Faith in the Fog

I used to think faith looked like fire —
bright, bold, unmistakable.
I thought it would always burn hot in my chest, always feel like certainty, always sound like singing.

But lately, faith feels more like fog.

Not gone, just… harder to hold.

I still believe — but now, belief looks quieter. It looks like choosing to stay
even when I don’t feel anything. Even when the sky doesn’t answer back.

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I wake up some mornings and whisper,
“Are You still here?”
Not because I doubt He exists,
but because I can’t feel Him
like I used to.

There was a time when I would hear Him
in every song,
see Him in every sunrise,
sense Him in every silent moment.

Now, the silence feels heavier.
Now, prayer feels like writing letters
with no return address.

And honestly, sometimes I feel like I’ve been left on read —
not just by heaven,
but by the people I trusted most.

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Rejection came from the places I never expected.
Friends who turned away
when I was too much, too broken, too inconvenient.
A soulmate who wouldn’t walk with me
through the messy truth of what happened —
the trauma, the abuse, the parts of my story that aren’t tidy enough for newsletters.

I was left to carry it alone.
Ashamed.
Exposed.
Unchosen.

And yet —
even in all that,
God never turned His face from me.

He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t walk away.
He never said, “This is too much.”

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That’s the thing about fog.
You can’t always see who’s standing beside you.

But that doesn’t mean you’re alone.

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Faith is not the absence of fog.
It’s the decision to walk through it anyway.

Not with boldness, always —
sometimes just with breath.

Sometimes faith is a single step.
A whispered prayer.
A choice to keep the light on,
even when the room feels empty.

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God isn’t less present in the fog.
He’s just… less obvious.

Like breath on glass,
like wind through branches —
still there.
Still moving.
Still holding.

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There’s a verse I come back to, over and over:

“For we live by faith, not by sight.” (2 Corinthians 5:7)

It’s easier to quote than to live.
But maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe real faith is forged here —
in the grey,
in the waiting,
in the long nights where nothing makes sense,
but we show up anyway.

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I don’t have clarity today.
But I do have a candle.
I do have breath.
I do have the ache that reminds me I’m still alive
and somehow, still reaching for God
even when I can’t feel Him reach back.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

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