Saturday, May 3, 2025, 45*
Birds fly through the trees with intent, not lingering, not singing. It does not threaten them, does not advance towards the deck, it does not look hungrily at the dogs nor climb over the fence. Content for now, it stays in full view through the trees. These are the days of fog, days of difficult breathing. A natural enough phenomenon dreaded by sailors and drivers, the power to see what’s ahead taken away.
Lifeline attached like an umbilical cord connecting me to the boat, clad in winter and a life jacket, I stood on the bowsprit holding the railing for balance. If we struck something, I’d be the first going into the water. I peered through the dark. I looked for lights, reflectors on buoys. The fog would not break, would not let me see. I listened for bells, for whistles, for motors, for others passing through the fog.
For a moment the fog dispersed then closed in again providing a glimpse of dark wooden piers and crossbeams supporting a wharf towering; a break in the fog, a blessing allowing a change of course before we closed the distance before we collided with that wharf, a blessing that might not have been seen had I blinked or looked in a different direction.
Devote yourselves to prayer,
being watchful and thankful.
Colossians 4:2
Photo: LJ Austin
