The weather here has been pretty foggy the last couple of days.  Now, I am not complaining because I love the feeling of the air pulling close to the earth in a tight-wrapping hug and I like the way the misty air touches my skin and caresses the foliage.  Big diamond droplets of water cling tenaciously to the bare branches of the tree outside our kitchen.  My children will always comment that they feel like Narnia is close by when we experience the fog and I agree with them.  I half expect to see the shadow of lion moving in the veil – just out of my reach, yet not out of my vision.

This morning I awoke to the sound of a foghorn calling from somewhere on the coastline.  It was a low, deep call – calming with no sense of panic, yet a strong solid message of guidance.  I lay in bed enjoying the periodic sound allowing its reverberations to move through my body.   With each subsequent sounding, it became a call to my heart.

Over the past few months I feel like time has become crazy – my business, kids schedules, church, school, marriage, friendships, projects, and parenting all became a tumble-jumble mess and mix.  It couldn’t even be called “juggling” but rather more like tub of balls being dumped on me from above, some of them bouncing, others needing to be tossed in the air again and still others rolling away into some corner waiting for attention at a later date.  (I hope someone understands this illustration!)

But this morning, the foghorn became to me a distant call beckoning me toward Advent.  It signaled to me that there is coming a new season – one in which I am to enter by slowing down, waiting, listening, and even fasting.  In the midst of my foggy brain it became an directional compass, navigating me away from shipwreck on rocky shores and guiding me on to other harbors.  And as I listened, I found myself breathing in rhythm with the foghorn.  And so I long to breathe in sync to the rhythms of Advent.