Susan LaffertyA dense fog settled over me for several years. Like the fog slowing urban streets where we lived during part of that time.
Nearing 50, I joked about brain overload. How pieces of my mind were escaping. Slipping away.
But this was disorienting.
The thick fog outside our urban apartment hid the sun. Birds stopped singing.
I struggled to sing too. During the season I was menopaused.
Winter trees. In crisp air at dawn. Stark. Branches bare. Empty.
The fog drifts in.
As I walk in fading darkness, I think about friends and family members who are suffering.
Standing weary. In the fog of impossible circumstances. Living with ongoing crisis. Conflict. Some with never-ending pain.
Cold and unrelenting winds whip through the lives of these loved ones.
And I ask how to pray.
What is His way for trees in winter?
