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. =)