast shield down, I can’t even see. How am I supposed to fight?”

My ears prick up. I may learn something here.

Obi-Wan: “Your eyes can deceive you. Don’t trust them.”

Words scrawled by a legend blare out of speakers, meanwhile Truth quietly pierces my heart. My eyes…they aren’t to be trusted? And the fog…are You suggesting I ignore it?

…

Weeks later I sit with friends in a backyard on a crisp fall night. A husband has set a fire before us, handing over a glass of red before slipping back into a home asleep with children. We sit in near dark under a star-dusted sky and, as I listen to details of their fog, I’m reminded I’m not the only girl in the world with more questions than answers.

Just because we know Jesus, The Way, doesn’t mean we clearly see our way.

Fog’s a funny thing. Can’t clear it like a cobweb with the swipe of a hand or lift its thickness like a heavy garage door that rolls back on its track if only I put my legs into it. Fog shows muscle no respect. It just hangs still in the air, silently refusing to budge.

I’ve trusted Him in sunshine, even trusted Him in storms, but standing here, toes having disappeared beneath me and unseen hand stretched before me, will I trust God in the fog?

Show me your ways, Lord, teach me your paths.

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