Driving to an early-morning meeting, I see the break of dawn as upbeat music fills the car, and I feel energy running through my veins. Then, in a matter of moments, I drive through one of those Kentucky knobs; suddenly, I’m hidden in the fog that masks the risen sun. As a light rain patters my windshield, as if I’m in a time capsule, I’m a child, taken to Sunday School on one of those rainy days when I wished I could stay home. Then I break through the cloud, the sun bursts through once again, and in an instant, I’m ready for whatever’s next.
Feelings are like that, so often subject to what happens to us, from the weather to what someone might say to us. And I’m reminded that when we live our best, we live on faith, not on feelings. But feelings are so tempting to snare us that if we aren’t intentional, we will live in constant conflict, walking the tightrope between highs and lows: one compliment and we soar, one criticism and we falter.
It’s like the story flight instructors tell their students about the first time they fly into a cloud. Inside the gray, with no horizon in sight, the inner ear starts sending confident signals. You’re level. You’re fine. Everything feels normal. Pilots call it “the leans,” and it’s the danger of trusting your body over your gauges. A plane can be banking into a slow, tightening turn while the pilot feels perfectly steady. The instructor’s rule is simple, even if it goes against every instinct: believe the instruments. The feeling is real, but it is not reliable. Many a pilot has been lost not for lack of skill, but because the feeling was so convincing.
We are wise to heed Scripture, where Paul writes, “For we walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7). God’s Word is our instrument panel, the steady truth that doesn’t flicker when the clouds roll in. By faith we walk in it.
And notice that the Bible never pretends feelings don’t exist. The psalmist asks, “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me?” Then he doesn’t wait for the mood to lift. He answers his own heart: “Hope in God; for I shall again praise him” (Psalm 42:11). He feels the fog, names it honestly, and chooses to fly above it.
That’s not denial. That’s discipline. And it results in a strengthened faith.
Martin Luther is often credited with putting it this way: “Feelings come and go, and feelings are deceiving; my warrant is the Word of God, naught else is worth believing.”
I think that’s why the old song gets stuck in our heads. We do love to get hooked on a feeling. There’s nothing wrong with joy, with the lift of a good morning or a kind word. Receive it with gratitude. But don’t build your house on it, because the same heart that soars at noon can sink by supper if we live on feelings. Feelings make wonderful passengers and terrible pilots.
Which brings me back to that road, and that fog. Here’s what I know now, that I didn’t know as a child on the way to church on a dreary Sunday morning: the sun never left. The sun may be hidden for a few miles, but the road beneath me is as solid in the mist as it was in the light. Every cloud I’ve ever driven through has eventually ended, though not always as quickly as I would like.
So the next time the fog rolls in, whether it’s an unkind word, a disappointing response, or a sadness you can’t quite name, keep your hands steady and your eyes on the road. Trust the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Feel what you feel, but live by what you know. The light is on the other side, and you’ll break through again.