A Field of Flowers

Last time I wrote about how Jesus came into that basement bedroom in my prayer, scooped me out of the bed, and set me into a field of flowers, where we then stood silently side by side. The field was vast and spacious, with nothing but blue sky, gentle sunshine, and flowers as far as my eyes could see. I love to go back to that place with Jesus in prayer whenever I have a chance. As I have thought and prayed about what all of that meant through the years, I’ve realized that Jesus took me out of the room because it was no place for a child, and so He must have set me in the field of flowers because it was.

When children are thrust into an adult world, and made to do adult things and make adult choices, by necessity, they leave a child’s world behind. They might still be in lots of situations with other kids with opportunities to be carefree and play, but they view and experience those situations differently as a new lens or filter has been snapped into place. If I brought one of my kids to a vast, spacious field of flowers on a beautiful sunny day, I don’t think they would stand silently at my side. Rather, I think they would walk if not run around exploring, maybe chase some butterflies, but at the very least, they would smile, engage in conversation about what they saw and felt, and maybe even invite me to explore with them.

As I stood in that field with Jesus that day, I had either forgotten how to give myself freely to my surroundings and play, or I was too wounded or weary or untrusting to speak or move. Based on my experiences of abuse, any of those explanations would be understandable, but I saw my awareness of it as an invitation to step into and live out of the freedom that was already mine, having been rescued and carried to freedom in the arms of Jesus. And so I began to go back to that field in prayer, asking Jesus to help me walk and even play with freedom. At first just looking at Jesus and returning his smile seemed like a big deal, and then pretty soon my hand rose to meet his as we began to walk. Now I can run and even do a perfect cartwheel, which is clearly a God-thing, possible for me only in prayer!

When I pause to think about the years of my childhood that were lost to me, I feel grief at the loss of time that I can never recover and relive, and at the weight of memories and heaviness left in its wake. But, one of the things I love, and in which I find the greatest hope, is that God is my eternal father, my Abba, or Daddy, and so I am forever his child. I, as God's child, have eternity in which to relearn how to run and play in the freedom that he provides, while he looks on with pure delight, thrilled to see my little girls’ heart being healed and restored to wholeness in Him.