Invitations in the Myst

Earlier this week, a dense fog settled in to all the nooks and crannies of the farm and fields, drenching the pussy willows to bedraggled little bits of fluff. Was Spring making a veiled debut? The robins, not used to a vegetarian diet, were singing trills at the softening and yielding earth.


I wanted to head out on a run but heeded the caution of both husband and son that visibility was poor and sat tight until there was some semblance of clearing mist. Then I put on my brightest jacket, tied up my shoes, and set out.

As my footfalls crunched on the gravel, it occurred to me that sometimes you can’t wait until all the fog has lifted before you start putting one foot in front of the other. The way before you may not be clear right to the horizon and still you decide to move forward, trusting that with each step, the next step will reveal itself.


Sometimes a fog rolls in with a vengeance and you can’t see diddly squat. It pushes up against the buildings and your chest, obscuring any beam of light you may try to shine into it – you can’t even inch your way forward, it’s so dense. Blindsided. A fog so smothering that even your eyelids have a hard time lifting.

All you can do is try to breathe. Fill those lungs with air and wonder how long it will last.


As I ran, I saw too the beauty in the mist. The cloaked bushes, fields that were swallowed up by mist, farms revealing shape and size but still somewhat hidden. It lended to a sense of mystery, created a subtleness that invited a closer look.



When I have been wrestling with things, my spiritual director will ask, “What is your invitation here?”. Here. Not when I’ve “arrived”. Not when I’ve sorted it all out. Not when all is resolved. Here.


Sometimes invitations get tossed into a drawer with little intent to RSVP. And frankly, sometimes we’re not invited – we’re not part of the party. That can smart a little – or a lot. Everyone else seems to have clear sailing while here you can’t see the lighthouse for the fog. But maybe, just maybe, even in that place there is a gentle invitation for you, for me. A beckoning that is yours, that is mine, alone. And there is not a cut-off date to that invitation.


Published by Judy

On the edge of Waterloo county resting sedately on knoll, is an old stone house looking out towards the Grand River. This stone house and farm has been in my husband's family for years. We have been graced to call this place home for the last thirty years. Our best crop has been our four children. After years of immersing myself in raising and educating our family, the proverbial nest has slowing been emptying, opening up space for me to fill with other pursuits. Both writing and photography have been knit into my everyday living since I was very young. Sharing them is both a bit of a dream and a bit of a nightmare. But living small and in fear shrivels up a life. My thoughts are musings on God, aging, family, and simply living. My shelves are lined with books, my baskets are brimming with skeins of yarn, my closet shelves are stacked with apparel, my cellar shelves are chock full of home canning - all testaments to my inclinations. Our journeys are not solitary affairs. As I share bits of my journey with you, I hope you will be enticed to look more closely, listen more attentively, and live with abandon. May God's peace rest on your journey. Judy

2 thoughts on “Invitations in the Myst”

  1. Janet Horst says:

    mmm….Judy, an inspiration to once again look for my invitations. Thank you!

    1. Judy says:

      And thank-you, Janet!

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