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In 1803, an English pharmacist named Luke Howard forever changed the way we talk about clouds.
He helpfully suggested that clouds be classified into three groups.
Layered clouds he called stratus. Fluffy clouds he named cumulus. And the high feathery ones he labeled cirrus. More than 200 years later, meteorologists and schoolchildren alike still use Howard’s terminology.
In 1896, the International Cloud Atlas (there really is such a thing) determined that there ought to be ten classifications. The atlas has never seriously threatened to eliminate Howard’s terminology. But it unintentionally introduced a common English phrase.
The ninth entry on the ICA’s list of cloud categories is the plump, pillowy “cotton ball” clouds that dot the typical summer sky – a picture that elicits such a feeling of well-being or elation that someone can be said to “be on Cloud Nine.”
Clouds may look substantive. But there’s really not much to them.
Stanford professor James Trefil points out that an ordinary cloud, which may have the dimensions of several football fields, contains only about 25-30 gallons of water. That’s “about enough to fill a bathtub,” he reports.
Every time you stroll through a bank of fog, you’re in the midst of a cloud that for one reason or another hasn’t taken flight. Trefil observes, “If you walk 100 yards through a typical fog, you will come into contact with only about half a cubic inch of water – not enough to give you a decent drink.”
But think of the power of those few water droplets. They have the capacity to blind our vision, ground our air traffic, and even momentarily separate us from each other.
Spiritual fog is equally daunting.
When we can’t see God, or what God is up to, we can feel paralyzed. Everything stops. Such uncertainty definitely doesn’t feel like being on Cloud Nine.
The one thing we do know is that we now have two choices: We either can have a conversation with ourselves or a conversation with God.
Somebody is in charge of what’s happening to me. Either I think I’m in charge (in which case I have a lot of worrying to do), or I become convinced that God’s in charge.
Anxious fretting is a conversation I have with myself. “I have no idea how I got into this mess. What am I going to do now?” Prayer is a conversation I have with God. “Lord, I can’t see you and I can’t see more than a few steps ahead. What do you want to me to do next?”
The choice of which conversation we pursue on any given day is often made at the first moment of wakefulness.
Before our feet hit the floor we can pray, “Father, I feel utterly fogged in. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through these next 24 hours. But I’m so glad you’re in charge.”
With such simple words, the die is cast. We have begun the process of ejecting worry from the driver’s seat.
It’s also worth knowing something else.
Fog is no match for the sun. Even though it’s often declared that sunlight has the power to “burn off” a thick morning fog, it’s more accurate to say that when the sun-heated air and ground become sufficiently warm, the droplets simply evaporate. They vanish, quite literally, into thin air.
That brings to mind a vivid image presented by one of the Hebrew prophets: “But for you who revere [the Lord’s] name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its rays” (Malachi 4:2).
We may think we’re facing an impenetrable barrier. But the sunshine of God’s healing love and grace always shines through, revealing our worries to be the impostors they truly are.
Every day, the choice is ours. We can either talk to ourselves or talk to God.
Let’s talk to God.