By Gilda Wray
⸻
I was on my deck before dawn again, watching the lake disappear into fog, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Habakkuk. This is what came.
⸻
The shadows stretched long across the waking lake.
Before I saw the light,
I saw what the light had touched.
A duck stirred.
Then another.
The water barely moved.
It came without permission or parade,
fog standing first above the trees —
then descending, almost imperceptibly,
like breath exhaled from the mouth of heaven.
Not falling, but folding in.
Not rushing, but arriving.
Soft and sure.
A veil without seams.
The sky and lake became one.
What was above filled what was below.
The boundary dissolved in silence.
I cannot tell where light begins,
or if the sun rose —
or if we rose with it.
But I know something holy touched the air.
It did not speak,
but everything whispered.
Even the stillness seemed to shimmer,
threaded with light too soft to name.
And without knowing when it began,
I found myself leaning forward —
not in body, but in soul.
Drawn by wonder to peer into what cannot be seen,
yet cannot be denied.
As if my spirit remembered something
the world has not yet revealed.
Glory not as spectacle,
but as presence.
Not with answers,
but with atmosphere.
Communion.
What will appear when the mist pulls back?
What waits behind what waits?
Or is the waiting itself the revealing?
The ducks drift on.
The veil remains.
And I —
I watch.
I listen.
I wait.
Undone,
and filled.
⸻
The fog became a teacher that morning.
And Habakkuk gave it language.
⸻
“For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord,
as the waters cover the sea.”
— Habakkuk 2:14
⸻
As Waters Cover the Sea
A Reflection
The sea is not covered by water —
it is water.
Every drop within it,
every wave upon it,
every depth and surface —
already saturated.
So when the prophet says,
“The earth will be filled with the knowledge of His glory
as waters cover the sea,”
he does not mean a layer upon.
He means:
everywhere.
Within and without.
Seen and unseen.
Rising like fog over the lake.
Filling lungs and light and silence.
Soaking through soul and sky alike.
This is how glory comes —
not always in brilliance,
but in breath.
Not crashing,
but covering.
A knowing that seeps into the marrow
until the very world is made of it.
Until you realize:
you are standing in it.
You are breathing it.
You are becoming it.
⸻
Journaling Prompts
1. When have you felt the presence of God like mist — quiet, unseen, but undeniably there?
2. What are you waiting for in this season — and how might that waiting itself be a form of revelation?
3. How do you experience God’s glory as atmosphere rather than answer?
4. What does it mean to be “undone and filled” at the same time?
5. What might appear when the mist lifts in your life? Are you watching, listening, and waiting with wonder?
⸻
Thank you for reading.
May the hidden glory around you become gently visible today.
⸻
© 2026 Gilda Wray. All rights reserved.