Today was a glorious morning at my house.

I stepped out the front door while it was still dark. The sky was partially clouded but full of promise—the kind of sky that tells you a beautiful sunrise is on the way. Soon the sun would crest Welsh Mountain and spill warmth across the wet, cold ground. I had an early morning appointment, and by the time I left my coffee meeting at Fireside Café, the sun was shining and a bright blue sky peeked through mottled clouds. I know some clouds might move in later today, but it was the kind of morning that makes you take a deep breath of crisp air and walk with a little more purpose.

But then something happened.

As I turned onto Route 625 heading north, I noticed a thick fog settled low over the Conestoga River valley. Above it, everything was clear. The sun was bright and the air crisp. But hovering just over the farmland was this dense, undefined mass—like a thick blanket laid across the valley.

Then I hit it.

Within seconds, visibility dropped to nearly nothing. I was following a car maybe forty yards ahead of me, and it simply disappeared. “Pea soup” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I slowed way down, straining to see what might suddenly appear in front of me. By the time I reached the church, my “beautiful morning” felt like a distant memory.

True confession: I left my backpack on the kitchen table this morning—computer and all. Arrr. So frustrating.

After mentioning this to Isaac and Josh, who were already at the church, I hopped back in the car and headed home.

And it happened again—exactly in reverse.

Pulling out of the church parking lot was genuinely frightening. That intersection is dangerous on a clear day, and in that fog I couldn’t see a thing. If someone had been speeding down the road—as they often do—without headlights, there’s no way I’d have seen them. But then, just as suddenly as before, I crossed the Conestoga and emerged into a glorious winter morning. Bright sun. Clear surroundings. Perfect visibility.

It felt almost magical—like passing through two completely different worlds separated by a few hundred yards.

I’m back at the church now, and even at 9 a.m. the fog is just barely burning off. I can see the school across the street, but it’s like looking through frosted glass. So if you’re living in East Earl today, just know: there’s a beautiful day out there somewhere, waiting to break through.

That drive gave me a picture I haven’t been able to shake all morning.

Because as we step into a new year, most of us are walking through some kind of fog.

There are places where we can’t see the way forward—where we long for clarity, direction, or movement, and it just isn’t coming. For some, the fog is emotional. You’ve been discouraged, maybe even depressed. Life’s been heavy, and the new year doesn’t look very promising. It’s not a light haze; it’s a deep, disorienting fog.

And when you’re in it, that’s the hardest part: it’s nearly impossible to imagine that clarity even exists. It doesn’t feel like something that’s just “down the road.” It feels like this is the whole world now.

So where is God in the fog?

The striking thing about this morning wasn’t how thick the fog was—it was that the sun never stopped shining. Above the fog, the sky was clear the entire time. The light hadn’t disappeared. It simply wasn’t reaching me where I was.

Fog doesn’t mean God is absent. It just means our visibility is limited.

The Bible never promises perfect clarity. It promises enough light for the next step. “Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path” (Psalm 119:105). A lamp doesn’t show you miles ahead—it shows you where to place your foot right now. And in fog, that’s often all we get.

Faith, in moments like these, isn’t about sudden answers or clarity. It’s about moving slowly, staying centered, and trusting God for what you cannot currently see. Sometimes faith looks like easing off the gas, keeping your foot near the brake, and refusing to pull off the road in panic.

And here’s the other quiet truth the fog taught me this morning: the sun was still there the whole time. Above the fog, the sky was blue. The light was shining whether I could see it or not. God’s presence doesn’t fluctuate with our perception. As Jacob once realized, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it” (Genesis 28:16).

Fog doesn’t last forever. It never does.

It burns off. Sometimes gradually. Sometimes suddenly. And often only after we’ve passed through it do we realize just how close the sunlight was all along.

If you’re in a foggy place right now, take heart. There’s nothing wrong with you. God hasn’t stepped away. The way forward is still there. You may not see far—but you can see enough. Enough to take the next step and trust that just beyond where you can see, the light is still shining.

Hang in there and keep driving!