One morning, during a recent vacation in the mountains of North Carolina, Joe
and I went hiking. It had rained the night before, so our
footsteps made no sound as we walked along a trail carpeted with sodden leaves.
The air was cool, but still damp, and a thick fog, or mist, swirled around us.
We could not see the path ahead.
As we hiked, my mind went back to a disagreement my husband
and I had the night before. As far as disagreements go, it had been quickly
resolved; in fact, if you were to ask me what it was about, I truly do not
remember. But that morning in the mountains my thoughts, like the fog
enveloping us, swirled heavy and dark. I was not mulling on the disagreement
itself, but on the memory of the disagreement and how it was indicative of the
atmosphere blanketing our lives these past few months. The pandemic, the travel
restrictions, the mask controversy, and a contentious election had been (and still
are) fraught with bickering, squabbling,
finger pointing, and protesting, all of it done with the righteous indignation of people serving as both judge and jury against everyone except the person looking back in
the mirror, the ensuing consequence pitting brother against brother, friend
against friend, city against state, and people against government.
The hike was energizing, but my mind, heart, and spirit were
tired. I turned inward and began to pray. About nothing. About everything. I was
not even sure what I was praying about. My prayer was not neat, or eloquent, but
just words exhaled with every step as we silently climbed up and up.
Suddenly, like the parting of a curtain, a man emerged from
the fog in front of us. He was alone, carrying a backpack and a trekking pole. We
exchanged pleasantries—how are you, good weather for hiking—and then asked
if he could give us a book. I hesitated for a fraction of a second and then said,
“Sure. Are you an author?”
He was, in fact, an author. As he opened his backpack and pulled
out a book, he explained he was also a retired pastor who currently trains and
mentors pastoral leaders. I thanked him as he handed me the book, and he said goodbye. When I turned around to see where he had gone, the fog had
already swallowed him up.
I looked down at the book. The cover featured a watercolor drawing
of a hiker, carrying a backpack and trekking pole, and at the top was the title, Finding
Your Place in the Father’s Heart.
The title alone spoke to me, and just like that I realized I
had been going about this all wrong. In trying to sift through the turmoil, in
my feeble attempts to make sense of a nonsensical world, I had turned inward with
whispered prayers and questions, my introspection swirling fog-like until, like
the mountain pathway I was hiking, I could not see the way.
But it was not my heart I needed to turn to, but my Father’s,
not so much to find answers, but to find myself.
Turning my introspection outward, I appreciated how the fog,
while preventing us from seeing the road ahead, did not impede our hike; that
the pathway revealed itself with every step I took.
And there, on top of a mountain in North Carolina, on a remote
hiking trail engulfed in fog, I recognized this as the dramatic moment that it
was. Sometimes parables and beatitudes and morals are adequate to teach and
console and show us the way, but sometimes they offer ambiguity and require interpretation
when we are simply yearning for clarity.
Sometimes we need a little drama—a thunderbolt,
choirs of angels, the temple curtain torn in two.
Or a man emerging from the fog on top of a mountain in North Carolina.
