Out of the Fog

Millstone offers a great name for its morning medium roast--Foglifter. I've never had it but I'm willing to cut it some slack due to this fantastic name. I wish I had it on that fateful day back in February 1980 when my neighbor Todd Parson and I went into the woods beyond Greasy Creek to hunt quail. There was a dusting of snow on the ground which makes birds stick longer before they break to flight. Quail are hilariously funny to watch when they are on the run.
After spending an hour or so shrouded in the beauty of frosted timber it was time to leave for home. We'd made the trip many times but this one was different. A fog came across the lake and settled into the entire acreage. We knew exactly where we were, but not where we were going. Our bearings were entirely off kilter--lost in a whiteout of snow and fog. If we walked too far west, we could fall through the ice on the creek, too far south and we would be on a thinly frozen lake. It was terrifying.
I grew up hearing my Grandfather preach about Jesus saving those who were lost. I was quite certain that I could only be sure of heaven if I first knew I was lost. That frightened me initially because I didn't feel particularly lost. The only other time I was lost was when I was 5 at a Christmas parade in Providence Ky. It was a three minute eternity of horror that was immediately remedied by the sight of my mother. The contrast in emotions when one is lost and then found is forever etched on the soul.
As I've gotten older, I'm more comfortable with the feelings of lostness. On the occasions I get lost (Hey, I'm a guy!) I still don't like it, but I always sense an assurance for coming through it. In matters of salvation, I wasn't lost because I didn't know where I was, I was lost because I didn't know where I was going, and my options were far more perilous than I wanted to entertain. And just because I didn't feel lost didn't mean I wasn't.
Todd and I determined that day to stay put and stay calm. But the fog didn't lift and it was getting darker. I'm quite sure that moments before we both died from heart failure, through the fog, we heard a voice calling our names. It was my father's voice. He suspected our predicament so he made his way up the trail and called to us from the ridge above the bottoms. We immediately had our bearings. We knew where we were going.
I still get lost from time to time. The fog rolls in and though I know where I am, I don't know where to go. I think back to that day in the whiteout, and I listen for my Father's voice.