By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
For the better part of this week, the mornings have been blanketed by fog — and it was no ordinary fog either. There were times when it seemed like it was clearing as a traditional morning mist does, but then it performed a complete about-face, thickening and settling more heavily for the better part of the day. This week’s fog did not act like typical fog. I am no meteorologist, as I am sure you are all shocked to learn, so I cannot say what made this mist behave so differently, but it most certainly did. Most evenings brought warnings and advisories of dense fog to come in the morning. It certainly was dense, but it also seemed to have a definite intention of making its presence far more impactful and lasting than your average, ordinary, misty morning.
As I drove my daughter to school and myself to work each morning, we both had something to say about the atmosphere. There were days we could barely see the next reflector on the road ahead of us, much less any of our typical scenic views. Even the brightest lights were dim pinpricks until they were practically in front of our faces. This was serious depth. This level of cloud had no business hovering on the ground; it was so substantial that it ought to have been several miles above the surface. And then it had the sheer boldness to stay until the afternoon. This mist was a different breed, I tell you.
And because I am nothing if not a lover of symbolism, during my repeated commutes within the confines of a snowless white-out, I decided to ponder whether there was some meaning I could extract from the heaviness of the atmosphere. For a bit, I suspected I was merely talking myself into a regurgitation of my ever-present fascination with morning mists that seep from the ground in small ethereal wisps. Though I cannot stress enough — the term “wisp” is not in any way appropriate for what I’ve seen this week.
Perhaps it was the magnitude of it all that allowed my mind, after surprisingly little contemplation, to extract a very deep meaning. I could see just a bit of the landscape, but only the closest objects were visible; beyond that, the scenery faded out of focus. As I looked, I heard within myself the statement: “That’s what has always been done to the truth.” It was clear and very nearly audible, and I immediately weighed it and rolled the message about like one does a really glorious bit of ice cream as it melts into its full flavor on the tongue. And as I did so, I found it was absolutely correct.
From the very first deception in the garden, the tactics of the enemy have remained the same: present a proposed course of action (that will lead to destruction) with just enough truth to be plausible, and enough lie to be deadly. It makes sense, really. Who would be enticed to take a wrong road if it looked bad for them? No one, that’s who. If the poison looks putrid and terrifying, there is no appeal. The very nature of bait is to be attractive. We wouldn’t set a trap for a leopard with a salad.
Today it is very popular to reinvent the truth — to make it serve one’s own purposes or, perhaps more often, to add pillows and blankets so that it becomes a soft, cozy place to lounge. Everyone loves to have their agendas affirmed and to come to rest in a deliciously comfortable spot. That is not the nature of truth, however. If it is obscured, distorted, or rebranded with fluffy additions and amiable smoothings, then it ceases to be what it is: truth. But such reinvention exists only in the mind. When a landscape is harsh or simply not what one wishes it to be, it can be draped in fog, and the rough edges can be lost in the billowy mists. Yet this does not make the objects obscured any less real.
As I wrote that last sentence, I had one final epiphany with which I will leave you: driving in very low visibility is dangerous regardless of the time of day. Whether hidden in soft white or shrouded in darkness, what is true remains — and remains as real as ever. On the road, headlights are indispensable when the clear way cannot be seen. How interesting that light can pierce to the heart of things, whether through the dark shadows of deception or the bright vapors of misrepresentation.
The Light always points to the Truth and shows the Way. How fortunate am I to be able to go to the One who is the incarnation of all three — and Who always leads home.
Prose and Possibilities 