When God Doesn't Lift The Fog

My dad was magical. He could cut a string in half and then magically restore it to one piece. He filled a glass with water, balanced it on its side, and somehow kept it from spilling. He could make a book fall from the shelf by itself and then blame the ghosts for knocking it down. The list goes on, each trick leaving us more amazed than the last. Afterward, my brothers and I would gather around, trying unsuccessfully to uncover his secrets.

My favorite magic was watching my dad create something out of nothing with only a piece of paper and a pencil. I would ask my dad, "Can you draw me a horse?" I climbed onto a chair beside him, my eyes wide with excitement. We exchanged smiles, both of us enjoying the game. 

I loved the soft sound of the lead gliding across the paper—lines, circles, and swooping strokes coming together to create the picture. However, there was always a heart-sinking time when the lines and shapes didn’t look right, leaving me wondering if he even knew what a horse was supposed to look like. 

With his final strokes, the magic revealed itself —a horse sprang to life. The same wonder I experienced during his magic tricks returned as I marveled at how the uneven, seemingly random shapes transformed into something far beyond my imagination.

Reflecting on it now, I see how those unfinished sketches mirrored life’s messy stages—chaotic moments that, with time, led to something beautiful and meaningful, much like how blessings often unfold in life. They can initially remain invisible to us as the pencil in the Master Creator’s hand moves with purpose until it finally comes together—like my dad's drawing, surpassing what we thought possible.

When we moved from Texas to Arkansas, I was unaware that it would bring thick, dense fog that envelops you, making the world disappear. I panic in fog—the scary kind—the kind that makes me the person you don't want behind the wheel.

That panic struck me on one of my first mornings in Arkansas. Looking out the window, I couldn’t see past the first few feet of the front yard. I had to drive 50 miles that day, and the thought of navigating through the weather made my stomach churn and my head spin.

First thought: Why did the Lord lead us to Arkansas, knowing that driving in fog is one of my greatest fears?

Second thought: It may be foggier here in the neighborhood. I decided to go as far as the freeway entrance, and if the clouds stayed as dense, I would turn around and head home. 

With a plan in mind, I got dressed and, feeling a mix of confidence and fear, started my journey to the on-ramp. 

Initially, the air seemed clearer ahead of me; I took a deep breath and drove up the on-ramp. But as soon as I hit 75 miles an hour, the clouds thickened—denser than they had been at home. The wetlands lining the road were filled with eerie trees and plants, feeding the fog and narrowing my view to just a few feet ahead.

Third Thought: “Heavenly Father, please lift the fog.” 

The road was flat, and there weren’t many cars that morning—or at least not that I could see. I positioned my car as close as I dared to a truck, keeping its taillights in my view, matching the driver’s speed, and praying he wouldn’t disappear. My prayer asking God to lift the fog looped endlessly in my head.

I followed those blurry lights until we arrived at a construction zone, and the driver took the exit for Bald Knob. I hunched my shoulders and gripped the steering wheel tightly, steadying it to keep myself from following him off the freeway. I was alone, with no taillights to guide me. 

Fourth Thought: Surely now, the Lord will lift the fog. 

Fifth Thought: Jaw clenched - Why isn’t the fog lifting? 

I sat up straighter in my seat, keeping my view of the little I could see in front of me while using the reflective pylons along the sides of the road to stay in my lane. I prayed out loud and more fervently for the Lord to lift the fog.  

As I listened to the da-dum, da-dum sound of my tires rolling down the road and tried to loosen my hands' vice-like grip on the steering wheel, I reassured both myself and God, “I have plenty of faith. One hundred percent, the Lord can lift the fog.” The sun appeared as a small, out-of-focus golden orb on the other side of the clouds, taunting me as if to say, “Catch me if you can.” 

 For 50 miles, my prayer for clear skies went unanswered. 

Unlike my doubts about my dad's ability to draw a horse, I believed God could lift those thick clouds or send the sun to burn them away. But when He didn’t, I began to wonder, with the same skepticism, why He wouldn’t. Did He see me down here panicking? Did He care?

When everything looks wrong, it is hard to see what is right. Just as I willed my eyes to see what my father was drawing before he was done, the Lord’s ability to make something of what is invisible to us can allude us as we keep a determined eye on what we think He should do instead of what He is doing.

The Lord could have lifted the clouds, but His plan created a different picture—one I couldn’t yet see. Like my dad’s unfinished sketches, I focused so much on the messy parts that I overlooked the beautiful image of His safekeeping unfolding before me.

As I drove home with a clear view of the road and no longer struggling to manage my panic, the layers of blessings became apparent: a truck to guide me, reflective pylons marking the path, and enough light to continue moving forward while helping me stay in my lane. 

That foggy morning in Arkansas taught me that blessings often emerge quietly and unseen, requiring trust, patience, and faith to recognize when they arrive. I also began to view them not as a single event but as comprising many layers.

Some layers ripple outward, our lives interwoven, touching others in ways we may never know. Perhaps someone behind me found guidance in the faint red glow of my car’s taillights, and maybe someone was following hers, with the layers extending outward in countless ways.

Some layers unfold over the years, prepared long before we need them. The roadwork on I-67 started before I depended on those pylons. We can go further—only some have reflective strips. What inspired those who planned the project to include them? That moment wasn’t by chance but part of a carefully laid-out plan.

God’s blessings are miraculous, often surpassing the limits of our imagination. I do not believe it is wrong to ask God for specific blessings; instead, he wants us to be exact in our prayers. However, remaining open to His will fosters a collaborative creative experience. His imagination and perspective enrich our lives, connecting us to His will, creativity, and limitless vision.

Blessings include layers of learning and growth. God taught me that His blessings are as plentiful in the rain as they are in the sunshine. His power doesn’t rely on my understanding or my abilities. He provided what I needed to stay safe, and I discovered that I was stronger than I had thought.

These layers can be hard to recognize, especially during messy moments when our perspective may be restricted to an incomplete picture. We might feel overlooked while blessings for others seem abundant, but if we grip the wheel firmly and trust the light that guides us, those final few strokes will transform the unfinished sketch into a miraculous work of art.

Those miracles in our lives become an 'I Stand All Amazed' moment. Echoing the words of that old church hymn, we recognize the profound, deep, and personal love the Savior has for us and the intricate and loving work of God’s hands on our behalf—so precise that He even directs reflective strips to be placed on pylons to guide us through the fog.

In these moments of clarity, we can renew our gratitude for His infinite sacrifice, recognizing it as the foundation of His endless layers of grace He offers all of us. Even in the thickest fog, His light shines, helping us navigate forward with trust and faith.