The Field

Over time, there is a language that is developed in everything you encounter in life. You might see it in those around you, an understanding that needs few to no words. When I am upset and find myself longing to sit with God, He has but one phrase: “to The Field”. I don’t know how The Field came to be. It has been many colors, many storms have passed over it, many tears have been shed there, but most importantly, that is where God is, that is where we dance. In this field, when I have been distant from Jesus, when I haven’t been listening or taking the time to know His every thought and move, I find myself looking around it. It is nothing special to look at. The grass is dry, yellow in color, and tall like a pasture that has never been grazed. There is a big tree growing in the left side, a little bridge on the right with a tiny stream trickling under it without water and a gravel path that peters out from the bridge and becomes lost in the knee-high rushes.

Sometimes I have to stand here in this field for a moment before I realize why I am here: to see Jesus. Often times, I don’t realize He has been approaching or is standing in front of me until I have looked everywhere but at Him. It is strange The Field never changes, or at least not in a way that matters. The grass is just grass, the tree just a tree, the bridge, only a bridge, yet they catch my attention and distract me even if just for a moment from Jesus. I wonder if they represent life and all that is good, but still distracting from Jesus Himself.

How I greet Jesus is a matter of how I am with Him. If I have just received the Sacrament of Confession, we dance and dance and dance without time, without a worry or word. I know He loves me and I know He wants me to just be with Him and it is easy to do this. Sometimes when I go to The Field, I can hardly look at Jesus; can hardly stand to have Him look at me, but I can’t bear to leave either. He asks me what is in my hands and like a shameful child I pull them from where I have hid them and slowly open them. I show Him what I have done to myself and my soul. He opens His arms, though I can see I have hurt Him. Sometimes I cannot go to Him until I have forgiven myself. Sometimes, even when I go to Him, I can feel the distance I have created between us. He is love. He is always beckoning me to close my self-inflicted gap, to be as close to Him as I can, but I have to forgive myself and ask for His forgiveness. He is much more merciful than even I am on myself. It is always me who is the last to give in, the last to love more, the last to give my all. I am always the weak link, but if I really think about it, I wouldn’t want to be the strongest link because only He can carry my weight. =)

My Dance

In the beginning it was not so! This blog was going to be called “God Only Gives Good Gifts,” and though I could talk on about how everything God sends out way is a gift, it seemed like I was limiting my perception of God to what He gives yet God offers more than just good gifts: He offers a dance. Dance has no limits; no bounds. It is smooth and flowing though sometimes it is composed of halting, seeming disarray. It requires listening, feeling, and seeing. It is in harmony with music when it is not making its own, and it often takes collaboration on more than one part. Dance is endless, ageless,  and its expressions are countless. My life-dance, my dance with God, is sometimes filled with harmonious music, sometimes disarray and syncopated halts. Sometimes it makes sense to me in the midst of it all, but sometimes it only makes sense in light of the big picture. The pattern is always expressive, but it is ever-changing from  joyful to sorrowful, sensible to senseless, peaceful to chaotic; duet to solo.

Sometimes my life, like dance, can be beautiful when it is a solo, but sometimes a solo tells the saddest, loneliest story. Even when I feel that I have been casted as a soloist, God is still with me. In my solos it is not my strength that fuels my footwork, but His. It is not my feet that keep moving with the music, but His. In those times, He carries me, flows through me, protects me; loves me.  In our duets, He guides me ever so gently so that an observer might think we were actually dancing in tandem: two minds fully aware of the next step, when actually it is I who am standing on God’s feet allowing Him to guide mine.

Our dance is ageless. No matter when Mr. Right or loved one cuts in, how many solos I have to bear through, or how old I get to be, I want God to guide my steps always. I want to step to His beat, feel His rhythm, see His choreography come alive in my life. I want to wrap my arms around His neck and lay my head on His heart. I want to leave all my worries at the edge of the stage knowing they will take their entrance in due time. I want to be guided by my Father through every halt and leap, sway and twist. With God as my guide and inspiration, I want to dance!