There was an early morning a decade ago now when my spouse and I packed our backpacks and stepped out onto the street before the sun rose. We walked to a bus depot and joined dozens of other travelers already waiting, and I gazed at the faint outlines of the mountains against the black, starless night sky.

We boarded our bus, and it wound its way up the mountainside, and I closed my eyes to keep from seeing how close we were to the edge of the drop off. When the bus finally stopped, my wife and I put on our rain jackets, to keep warm rather than dry, from the moisture in the low hanging clouds covering Machu Picchu. In the dim light of early morning, we climbed the stone steps to the sun gate, which was shrouded in gray mists.

You couldn’t see much beyond the sign posts pointing you in a direction you should walk. You couldn’t see the gate of the sun or the other features in the area. You couldn’t pick out any llamas or even any other tourists. It was just you, walking in the clouds with your hiking party. You could have been in the Andes or the Appalachians; it would have looked the same.

It was disappointing, not to be able to see all the peaks and monuments and deep valleys and far-off buildings, centuries-old and still standing. It was discouraging, not knowing how much farther we had to walk, not being able to see how far we’d come, but only seeing the few feet in front of us and behind us. It made the hiking feel like forever, just wondering when we’d finally make it to where we were heading.

Life can have its own disappointments. Its peaks peaks and sights and highs and lows come and go. Weddings, births, deaths, final goodbyes and greetings to newcomers, new jobs, graduations, and accomplishments – all we wish we to be present for – are the figurative mountains and valleys which can often be overshadowed by a cloud. It can be disappointing. 

It’s can also be discouraging, when a cloud overshadows us. And I know a little bit about clouds. Every month in my teens growing up, my scout troop went camping in the Appalachian Mountains. It didn’t matter if it was spring, summer, fall, or winter, there was almost always cloud cover, almost always rain or snow or hail or sleet, almost always regret for taking up camping in the first place.

But I also know that the fog lifts eventually; the clouds dissipate. The sun rises, and you see the lay of the land before you. The confusion and uncertainty fade away, and you can see the top of the mountain you’re climbing to before lunch. The wind blows through the whole valley, and you can see all the way down to where the cars are parked and waiting to drive you home.

What fog and cloud are you waiting to see past? I hope you haven’t lost hope.

By midmorning on our trip up the ruins around Machu Picchu, the mist cleared, and my wife and I saw the sight we hoped to see. We smiled and stood around and took pictures in every direction. And then the walk back down had to be undertaken, and on my first step, I froze out of fear of falling. I could now see how sheer a drop it was from the path, when before all I had known was fog.

After gathering myself and with Amy’s patient encouragement, I walked much more slowly down than I had coming up. And I realize now, that I never would have walked all the way to the top if I could have seen anything more than just the steps in front of me. 

Maybe you’ve had a moment like that, when you had no idea of what lay around you, and you kept pushing forward, because you were already moving in that direction. That was the kind of advice my friends in scouting gave me when I asked, “How much farther until we make it to the end of the hike?” And they would respond, “Oh, I think it’s just over that hill.” And it took me two years into Scouting to realize that is always the response to give: “it’s just over the next hill.”

What has the fog hidden from your sight? What were you able to focus on while you missed everything around going on around you? Have you grown in an unexpected way? I’ve met with families who have formed stronger bonds when a parent lost a job and they found they had more time together. The elimination of any distractions, any diversions, any activities, any rushing around from one program to another allowed for more interaction. I’ve heard from friends who have faced down loneliness by embracing a hobby and accomplishing something they never would have if they weren’t forced to entertain themselves for much of their time. I’ve heard from colleagues who, over the pandemic, tried new patterns of worship, new ministries of service, new ways of checking in with each other, which would never have happened if they were able to do what normally would be done.

What does the fog make you focus on? The Gospel lesson follows Peter, James, and John, as they climb with Jesus up a mountain, to pray, to talk, to plan, to think. Then they were surprised. They were unprepared for what they would face, what they would experience. They did not know what to say. They were terrified. And “a cloud overshadowed them.”

At any moment we can suddenly be surprised by something we were not prepared for. Many of those moments are terrifying. It can be difficult to find the words to measure the breadth of loss or fathom the depth of compounding grief, from losing one loved one to another, year after year, season after season. When a cloud overshadows us, it can feel like it has overshadowed all the world. But, as one spiritual guide put it: “When the world brings you to your knees, you’re in the perfect position to pray” (Rumi).  

At points, a cloud has made me feel like sleeping, declaring “Woe is me,” and closing my eyes to the needs of those around me. A cloud has often made me feel like running away. Recent clouds have made my colleagues, pastors of other churches, choose early retirements, or request leaves of absence. Any of us can confirm that clouds make so many of us irritable, impatient, ungracious and ungrateful, unkind and aloof. Maybe you can name someone like that. Maybe you’ve been that way, too, sometimes.

The clouds that have overshadowed us have been heavy and have weighed us down, so much so that we’ve struggled to stay awake. We’ve struggled to keep sight of God. We’ve struggled to see Christ’s glory. We’ve struggled to see our deliverance and salvation, our joy and our peace, our acceptance and belonging, our direction and guide, from one time to another.

But Jesus is there, whether we’ve closed our eyes to him or not. And in the cloud, God speaks. God’s voice can be heard, even amidst our disorientation and dismay, when we are overcome with fear and bewildered by the unexpected. God’s voice can be heard. To Peter, James, and John, God says, “Listen.” Listen to my Son. Listen to me. Listen to your teacher and rabbi.

And you and I, we can listen now. Listen to how the freezing rain crackles and scatters off the bare branches of the trees. Listen to the waxing and waning of a cat’s purring. Listen to the growing bird chatter, and listen to the chase that one squirrel gives to another. Because life abounds, even in winter.

Listen to the words of a loved one, and listen in the silences for the words she is wary of sharing. Listen to your own breathing, your own bones cracking as you shift positions in your seats, your own footfalls in the early frost to get the newspaper or to go outside with your grandchildren. Listen to the wind blowing and pushing between the hilltops and the trees, pushing against the walls of your home, wailing so hard that even the dreary clouds of winter, even the gloom of February, even the veil of dread and doom, might miraculously move, and you and I would look up to see the sun and the stars and the parade of planets once more. Listen to the wind. Listen to your breathing. Listen to God speaking to you through every moment of silence and in every flourish of movement.

When the cloud overshadows you, will you in that moment listen? Will you stay awake?

I pray you will. Amen.