Out of the Fog

​On Sunday night, my spouse and I were driving home from my parents’ house in Grundy Center following our family Christmas get together. The gathering was originally slated for Saturday, however, Mother Nature had other plans, as an ice storm blanketed most of the region. So, following worship on Sunday, we made our way up to gather together, leaving us to drive home in the dark.

This, in and of itself, is always an adventure. What, with the constant game of “Is that a deer or a mailbox?” that we are forced to play–particularly this time of year. But Sunday night brought with it an even greater degree of difficulty caused by your friend and mine:  Fog. 

So, through the dark of night and the blur of fog, we set our course through Grundy County and part of Marshall County. Through part of Tama County and Poweshiek County, and finally Mahaska County. The trip seemed to take FOREVER–much longer than the usual two hours. The dark always seems to have a way of doing that though–making distances seem stretched. And the fog only serves to add a particular slog to the whole journey.

At times, I would get disoriented–thinking that we were much further in our travels than we actually were. Only to see the faint lights of a town’s welcome sign emerge from the dark and the blur of fog to find that we had so much more distance to go. At other times, the fog closed in so tightly, that it felt like we were the only ones on earth moving. But then, just as it seemed as if the fog might swallow us and our little car whole, headlights would emerge from what just moments before had seemed like an unending blanket of grey. We weren’t the only ones moving that night–no matter how much the dark skies and the bleary fog made it seem like it.

One thing I know for sure is that life has a way of bringing us to moments when the night closes in, and the fog settles in. During those times it can feel as if we are the only ones suffering, or the only ones going through a rough patch. We can feel isolated and alone. The holidays, I think, have a way of creating similar conditions for some of us.

Even as we gather with family members, we’ll find our thoughts drifting to Christmas pasts, when loved ones who have since departed were still celebrating with us. When our hearts felt more full. When we felt more alive. In our remembering, we often find that we are met with an ache and a deep sense of longing. And all of it can close in on us–cloaking us in a kind of dark and drab night of the soul that can–at times–feel as if it might swallow us whole too.

My friends, if you find that you are in this kind of fog this Advent and Christmas, please keep inching your way forward. Please keep your eyes on the Advent path. Please keep the vehicle of your heart between the lines on the road. I promise you–I. PROMISE. YOU.– the Light is coming. The fog is not actually swallowing you whole. The dark will not go on forever. Light will eventually emerge from what just moments before seemed like an unending blanket of grey. The way will be made clear again.

Knowing this will not burn off the fog any sooner, and may not tear the veil of the night in two, but maybe, just maybe, it might give you just enough of the stuff you need to keep going despite the darkness and despite the fog. And maybe that is the best gift I can offer you this time of year–a gift much like the gift you all have offered me. The gift of knowing that there’s headlights out in that fog–just waiting to meet us. There is, in fact, a Light traveling toward us that the darkness cannot overcome. Be encouraged.

For the last time in 2024–I’m on the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa 

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