The town where we live celebrates Halloween in a big way. On Halloween eve, we made our way up the hill, dogs in costume, to a street where the homeowners turned their front yards and porches into something spook-tacular, rivaling what you might only see at Disneyland. The event was big enough for the local police to block off the road and hold their own little fundraiser selling bottled water, and if that weren’t proof enough that this was a big deal, they even had port-a-pots at the street’s end.

There were intricately carved pumpkins, projected images on homes, sound effects, lights, and even a fog machine, for cryin’ out loud. With the lack of street lighting combined with the fog machine, lots of people, and the distraction of artistic Halloweenery, our group found it hard to stay together. I was following someone I thought was my husband, only to realize that it was someone I didn’t know. About halfway through the milieu, my husband went missing, apparently following someone he thought was me.

We couldn’t see where we were going, which probably makes sense to you, given my brief description of the festivities. So we were making our way down the street, knowing that we would probably meet up at the other end and that we always could text if the mountains didn’t disrupt our cell service. Because we were confident that we were safe, we could enjoy the cloud of fog (some thought it smelled like grilling chicken or sausages), along with the sinister and spooky décor.

We couldn’t see where we were going, but we knew we were going to be OK. And sure enough, my husband was waiting for us at the street’s end, so all was well. Sometimes in life, we can’t see where we’re going, but if we can trust that we’re OK, we can enjoy the beauty without seeing much farther than the next step.