We drove to my grandmother’s house yesterday in a thick fog. The boys were quiet in the backseat as we listened to All Sons and Daughters through the speakers. We left the plumber back at home to do his work on our pipes. Not knowing how long it would be, or the disaster that would come, it was decided we would spend the day by the sea. Snacks and water bottles were packed up, teddy’s and blankets. As we drive along the highway we can see only a few cars ahead of us, and my 4 year old exclaims with excitement “I can’t even see the top of that tower!” I’m with him wholeheartedly.
There are many things in my life I can’t see right now. More than just the electrical tower we pass by. My immediate next step is the only thing I do know – when the preschool drop off starts, when swimming lessons begin, what’s for dinner (and sometimes not even this). Even a few leaps down the road is entirely unknown to me. I gain confidence in the fact that here I am, driving my boys through the fog, and it is not slowing us down. I make the turn, pass the truck, take the exit. I do the next thing that is in front of me to do. And all the while I just keep singing along to the music. There’s no fear about the lack of visibility ahead of us, there is no questioning God’s presence with me. There’s just me and my boys, driving onward.
And all of a sudden, as often happens on these foggy days in Nova Scotia, we reach a point where the sky is clear. And all of a sudden I feel the sun beating in through my window, pouring over my face, kissing my hands that hold tight to the wheel. When we reach my grandmother’s there is not a cloud to be seen. The ocean that lies at the bottom of her property glitters like it’s made entirely of diamonds. The hydrangeas and roses in her garden are wet with dew. I stop to take it all in. The boys are knocking on their windows anxious to get out of the car.
After all this, there is one thing I know- that you never actually do know when the fog will lift. You can’t determine the precise day, or moment, or place when all of a sudden skies will clear, the light will come, and everything will make sense.
But you keep singing Hallelujah, you keep moving forward, you keep your heart soft and your body light. And you keep hoping for the sun.
These posts are my next steps, my attempts to not stand by my life watching, wishing, but to jump on board with both hands ready and willing. You may notice these posts coming more frequently (e-mail subscribers do as you wish with them, I will not be offended).
Writing is my place to think. As my yoga instructor says this morning during our cat-cows, as she asks us to keep our eyes closed during the stretching, “I know, you’re losing a sense of where you are, of your place, but you are finding things inside yourself.”
Writing is where I look for those things. Like a treasure hunt. Maybe on this journey one of you will find something you were looking for, too. And that would make it all the better.