Shortly before departing for my annual week of retreat, I met with my spiritual director to prepare for the coming days. During our conference, she advised, “Meet God where God wants to be met, not where you plan for it.” That message embedded itself in my mind as I departed to a place with a hermitage new to me. Due to the website’s description, I anticipated a lovely lake and serene days of absorbing beauty. But to my surprise when I arrived I found not a lake but a large field of oats in front of the hermitage. The “lake” I expected was actually a small marsh located by a ten-minute walk through a mosquito-swarming woods.
Once I gulped down my disappointment I turned my mind and heart toward what was before me. “Meet God where God wants to be met” kept echoing in my mind. The first time I sat on the porch and looked across at the turning-golden oat field I knew this was to be my companion, my mentor, my “field of grace” for the week. And it was.
Each day as I sat quietly and observed the field of grain, a beautiful sense of serenity and oneness took over my spirit. I watched how the breezes swayed the tall, thin stems as they ripened into an ever deeper yellow. One day a wild wind swayed the plants; they bent and bowed but remained standing tall and robust, thanks to flexibility, strong roots, and a bolstering closeness to one another. I became grateful for my roots, for what keeps hope and strength grounded within myself amid the challenging winds of life, for the strength I find in close friendships and the communal kinship of spiritually-alive people.
With each sunset I watched lengthening shadows move slowly across the field and saw how the oats remained the same whether in darkness or light. (Was I that content with changing patterns and moods in my life?) I noticed a metamorphosis going on for the oats as they simply surrendered themselves to change. As they did so, the protective husks once snug around the oat seeds gradually opened, allowing them freedom to fully receive the ripening sunlight. On the day of my departure, the field looked much thicker and fuller due to that opening. I could tell harvest was not far away. The oat field was ready to yield its matured grains of nourishment. (Was I that readily generous to give away what I held dear?)
As the days moved along, I recalled one of my favorite poems of Rainier Maria Rilke in which he writes, “I know that nothing has ever been real without my beholding it.” This is how I chose to be present in companioning the oat field—to behold, gaze, and contemplate it. In doing so, the oat field offered meaning to me. It became “real.” I recognized its qualities and growth as parallels to my own. Had I clung to my disappointment in not having the presence of the lake, I would have missed the significance of what was revealed. The oat field would have been just an oat field, not a companion of strength, not a mentor of letting go, not a teacher of acceptance, hope, and generosity.
We make plans for how we want life to go but what happens when those plans aren’t meant to be? I’m certain I’ll go on being challenged by this reality. Before I departed my retreat, I thought, I’ll come back here again for some writing time. But when I said ‘goodbye’ to the staff person, I learned there would be no more oat field in the future. A new building was to be built in its place. Looks like I’m going to have to make yet another adjustment…
Abundant peace,
Joyce Rupp
