Within the Mist

High upon the mountain, where the earth rises toward heaven, an ancient temple rests among the pines.

Most mornings, the mountain is hidden.

Mist rises from the valleys before dawn and climbs the slopes like a slow-moving sea. It pours through the ravines, curls around the cedar trunks, and gathers beneath the temple walls until the great stone summit seems to float above the clouds.

From below, the traveler can see almost nothing.

The path disappears.

The trees become shadows.

The temple vanishes completely.

Yet the mountain does not move.

And neither does the temple.

The mist changes.

The mountain remains.

So it is with the soul.

There are seasons when the way ahead is clear, and seasons when everything familiar disappears into the white silence.

We mistake the mist for absence.

We think that because we cannot see the path, we must have lost our way.

Because we cannot see the temple, we wonder whether it was ever there.

But the mountain knows better.

The temple has not moved.

God has not moved.

Only the veil has descended.

So the traveler sits upon a stone and waits.

He listens.

Water falls somewhere deep within the forest.

A raven calls from an unseen branch.

Wind moves through the pines with a sound like distant breathing.

Nothing explains itself.

Nothing needs to.

The mist simply comes.

And the mist simply goes.

The traveler watches a single bird emerge from the clouds.

It does not carry a map.

It does not know what lies beyond the next ridge.

It simply opens its wings and trusts the air.

The traveler smiles.

Perhaps faith is something like this.

Not knowing the entire path.

Not demanding that tomorrow reveal itself today.

Simply trusting the next step.

He looks toward the place where the temple should be.

Still nothing.

And yet he feels strangely at peace.

For the first time, he understands that God's presence does not depend upon his ability to perceive it.

The temple is no less sacred because the mist has hidden it.

The mountain is no less certain because the clouds cover its face.

And the love of God is no less present because the heart passes through a season in which it cannot feel it.

The traveler bows his head.

He gives thanks—not only for what he can see, but for what he cannot.

For the unseen hands that have carried him through dangers he never recognized.

For the narrow paths that somehow brought him safely onward.

For the angels who, unseen beside the mountain path, guarded his steps when he did not know he was being guarded.

He thinks of all the things he has worried about.

Food.

Shelter.

Tomorrow.

The future.

The things he might lose.

The things he might never receive.

And suddenly those worries seem very small beneath the mountain.

The birds are fed.

The pines are rooted.

The river finds its way through the valley.

The clouds cross the summit.

Everything is held.

Perhaps he is held, too.

He rises.

The mist is still thick.

He cannot see the temple.

But he can see the next stone.

That is enough.

He places his foot upon it.

Then another.

Slowly, he begins to climb.

The mountain does not hurry him.

The mist does not oppose him.

The path does not promise him an easy journey.

It simply unfolds one step at a time.

And somewhere above the clouds, the temple waits in silence.

Not calling.

Not demanding.

Simply waiting.

The traveler continues upward.

He no longer asks the mist to lift.

He no longer asks the mountain to reveal its summit.

He has learned to walk peacefully through what he cannot see.

And as he climbs, something within him becomes still.

He realizes that perhaps the greatest gift was never reaching the temple.

It was learning to trust the mountain while the temple was hidden.

At last, a pale shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds.

For one brief moment, the mist opens.

The temple appears.

Ancient stones.

Dark wooden beams.

A roof glistening with dew.

Then the clouds close again.

The temple disappears.

The traveler smiles.

He does not need to see it anymore.

He knows.

The mountain remains.

The temple remains.

The path remains.

And God remains.

Even here.

Especially here.

Within the mist.