As we rode over toward Highland Monday morning, it seemed that clear skies were forming: the last clouds from Sunday night’s storm could barely be seen in the eastern sky. In Wathena, a large branch broken from an oak tree lay across someone’s driveway, evidence of the weight of the wind that came through with black clouds and heavy rains. Small bunches of tiny branches and leaves lay matted on the ground and pavement. We drove on, out of town, past Blair and Troy, under clear skies.

From the eastern crest of the Wolf River Bottom, we could see a bit of a mist hanging above the river and a dense fringe of gray slumped above the western ridge. As we came up the hill, the chill of that air began to coat the windshield with silver droplets. At the top, it seemed that we had driven into a Stephen King novel.

Two minutes earlier, we’d been driving through the clear of a Kansas morning. Now, we drove in dense fog. Heavy gray closed off the light of day. Toward either side, we could see nothing beyond the road bank. Perspective of distance vanished; familiar landmarks disappeared.

It’s not that unusual that we encounter similar situations in life. In one moment, we are rolling along in the comfort of the usual familiarity of things, confident of where we are going and of when we will get there. In another, even that which was close by seems distant, hidden, distorted. In such times, we must learn to rely upon him who has made our path, to trust in his hand to keep us in the way of safety and still moving toward our destination. We must abandon the illusion of the clear day that suggests that we control our way and allow him to guide us through the fog of our grief, our pain, our anger, our wounding. We must travel in a faith that is greater than our seeing, trusting in the vision that still sees beyond the storm.

But it probably is a good idea to slow down.

H. Arnett
8/12/09