It’s not quite 7:30 in the morning and I’m on the train – heading into another day of work. Though it’s still pretty dark, I can see the fog that is hanging over the fields, wisping through trees, and obscuring the mountain ranges.
‘Feels like an important image for what this day has already offered – and obscured.
As a mother, I expect there to be difficult mornings. I expect there to be times when my daughters are less than pleased with me. I even expect that there will be many times in which they are just downright mad at me.
Further, I expect that there will be many times in which I am all of the same with them. Today was one of those days.
As I drove them to their drop-off point for the morning’s activities prior to school I told them that even though we were pretty mad at each other that it couldn’t change how much I loved them and that by the time I saw them this afternoon they wouldn’t feel any residual from what we experienced in the previous hour.
Sort of like the fog. It will be gone by this afternoon, as well.
What I’m aware of though, this particular morning, is that time and warmth and light are needed to burn that away. I didn’t have that time with Emma or Abby today. And so we part feeling like we’re in a fog – not sure where we’re going or quite how to proceed. We have to walk sort-of blindly into our day, wishing we could feel the heaviness lift and the sun shine. We won’t have the chance to see each other clearly until later this afternoon. That makes me sad and I’m confident that just as the day’s light will break through this fog, they will know, deep inside, that they are loved by me.
Normally I love fog – when I can look at it from a distance (like while I ride the morning train through the countryside and numerous towns, cities, and suburbs). Today I’m not so crazy about it. It’s not just outside my window. It’s inside my heart. I need the sun. I need to hug my girls. I need more time. I need to see them clearly and make sure they can see me – and my love for them.
A prayer: Lift the fog or at least be the one that links us to one another over this distance, these wounded hearts, these sad places we live this morning. Warm our hearts. Clear our minds. Bind us together in this blind space of the next seven hours until we see each others’ smiles, look in one anothers’ eyes, feel each others’ hugs and know that all is well – at least for a while. Please?