January 6, 1982: Wednesday: 2:45 p.m.
I was determined to find the Bluff. It was mid-afternoon when I left the Retreat House and set off down the lane, the path my Spiritual Director had told me to follow in order to reach the site overlooking the ancient banks of the Mississippi River, which once flowed by what is now Grand Coteau. The Jesuit community had built a summer house there. It was merely a large porch with its four sides open to the cool breeze of a bright Louisiana day. I had been assured that the view would be spectacular, and the surrounding fields would provide a welcomed peacefulness.
I climb over the style at the end of the path and cross the road to continue along it, hoping that this is the way my Director had meant me to follow. I cross over an animal grill in the road – one I assume had been placed there so horses and cows won’t wander across from one field to another.
There are, indeed, horses in the field I’m walking by. I become concerned whether they’ll chase me. They seem so large. I remember Deb and her love of horses. If horses wouldn’t hurt a little girl, why should I be afraid? Besides, isn’t God with me? I pass a small group of cows, too few to be called a herd. There is still some trepidation. I remember the cow that once chased me when I was 10 or so – and the gash I got in my leg as I made it over the barbed-wire fence. Nevertheless, I go on, past the little shack with the dog watching from the porch, until I reach another fence; this time there is no style. This can’t be the way to the Bluff. I retrace my pathway back to the main road. The dog, cows and horses go unnotched. I’m merely pleased to be here.
I walk along the paved road until I come to the Duchenne Girl’s Academy and turn down the road there, still searching for the Bluff. I pass some stables and outbuildings. The road seems to end. I retrace my steps. I think I detect a bit of annoyance within myself. I focus on the trees and wildflowers.
I pass the playgrounds for the Academy, and, in the distance, I see the swings and a single teeter-toter. The girls are nowhere around. I head for the teeter-toter. An elderly gardener sees me. He may wonder what I’m doing there, but when he appears to glance at the Bible and journal I’m carrying, he says hello and goes back to his work.
I spread my jacket on the teeter-toter and, lying on the inclined plane, begin to relax. Perhaps, this is where I should meditate. Without warning, drops of rain fall from the clouds which had gathered without my really noticing them. I think of sprinkles of holy water and of tears. I’m pleased. The drops increase and I decide to move on.
The shower stops. I’ve reached a double line of old oak trees. They head back in the direction of the Retreat House. Perhaps I should go home. I walk down the aisle of trees. They make a complete canopy above me. How good it feels. It seems as if I’m entering the nave of a cathedral build by God, Himself. The thought warms me.
I reach the end of the aisle. A fence is in front of me. There is no style. I wonder what I should do. I see that some bushes, which, with their dying, have pressed down part of the barbed-wire fence. I gingerly make my way over it. The field I enter appears green and glorious. It invites me. I walk to its center, determined that this is where I must do my next reflection. I know it is to be on the Psalms.
I spread my jacket on the ground; beside it I toss the flannel over-shirt I’ve been wearing. The sun is once more out. I begin to compose myself. Yes, what better place to meet God. I read Psalm 8 in its entirety. It seems so fitting here. I’m pleased again. I decide to read it out loud. I do. I decide to chant it, in my own style. I begin. I reach the line: “What is man – “and manage to complete the verse. I lie back to pray. Nothing happens. I try to re-focus, to relax, to feel the sun and hear the wind.
What comes to me is a concern, not only about my lack of prayer, but also my physical location. The sky becomes cloudy again. How will I get out of this field? Suddenly, it seems immense. I feel both lost and trapped. I decide I must leave. The exercise suddenly seems hokey to me, reading the Psalm out loud. Even being so sure that this field was the perfect place to read it, to meditate. To call God to me. What presumption!
I’m angry with myself. I’m also sad. I’m contrite. And I’m also scared. I tell myself that this not where God wants to meet me. He has something else in mind. Some other place. I gather up my jacket, flannel shirt and books and head across the field. I feel more lost. Just as I had been about to turn back, I recall that I had seen a girl across the field, toward the far side. Now I am wishing that I’d seen how she had left the field.
I come to the far fence. No style there. No breaks. Only barbed wire. I turn to the left toward a line of trees, thinking that they mark a way, and a style will be there. There is none. I follow the fence. I pass the place where I had entered. I do not want to go that way; it’s in the wrong direction from the Retreat House. I continue to follow the fence. Still no break. How did that girl leave the field?
Finally, I see a place where the wires seem to be pulled apart. I know I’m too heavy to climb over a barbed-wire fence. Not with the fragile poles I see supporting it. It’s been too many years since I’ve crawled through a fence. Finally, I make my decision. I’ll try it. I put my jacket back on. I pry the wires apart and just manage to get through. I’m in another field. I can see the Retreat House in the distance. But there is now another fence in front of me. I’m hot, tired, frustrated. I’m angry with God. I want to blame Him for the predicament. I tell myself that He didn’t get me into this state of mind. I did it to myself.
I wander along the fence looking for a passage. There is none. I ponder different routes. I angrily set off across the field, more hot, tired and annoyed with God than ever before. And, as I walk, I begin to hear that little voice inside my head. It says: “Do you really trust me? Has all of this been an intellectual game? Do you really trust me?” I answer that I don’t know – I may even say it out loud I want to trust Him. I want to pray for His direct help.
All of this seems, then and now as I write this reflection, so very ridiculous. The field is not all that far from the Retreat House. Intellectually, I know I’ll get back but emotionally I feel trapped, lost. I can’t believe that this is some kind of testing. Surely, He doesn’t really work this way. And all the time, I perceive the voice asking: “Do you really trust me?”
I see a yellow butterfly.
Although I do not cry, I want to cry. There are no tears, only a complete awareness that I do trust Him. I walk across the field and follow the butterfly directly to the place where someone has removed part of the fence. I know, as I walk toward that spot, there would be a passage. And as I walk, my pace slows down. I had been fearful. I’m no longer afraid. And when I do come to the fence and see that opening, I’m not surprised. My feeling is one of expectancy. It’s almost anticlimactic. I cross into the final field toward the Retreat House.
I feel emotionally exhausted. I am sad that I had doubted. It’s not so much desolation as a lack of consolation. I see patches of small, purple-red blossoms. Having passed them, I go back and pick one and put it in my buttonhole.
I reach the last fence, climb over the style there, and sit in the chair nearby. It is here I begin this writing. Drops of rain blur the page. I pick up my books and head to the Retreat House. I’m sitting now in my room. I’ve taken the flower from my buttonhole and hold it between my fingers in front of me as I write this.
What does it all mean? I’ve recorded what has transpired. But can I really write of the fear I had, of the sense I had of being tested? And If so, did I pass the test? I was scared. The reasons do not seem to be valid ones on a rational basis. I really was not in any danger. But I felt that way. I was asked to trust. I did.
One side of me says it’s all a charade. And the other side says that what I experienced was real. I felt lost. He asked for my trust; I gave it to Him – and He led me safely home.
Does one have to be lost in a big way – lost at sea, for example, or can you feel lost in your own back yard, so to speak? And right now, as I write these lines, I do feel at peace. I seem to conclude that if I felt lost, I was. And if I trusted in Him, I did. And it doesn’t matter how big the example might be. Nor how small. My peace is on the verge of happiness. The heck with this written reflection. I’ve got to pray.
(4:00 p.m.)