Last weekend, our little sliver of Georgia was covered in a blanket of snow. Fat flakes began falling in the morning and we soon had enough of an accumulation to enjoy a wet snowball fight. It never got deep enough for sledding or a snowman, and wasn’t really a driving hazard (although when you live in the south, even the threat of snow can be a driving hazard.)
It was dark when I woke up the next morning. The temperature was already beginning to climb and I knew our snow wouldn’t last. The strangest thing happened as the sun peeked through the trees in my yard – a morning fog hovered in the air and combined with the snow, it was a scene both eerie and breathtaking.
Fog has an odd way of interacting with light. Some fog is dense enough to be illuminated by the light that passes through its gaps. Fog and mist droplets can alter the wave nature of light so that it is not simply reflected at the surface, it is scattered or diffracted in all directions and distorts our view of that which it covers. Fog itself can be beautiful.
When we drive in fog, we have to use caution with our lights. The temptation is the turn on our high beams and throw as much light as possible into the fog to break through it. But often, the light we hope will push through the fog only bounces back into our own eyes, leaving us blind.
I’ve been in what I can best describe as a fog. Today marks five years since I last held Kylie… last heard her voice, last told her I loved her. I stood in the cold as her empty shell left my house and watched as the exhalation of my breath made fog on that dark night.
My grief has ebbed and flowed as these things do. The first couple years were great burdens that weighed down my life. I learned many things in that time, mostly that we have very little control over this life. We are subject to the fancy of a God who directs things without our consent. And while I believe that he is working things together for good – it is not necessarily an earthly good. The good result may not be evident until I walk through the gates to the waiting arms of my girl.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a happy bloke. I experience joy, laughter, and love daily. I have much in my life that I do not deserve, more friends than I should have, and a family that I’ll never be worthy of. I am a blessed man. But often, the light of these wonderful blessings is altered, refracted, and (at times) repulsed by the fog in which I wander.
The fog is maddeningly inconsistent. I do not know in the morning if it will be dense or thin, or even appear at all. It rolls in suddenly and at times with no warning. There are moments when it is so thick I can’t see to the right or left and must shut down until it dissipates. Life in a fog can be suffocating.
But if choosing to be without this life in a fog meant I would have lost those 12 years with Kylie, I would choose the fog. I’d rather live in an unpredictable haze than have been without her. So I’ll not complain.
I will continue to search for light through the fog and revel in its warmth when it penetrates through. I’ll not curse the God with whom she now resides, for he was the same God that gave me her light for a time.
And oh, that day! That day when the fog will be lifted forever by the light of her smile. That, friends, will be a clear day.