Kenilworth. I wake early to a damp morning. I part the curtains and gaze out at the hills. Wisps of mist hang in the hills and the far mountains are veiled in soft whiteness. The river is a cotton wool smudge in the valley.
I slip out to the veranda and breathe in the moist cool air. It’s a cloudy morning and the mist is billowing across the paddocks, devouring hills, trees and fences. The distant scenery disappears. It’s a white world.
I hurry back to the warmth inside.
Soon the trees outside the window are smudged with white, then mist nudges and gropes at the windows, blotting out the view. Whiteness is all I see.
I know it’s all there waiting for the sun to rise higher, hotter, and burn away the mist, unveiling mountains and paddocks.
I remember driving with a friend at Maleny when everything was shrouded in deep mist.
“We can’t see the road!” I exclaimed, nervous on the steep mountain road. “We could drive off the edge.”
“It’s okay,” he assured me. He turned the headlights brighter and yellow beams of light poked out into the fog.
“We just have to go slowly. Carefully,” he said. I trusted him to drive well as he knew the area.
Like you do in a spiritual mist when God’s whispers are faint or smudgy. Slowly and carefully. Trusting.