During my childhood, I would often run into the field which sat behind my parent’s house. It was where I could pray and hear that still small voice. I wish I could say I had lovely, lavish prayers that were worthy of my God, but in truth they were more along the lines of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. I would scream up at God, begging Him to make my life go the way I wanted. I wanted all the bullies to disappear and nicer clothed to appear. I wanted my height to shrink and my popularity to blossom.
Often I would wear myself out walking through the tall weeds during the long distance between my home and the pond at the back of the field. When I would get to a certain spot, I would stop and lie in the grass and weeds and watch the wind whip them back and forth as I observed the insects crawling around me.
This is a painting of my memory of those times. Where I would feel the heat rise up around me and breathe in the taste of the Kansas prairie dirt loosened by the wind. In this place I would find peace after a good brawl with God. In the stillness, God would soothe my soul.