Rambling Reflections on Not Knowing the Path and What lies Ahead…

Looking up ahead, wondering where the road is leading me—can’t see through the fog. It’s odd, really, that no matter how many times I find myself here, staring into that hazy blank, I’m always taken aback. Each step feels heavier, sounds louder than usual, like the world’s trying to remind me I’m still moving. I suppose the horizon used to mean something clearer, more in view—a promise, maybe. Now it’s just a blur that seems filled with shadows and bursts of brightness and I’m left with just myself and whatever thoughts drift up from the quiet. In moments like this, I remember a gentle, sacred whisper: Be still and know that I am God.

Fog,  the metaphor of fog, I keep coming back to this idea—how it makes everything I thought I knew just… disappear. Streetlights turn into vague halos, familiar landmarks melt away, and I’m forced to trust in things I barely understand like a memory, gut feelings, some sense of direction that feels less certain every day. Maybe it’s about letting go and about realizing I never really controlled much to begin with. When the uncertainty tightens, I’m challenged to pause, to be still, and remember that within the mist, there is presence and purpose beyond my sight.

There’s an odd calm in the foggy mist, that is outside my window this morning. When the fog wraps itself around everything, I can’t focus on the usual distractions. The future, all those big plans, shrinks down to something manageable—a faint buzz in the background while I try to figure out my next step. It’s almost a relief. In that quiet, it feels possible to surrender to something greater, to be still and know that I am not alone.

I guess we all end up here sooner or later, at the edge of a journey of uncertainty. The point where you can’t see ahead, where the map is just a sheet of white paper or for me a blank screen and your mind spins uselessly. Sometimes it’s dramatic—a breakup, losing a job, or something bigger. Sometimes it sneaks up quietly, a slow drift away from certainty. I imagine I’m not alone in wanting to wait, just stand here until things clear up. But life rarely waits, does it? The fog stays put, and you must decide whether to trust the road, make the turn, take the fork left or right, or just stand there forever.

It’s kind of brave, I think, to move forward without knowing. Faith maybe—not in a grand cosmic plan, but in the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. Yet sometimes faith means being still, letting the silence settle, and opening my heart to that timeless assurance: Be still and know that I am God. The quietness of the fog makes my ears strain to hear, to search for the whisper inside telling me which way to go.

The fog keeps teaching me, whether I want to learn or not. I’m forced to stop, to slow down, to think only about what’s right in front of me. Trust is a big word—for the present, for my own ability to adapt even when change feels uncomfortable. It’s not about being blindly optimistic, but about knowing I’ve survived uncertainty before. Progress, not perfection; persistence, not prediction. And in the midst of the journey, the ancient promise, the words echo in my mind, “Be still and know”. Trust that I am held, even when the path vanishes beneath me.

And it’s not like I walk alone, either. People show up when I least expect it—some stay, some drift away. But there are the ones who are put in our path, that shimmer in the fog and reach through it. We share the uncertainty, sometimes laugh about it, sometimes just keep each other company in the silence. Even when I’m by myself, I discover I’m stronger than I thought, braver maybe. The fog is good for introspection, for figuring out what actually matters. In quiet moments, I’m reminded that being still is sometimes an act of courage, a way to receive grace or comfort or wisdom that can’t be forced.

So here I am, still peering into the mist, still unsure. It’s a place where a lot of stories start, I think—a place where it’s okay to ramble, to wonder, to wait and see. The fog won’t last forever, but while it’s here, I’ll try to live with purpose, find meaning in the steps, not the destination. I’ll walk on, one uncertain step after another, hoping the road will keep revealing itself, and trusting that, in some way, this winding path through the unknown is exactly where I need to be. And whenever the fog seems too thick, I’ll remind myself to simply be still and know.  I AM.