Mornings start early for me. Prayer time is usually in the dark. It is quiet, calm. A time to communicate with the Lord. Then the day gets rolling. Cleaned up, a little time on the computer to organize my day, a quick bite to eat and then out the door. Most times, the Lord gives me my first joyous blessing then. The only mornings that I don’t embrace are those mornings that are overwhelmingly hot and humid. Rainy? Love it! Snowy? Well, not as happy as rain, but cool. Cool and crisp? Oh, yeah, bring it on! Mornings are the best.

          This morning was a special blessing. Probably my favorite type of morning. Not really common, but not uncommon, either. When we lived less than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean I saw more such mornings, as when we lived 200 yards from Lake Erie. This morning was a special morning.

          This week is packed with activity. Lots to do and only so much time. As I was getting ready this morning my mind was working over the week’s agenda. I walked out onto the back patio and stopped. Just for a moment, then I headed to the car. But, in that moment, I took it all in. A blanket of fog covered the land. I was just going to scoot across the street to the office. (I drive my car to the office because I want people to know I am there if they need me or need to talk.) However, in that moment of hesitation before I got in the car, I altered my morning plan. A little drive, a cup of coffee from McDonalds and maybe a little side trip to enjoy the fog. You have to get out in the fog to really enjoy it, and a cup of coffee is required to make it memorable.

          I love fog. If there is wind, the fog is driven away, so when fog lingers, it is quiet. But, hearing a fog horn out on the sea or the horn of a tug boat as it edges up to a freighter is a special treat. Driving along at the break of day and seeing trees seemingly hanging in the air is a joy to me. Chattanooga, Tennessee is a city braced on three sides by Lookout Mountain, Signal Mountain and Racoon Mountain. Lookout is the highest. When I was in college sometimes in the morning I could look over at Lookout and see just the peak jutting out from the fog. One fellow student rushing to class one morning stopped when he came up on me staring off toward the mountain. “You know, we have more important things to do than look at that!” Then, off he ran to class. I was late to class, which earned me some demerits. That was a problem for me, too. However, whenever I have thought about it I have always felt a little sorry for that other student.

          I have read why people love fog. They say it is the distant memory of being in our mother’s womb. I think sometimes people say such things to sound smart. I don’t remember being in the womb, but I have it on pretty good authority that the womb isn’t foggy. Dark, certainly, but not foggy. I think the comfort of fog goes back farther and is associated with our genetic memory. The Bible tells us in Genesis 2:5-7---When no bush of the field was yet in the land and no small plant of the field had yet sprung up--for the LORD God had not caused it to rain on the land, and there was no man to work the ground, and a mist was going up from the land and was watering the whole face of the ground--then the LORD God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature. When mankind was first formed, the earth was watered by a mist, or a fog. I think to Adam and Eve, fog was a great comfort as it watered their home. Scientists, of course, would scoff at such thinking, but it makes more sense than foggy wombs.

          When I pastored in northeast Ohio it was very common for me to head to a small park along a cliff overlooking Lake Erie, well before sunrise. I became such a usual visitor that when the police went by on their patrols they would just toss up a hand and call, “Morning Pastor!” I got to see the Lake at its wildest, I got to see the Lake frozen and hear the groans of the ice, I got to see the storms come and go. In all of it, I saw the hand of God on the deep. One morning, during a time when our church was in a struggle and tempers were frayed, I parked my car and sat with the window down, crying my heart out to God. The moon was casting an odd light on the Lake and a slight breeze was blowing in from the water. I saw the bank of fog before it reached the shore. When it arrived, it swirled around the car and the trees. The slight wave action ceased and all became peaceful and quiet. All that was clear in my vision was the inside of the car, and even that seemed a little blurred. I closed my eyes and opened my soul, which is what I should have been doing all along, anyway. The thought came to me that the congregation was going to do what they wanted to do, whether it was God’s will or not. But, God was going to protect me and my house, for we served the Lord. A peace that cannot be described came over me. No matter what happened, we would be OK. In time, the church did the right thing, very good things happened and all was well. However, the assurance of that was made clear to me in that morning’s fog.

               To me, fog is a gift.

          Carl Sandburg, the greatest of American poets, grew up and lived most of his life near Lake Michigan. Fog would often put him in a mood to write and, although he rarely mentioned the fog, it was one of his muses. When he did write a poem of fog, it was almost as though he didn’t know how to explain it. Short, just a few words, but saying what needed said.

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

          Next foggy day that rolls in, get that cup of coffee and reflect.

          Blessings.