Going to the fields and coming home fast

During the last couple of weeks, I have been asking God how I should be spending my time. Should I be doing the laundry? Drawing up a budget for raising beef cattle? Teaching more exercise classes?

The only clear answer that I have felt in my heart has been, “Go to the fields.” I have heard this call periodically for over a decade, and I am never sure what to do about it. On Saturday, when I heard it again, I asked follow-up questions. “So, God, should I work on the beef budget because that has something to do with fields? Should I should turn down the invitation to teach another exercise class?” My follow-up questions are usually unproductive, but on Saturday, I heard an unsatisfying answer. It was something like, “You are making this way too complicated. Just go outside and hang out in your fields.”

That afternoon, I climbed a maple on the west edge of our shelter belt. The wind was strong on my back, and I draped myself along the length of a long, arched branch. I smelled the melting snow in the dried leaves and tried to soak in the mysterious evening colors of the winter sky. I told myself that I was soaking in some kind of light that might grow inside me to help light the world.

For the next three days I stayed inside, marveling at how easy it is to dismiss the quiet promptings of the Spirit. If someone asked me what I would want from heaven, I would tell them that I wanted a chance to stand surrounded by fields and trees and to listen with my soul to the music that rises up from them. Even with God asking me to do just that, I filled my days with "more important" work and stayed inside.

Late Wednesday night, I went out again, carrying a bucket of compost as if my mission were purely practical. After emptying the bucket, I strolled across our dark southern field to our property line, where the neighbor's corn still stands. I expect he will harvest it in the spring, as is his custom. The crunchy snow sparkled like the stars in the sky, and I stood in it waiting for my second sense of hearing to kick in. My second sense of hearing lets me listen to the song of trees, and plants and fields. Sometimes I have to wait for a while before I am blessed with it, and sometimes I wait for it in vain.

A gentle breeze from the west began to rustle in the dry corn. It sounded as though the whole field were suddenly alive and moving, and as my second sense of hearing kicked in, I became aware that the corn harbored no warm feelings for me. It wasn't exactly hostile; it was just wild and focused on other things. My heart started beating fast.

At that point, a coyote howled, and it didn't sound too far away. I sprinted towards the house, forgetting that I was running over the earth that Ian had plowed up for next year's garden. Our clay soil was turned in ridges that were frozen as hard as concrete. I tripped and went sailing into the air before crashing down with my thumb squashed underneath me. As I wriggled around on the ground in pain, several more coyotes joined the eerie song. I scrambled to my feet again as and limped to our back door. Standing safely in the doorway, I listened to the wild yipping and moaning and howling, trying to appreciate it. I couldn't. I know coyotes are God's creatures, and they wouldn't hurt a person, but they scare me beyond reason.

Inside, I found that my thumb was basically okay, but my shin and knee were impressively bloody. Looking around my quiet family room, I found more compassion for myself for spending the last few days inside. When God asks me to do something, even the simplest thing, I can never predict what lies ahead. It is not in my control, and it is not really about me. Staying inside, surrounded by my illusion of personal power, feels much more comfortable.

It lacks glory, though.