Here in the mountains we often find ourselves driving over a mountain pass and suddenly we see a fog bank so thick it looks like a gray wall. In seconds we are into the fog and all we can see is a small area around the car and a short space ahead. We can't see a car in front of us or coming toward us until it enters the narrow space in front or beside our car.
A lovely drive turns into something scary, dangerous, and we aren't sure what lies ahead of us. Is there a truck stopped in our lane ahead, has there already been an accident and we can't see it until we hit it, will an oncoming car swerve over on our side of the road before we can see it coming and smash us over the side of the mountain?
That is the way we have felt for some months now, like we have entered a fog bank and we see only what is near us, but not what lies ahead of us. Will we wreck by making a wrong choice in treatment? Will we make it through until we run out of the clouds and see an open road with no impediments to our progress?
As I come across Franklin Mountain, one of the most beautiful drives I've ever seen, I am reminded of the lovely journey of my life with Barry. There are sharp curves, steep inclines and places where accidents have happened to others who were not as careful as we have been.
The sudden appearance of thick fog as we descend prickles my scalp and I find myself grabbing hold of anything for security, peering into the mass of mist hoping to get just a glimpse of what lies ahead. I know I can't control the car, the fog, what lies ahead and I'm not prepared if the worst happens.
I close my eyes and pray for God's protection, his guiding hand to lead us through this blindness. I pray the sun will still be shining when we pass through the terrifying part of the trip, and we will still be whole.