What Do You Do In The Fog?

“This is crazy,” my wife commented.

“I know. I’ve never seen it like this before,” I replied.

We were growing tired as we focused intensely on the car in front of us. We were driving north to visit my parents in Iowa. It was a trip we had taken together at least twenty times before. This time, though, a dense fog had rolled in and had limited our visibility to the vehicle in front of us.

We live in Northern California now, a place where fog is so common in certain places that it is even given a proper name. We don't really think anything of it here. In Iowa, though, a dense fog was a rarity. Suddenly, you have to pay closer attention to what you're doing. You have to focus, and you have to slow down, at least until it begins to dissipate and you have some clarity again.

Clarity is a comforting quality to possess while driving, and while moving forward in life. It is reassuring to have confidence about who you are and what you're meant to be doing. Sometimes, though, fog can roll in and make everything fuzzy.

Recently, a memory resurfaced in my body. When traumatic occurrences take place and we are incapable of processing them, our mind protects us by dissociating from what happened. The body never forgets though, and when we are ready, it will remind us.

I was reading a passage when the memory came back to me. The passage contained the word “defenseless.” When I read it, I had a sensation in my body that I never remembered having before. I read the word again, and the same thing happened. Soon, a painful encounter from when I was little arose, and it has weighed heavy on me ever since.

I am no stranger to facing my past. My road to healing began 14 years ago when my wife and I participated in a spiritual formation seminar. It has continued ever since, through therapy, spiritual direction, and countless conversations with friends and mentors. I don’t think anything has thrown me quite in this way, though.

As I met with my spiritual director and spoke to her about the whole experience, the only metaphor I could think to explain how I was feeling was the dense fog we drove through that night in Iowa. I wanted clarity. I wanted resolution. Instead, I was surrounded by murky uncertainty.

My director asked me a simple question.

“What do you do in the fog?”

“You slow down,” I replied, feeling a bit embarrassed to answer such an elementary question.

“Then maybe that’s what you need to do,” she commented.

Slow down. It’s much easier said than done. I put pressure on myself so often to do more, create more, accomplish more, and to do it all faster. We know how to respond in an actual fog  When it rolls in, it can be frustrating. It hampers your schedule. All of a sudden you have to leave earlier for things, or accept being late. But we accept that you have to take it slower. That’s what you do in a fog. It seems harder when our sense of purpose and direction becomes hazy.

As we continued driving that night, the car in front us-which we so often see as an obstacle to our preferred speed-suddenly became our lifeline. We could go forward because we could see their lights. We couldn’t see anything in front of them, but trusted that they were following what they could see too.

Eventually, when we’re facing our own inner fog, we will be given signposts that help us know which way to go. I don’t know where processing this painful memory will ultimately take me, but I have signposts along the way. I can see that what happened to me was not my fault, that it did not mean I was a bad or dirty child. I can see that God did not approve of what happened, even if it did take place in a church. Those are lights in the haze leading me forward, even if it is a little bit at a time. I’m learning that whatever pace we need on our journeys is okay, because our journeys are as unique as we are.

We made it to my parents house that night, albeit later than we had planned. But we made it, without incident, without injury, by going slow. Because that’s what you do in the fog.