Not Only a Field (written by David Charles Kramer)

The field rests under God’s sky, quiet and unassuming, yet it proclaims His presence in every breath of wind. The grasses move together as though in a slow bow before their Maker, each stem part of a greater liturgy. Golden and green, they ripple like water stirred by an invisible hand, a living psalm that whispers without words: The earth is the Lord’s and all it holds. There is no striving here, no ambition. The field does not ask to be beautiful, and yet beauty overflows, because beauty is what God gives to His creation.

The sky above the field is a deep, faithful blue, carrying the kind of purity that makes the heart lighter just by looking. A few clouds drift slowly across its expanse, untroubled, never in a hurry. They are not heavy with storms, but soft and playful, small parables written across the heavens. One looks like a hippie hugging a tree—arms wide, head thrown back, as if even the clouds want to remind us that creation is meant to be embraced. Another, farther off, resembles a pair of open hands, as though heaven itself is cupped to hold blessings not yet poured out. They are jokes and prayers at once, simple offerings of joy.

Along the fence post at the edge of the meadow, two small birds perch. Their feathers are plain, but their voices are bright as bells. They call to each other in short, clean notes, their music rising and falling like a chant: not performance, but prayer. Their rhythm echoes the Kyrie sung in chapels across the world—Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy; Lord, have mercy. When they lift into the air, their wings catch the sunlight, flashing silver against the endless blue, like incense rising.

A rabbit moves slowly through the tall grasses, pausing, then hopping, then pausing again. He carries no fear here, for peace belongs to him as surely as it belongs to the field. His coat is the color of bark and shadow, blending him into the earth that raised him. When he finds clover, he lowers his head and eats as though receiving Communion itself—small bites taken as gift, each one an act of trust in the Giver. Even the smallest of creatures preaches a homily written in fur and breath: to live is to receive and to rest in the hand of God.

Then, on the wind, something stirs—a page, fragile and torn from a campsite Bible, drifting like a leaf. It lands among the grasses, trembling in the breeze, and sunlight glimmers on its words. The line is clear, as if heaven itself chose it: “Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.” The page rests quietly, yet the whole meadow feels changed. The words are not an intrusion but a revelation, a key that unlocks what creation has been saying all along. The birds with their songs, the rabbit with his clover, the clouds with their playful shapes, the grasses bowing in rhythm—all are works that spring from faith, life made into worship.

The Spirit breathes over the page, and it seems to sparkle, not with glitter that dazzles, but with the dew-like shimmer of grace. The field receives it as if it has been waiting for this confirmation: yes, what lives here lives in God; what grows here grows by His Word. A hush falls, not of emptiness but of fullness. It is the hush of Pentecost, when the Spirit came as wind and flame, but here He comes as gentleness, filling even silence with comfort.

The comfort is not human. It is not the satisfaction of a pleasant day or the relief of quiet. It is the comfort of the Father who made the field, the Son who walked through fields and called Himself the Good Shepherd, and the Spirit who hovers as peace too deep for words. It is not a comfort that can be described, only received. Even the dry grass seems to sigh into rest; even the green grass stretches with joy. The flies circle more slowly, not restless but reverent. The birds’ voices multiply—one becomes two, two become many—and their harmony is no longer distinguishable from the sound of the wind itself.

What rests here is the Kingdom, hidden but revealed, brought near just as Jesus promised: “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” In this field, the prayer is answered. The Kingdom comes not with thunder or armies, but in stillness, in blades of grass, in birdsong, in a page from Scripture carried by a breeze. Here creation leans closer, recognizing its Redeemer. The very soil breathes in the peace of the Spirit.

The clouds continue their slow procession, reshaping but never ceasing to smile. The hippie still hugs his tree. The open hands still wait to bless. Even their shadows across the field are tender, like soft veils placed over the earth. A rabbit curls himself into a half-moon of fur beneath the grass, his breathing steady, his trust unshaken. The birds hop along the fence post and glance upward, as though they too know the page lying in the field carries more than ink—it carries the same Word by which they were made.

Everything becomes sacrament. The grass where you sit, springing back when you rise, is a reminder of the Resurrection. The clover in the rabbit’s mouth is Eucharist given without altar. The page of James, trembling in the Spirit’s breath, is a sermon for all creation. The Father speaks through it, saying, I have created, and it is good. The Son is present in it, saying, I am with you even here. The Spirit breathes through it, saying, This is peace beyond your knowing.

You cannot measure such comfort. You can only allow it to rest on you as it rests on the field. Even when words fail, the field continues its hymn. And when you leave, it does not hold you, but it blesses you. The grass closes gently where you walked, the air follows you with its calm. The birds note your leaving, not with alarm but with the same prayer they sang before: yes, we see you; yes, we are here; yes, God is here.

And long after you have gone, the page will remain, still trembling in the wind, still shimmering with light. Its words will not fade, because they were written first in heaven: faith without works is dead, but faith alive fills everything with grace. The field will go on proclaiming this, minute by minute, hour by hour, until the end of time. And all creation with it will continue to groan, and sigh, and sing—waiting for the fullness of redemption, yet already tasting its beginning here.

This is not only a field. This is the Kingdom coming near. This is heaven’s comfort spilling onto the earth, so deep that even the rabbit, even the fly, even the dry grass and the cloud shaped like a hippie hugging a tree know it. This is the Father’s gift, the Son’s companionship, the Spirit’s embrace. This is blessing made visible.