Into the Lonely Fog

This past weekend, I spent an overnight trip to Camp Weed, the Episcopal Diocese of Florida's camp in Live Oak.  It was the parish retreat weekend and I had never gone on such an excursion, so I thought I'd go and challenge every ounce of my introverted self.  And I did.  I came. I saw.  I played kickball.

I had a good time, although I learned a valuable lesson: never opt for cabin-dwelling.  Bunk beds and my body do not agree and the air conditioning unit was as loud as a train's diesel engine, kicking on every 45 minutes.

Since I couldn't really sleep, I left the cabin for a walk at dawn.  It wasn't the sun-breaking-over-the-horizon kind of dawn; instead, dawn on this morning was a soupy fog draped over the trees and fields.  The birds were out and creating the musical soundtrack for this morning stroll through the mist.  I felt the exhilaration of a new day coming and that sense of being present, right now, taking in everything around me.  The fog lent a special feeling of mystery to the whole thing.  At some point, this drape would lift, and the sun would reveal more of the landscape.

This was something of a metaphor for the state of mind I was in on this walk.  I've been in a fog lately.  Or at least it seems as though the world is blanketed in a foggy mist, and I keep looking for the light. In my faith journey, I have come to a point where I believe it is time to really slow down and take a good long look at the landscape, foggy as it is, and take stock of where this path is leading.  As I noted in my last entry, this is the five-year anniversary of the start of this wild and crazy ride with God, and so it seems this is the time for me to see where I was... and where I am now.  And to recognize that where I am now, in the fog, is exactly the right place given all the movement that has occurred up to this point. And, at some point, this drape will lift, and I'll have the rays of sunshine I need to see the landscape more clearly.

This is a lonely place to be in.  I was conscious of that, too.  It didn't matter how loud the birds were or that I was on this retreat with 160+ people from St. John's, this moment... the one I was and still am in... is a lonely place.  These are the times when one relies on the ravens to come and feed you.  I am fortuate in that I have received some of that from those I have trusted along the way of this journey.  May their sustenance aid me as I continue to take more steps in faith into the fog.  May I take time to feel the dew of the grass and not lose sight of how beautiful even this landscape can be.