‘Til the fog lifts…

I looked out the window: Thick, heavy, fog. Great.

What is it with funks? So hard to explain. So hard to predict. We know all the right answers, the shoulds and oughts and answers. We can quote the verse. Rejoice! 

What about when you don’t?! That fog settles inside too. So heavy. The kids awake cross. I feel lethargic and sleepy. There’s nothing inspiring on the agenda today, and even my favorite mundane activities have lost their charm.

I go through the motions, looking for miracles. Where are You in my mundane today, Lord? I make the oatmeal. Pour coffee. Even my beloved morning brew lacks its usual draw. The kids can feel it too. What will we do today? Our plan, OMSI, is changed because apparently the museum is closed.

I look outside the window again at the cold, thick fog. I can’t even see the chicken coop.

We’d had the false-promise of sunshine. 66-degrees and sunny. Really? But it’s not really the weather, it’s something else. My own tendency to isolate, draw in, find comfort in independence, hole up and hide a bit ’til the fog clears. I don’t like the fog–draw the blinds and crawl back in bed until the sun breaks.

We wait. And wait.

And I stare at my phone because I know a quick text can open up this darkness and let a close friend in. I know who and how, they are always near and eager to love me, to pray, but there’s a sick satisfaction in just lying down in the fog, hiding in obscurity. I stare at my phone. Nah.

The kids and I go upstairs, try to plan our way out of the fog-funk, come up with a solution. That always works, right? (Rolling my eyes here.) We have ideas, different ones: both kids disagree (on everything). I turn to do something and some random gyration (as they roughhouse) lands his head straight into her nose.

SCREAM!

That is IT.

I’m so done.

Get in your room now.

The command is for him but I do it too. Walk into my room and throw myself on the bed, close my eyes, facedown in a pillow. I just can’t look at it anymore, any of it.  I’m being childish and selfish, I know it. But I don’t care. Don’t I ever get to pout?! Why do I always have to be the grown-up??

Heidi tip-toes softly in, she’s ten-times more mature than me at this point. She stands beside the bed, and softly caresses my back, her tiny starfish hands gently running up and down my back.

“It’s ok, Mommy. It’s ok.”

Oh that girl. She’s the one that got hit and here she is, leaning over me, in love. I pray the simple pathetic prayer, “Father, show me what to do.” And for me, now, I know what it is:

Reach out into the fog.

I pull Heidi up into my arms, kiss her perfect tiny mouth, and go downstairs, send out that text to that dear one: Honest confession and request for prayer. It isn’t long, but it’s me reaching out into the fog:

“I can’t see clearly right now, help! Could you reach out and take my hand?“

Even before I hear back, I can see a little better now. See my sin (anger) and theirs (complaining). I head back up, gather them into my arms, talk honestly about our sin and sit in prayer together, asking God to forgive us and grant a fresh start to the day. My phone buzzes with a response, one so perfect in its perspective that it has me laughing out loud. Oh, being loved–what grace!

Just then we three look up, through the skylight: Perfect blue. 

The fog has lifted.

{For whatever fog you face today. Reach out, to Him, to another. Even here–I’d love to pray for you. Thanks for reading.}