How do you walk through fog?

During my dad's last months, the question I kept coming back to was, "How do you watch a sunset?"  That question pulled together all the helplessness and beauty of those months.  Tears, quietness, worship, gratefulness, mostly just stillness, that seemed to be the only way to respond to that question.

Now I have a different question.  How do you walk through fog?

Grief feels like a fog. 

But why?

And what do you do about it?

Do you just quote some random scripture to try to cut the fog out of the way?

I was thinking that maybe grief feels like fog because it is more than just missing someone and being sad that they are gone.  There is something inside me that is gone as well.  There has been a strike at my own identity. That got me thinking.

If your wife, dies, are you still a husband?
If your husband, dies are you still a wife?
If your child dies, are you still a father?
If your father dies, are you still a son?

I remember dad wrestling with his new identity after mom died. "Widower" was not a word that he liked. It sounded like a person that you wouldn't take very seriously, someone you wouldn't want your children around too much.

Yes, we are mostly defined by our relationship to something or someone else, and death strikes a blow at that identity.

I remember vividly the first time I said good-bye to dad for the last time (I said good-bye on three different visits).  Dad's last words on that visit were, "You are a good man."  There were tears streaming down his face. And now there are tears streaming down mine just thinking about it. It was a holy moment not unlike the voice from the clouds as Jesus was baptized.

But now as I wonder through the fog, those words are fading.  Who am I now?  Am I a good man?  I don't feel like a good man.  At least 5 times a day I feel like cussing someone out.  My family is feeling abandoned.  No one would want to know the random dark thoughts that go through my head.  I don't feel like a good man anymore.  I feel more like a man on an ash heap, scraping soars with a potsherd.  I want to run to Montana by myself and never come back.  Perhaps Bellview is in my future.

Dad's last words to me seem like a distant echo.  Does he still believe it to be true?

The fog says no.
The world says no.
What does God say? 

Not sure.

All I see is fog.