It’s something so deep in me that I really have no idea what its founding connections are.

Even as a young kid, I loved foggy mornings: the mystery, the softness, the way that everything far away disappeared and even the things that were near faded. Gone the harsh light, the keen edges that marked the boundaries and defined the shapes. Only the close colors held true. Even though I knew—or at least believed—that everything that I could no longer see was still there, I could choose to be unaware. I could pretend, at least until the fog ended, that only what I could still see survived the mystery of fog.

Of course, the real pleasure of those heavily shrouded mornings was privileged to those who could stay at home. Our bus driver, Mister Perkins, hated the fog. I could see him shaking his head as he slowed down even more for the curves on the gravel roads, hesitating much longer than usual before pulling out onto the highway beside Cooksey’s Salvage Yard. No way to know for sure that there wasn’t a semi barreling through the fog without its lights on. He muttered too softly for us to make out clearly the words kids weren’t supposed to hear.

I suppose that much of the pleasure I take from fog depends on the privilege of being spared the risks that others must take. Unretired and not unemployed, they have no choice but to head to work. They do not have the luxury of lounging longer after breakfast, sipping coffee and watching in wonder as the fallen leaves matted across the yard lose their harsh rustle.

On the way to feeding the horses this morning, I walked across the shed coverings of maple and birch, soaked with slight rain and heavy fog. Even the cottonwood leaves made little sound beneath my boots.

Maybe that’s what I like the most—the way that fog mutes the noise, narrows the choices, and quietens the voices. Something about it, even though there are hints of somber and sadness in the mist, offers something that feels like peace.

And in this world of harsh noise and much clamoring, when it’s hard to take a single step that doesn’t trigger some sort of harsh reaction, anything that feels like peace seems to offer some release. How much more, then, the real deal that comes from trusting Jesus and knowing that no matter what else seems to shroud the things that we hold dear, His Spirit is always near.

Even in our fogs.