On Flying

All I can see is white, wisps of grey, the occasional hint  of blueish colour filtering through.  Nothing is visible.  Trusting that the pilot knows his way.  Resting in the knowledge of what is beyond the mist.  No matter the challenges.  No matter the tears.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
 your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

It is the words that are sung to me as I ponder the helplessness and beauty of the moment.

Then suddenly, we break through, and snow-dusted forests come into view, interspersed with ribbons of white, and framed by still and quiet clouds.  The rivers meander below.  They have calmly remained.

Like my life.  Seeing only wispy grey, completely without power to see beyond, learning to rest in the expertise of the Pilot.  And from time to time, the breaking through, the snowy mountains visible, as beacons of hope.  They have always been there.  And now I see.