Field of Trust

I live across the street from a nature preserve. Once a year they bring in goats for weed abatement and I look forward to this week with real anticipation — the kind that has me watching out the window for the truck to arrive. There is something special about these goats. They are funny and stubborn and completely unbothered by anyone's opinions about them.

This year the shepherd made arrangements to let me be inside the fence when he opened a new section for the herd. The first morning I stood in the middle of it all — camera up, heart pounding — completely unprepared for what came through that gate. Fourteen hundred goats, a living, bleating, glorious, slightly terrifying wall of them, not slowing down, parting around me like a river around a rock. I stood there laughing, completely undone. It was magnificent and overwhelming and I could not see much beyond the sheer volume of it all.

So I sat down in the field, camera at their level, still and quiet, determined not to miss what I had been too overwhelmed to see during the stampede. What I did not expect was that sitting down in the middle of a field of goats would teach me something I thought I already knew about trust.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths." — Proverbs 3:5-6 ESV

The first thing I saw was the shepherd — not watching dramatically, not calling out, just quietly working at the fence while the goats moved around him and past him, completely absorbed in the excitement of the new field. Not one of them stopping to notice what he was doing on their behalf. He had told me earlier, almost as an aside, like ordinary information, that he is always working two sections ahead. Before the goats need it. Before they can see it. He is already there, clearing the path, preparing what they cannot yet see. And when they come through he stays — closing the gate behind them, making sure not one is lost, not one wanders back to where they have already been.

I felt that information land somewhere quiet and convicting inside me. How often do I run straight past the One who has already prepared everything I am standing in? The goats trusted the shepherd completely — not because they understood what he was doing, but because they knew him. That is the difference. You do not have to understand the plan to trust the One who has it.

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope." — Jeremiah 29:11 ESV

Come walk the field with me for a moment — and see what I almost missed.

The weeds were tall. The kind that close over your head if you let them. Some of those goats had simply disappeared into them — you could see the weeds moving, hear the rustling, but the goat itself was gone. And sitting low and still in the middle of it I saw something I had completely missed from my standing height. Wildflowers. Everywhere, purple and yellow, growing right in the middle of what everyone else was calling weeds. I was surprised by how many there were. But I had to get low to see them. I had to stop trying to see above the field and trust what was right in front of me.

“He [God] makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul." — Psalm 23:2-3 ESV

I realized at this moment that God does not wait for the weeds to clear before He plants something worth finding. The beauty is already there. But sometimes you have to get low enough — and trust enough — to see it.

I stayed as still as I could, not wanting to move, not wanting to miss anything. And the whispers in the field kept revealing themselves. Some of those goats were already butting heads first thing in the morning — I recognized that too — but my favorite moment came when “she” caught my eye. Standing straight up on her hind legs, fully committed, stretching for what God had placed above her. Perfectly good weeds at ground level, easy and right there. But this goat wanted what was higher. I had to put my camera down.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth." — Psalm 121:1-2 ESV

When did I stop reaching for what God had placed above me?

Here is what I realized sitting in that field. I can have my head above the weeds and still miss everything — because my eyes are looking straight ahead into the overwhelming middle of it all. It is not until I look up that I can see what is actually above the chaos. I was never truly above it by standing in it. I only get above it by looking up from within it. That morning in the field I saw goats do both — get low enough to find the wildflowers and reach high enough to find what was above them. And I thought about how rarely I do either. How often I just stand in the middle, head above the weeds, telling myself that is enough. And then I realized — the answer was never complicated. No struggle required. No figuring it out first. Just — look up.

And then the moment that stopped me completely. Two goats, foreheads pressed gently together, eyes soft. I had almost called it conflict. But sitting at their level, in their world, in that golden light, I saw what it actually was. Tenderness. Not everything that looks like a struggle is a struggle. Not every hard place is a place to escape. Sometimes the most trusting thing I can do is stay low and still and let the Good Shepherd show me what is actually happening right in front of me.

"Be still, and know that I am God." — Psalm 46:10 ESV

God is with me in the middle of it. Not just on the other side of it.

Once the goats overcame being skittish about a stranger in their field — and sitting at their height I was not exactly towering over them — curiosity took over. Some began drifting back toward me, not directly, nothing so obvious, putting their heads down and eating and drifting a few inches closer, glancing sideways, looking away, drifting closer again, pretending with great commitment that they were absolutely not interested in me. I recognized every inch of that movement. The slow drift toward something not yet fully assessed, arriving somewhere you never intended in increments so small you did not notice each one. In this case they were drifting toward me — harmless enough. But drift does not always lead somewhere safe. Trust is a choice. Drift is what happens when you stop making it. And drift always has a direction — are you moving toward the Good Shepherd or away from Him?

I have drifted further than I meant to more times than I want to admit. And I went into that field thinking the fence was about containing the goats — when it turns out it was about something far richer. Every section of that preserve is different — some have logs to climb, some have a creek to cross, some have a steep hill to navigate down and back up again. A smaller field means you actually discover everything in it. The fence does not just keep the dangerous things out. It keeps you in exactly the right sized space for what you need to learn in this season. And when the field starts feeling thin and crowded, when the best growth is gone and things feel a little lean, there is still enough — still the shepherd's care, right up until the moment he decides it is time to move you forward. He does not open the next gate before you are ready for what is ahead of you. That is not withholding. That is wisdom. That is the kind of care that asks you to trust what you cannot see yet.

The second move was bigger — under a bridge and across to the other side of the street, more unfamiliar, more pressure. Before that gate opened I watched the shepherd send his dog to the outside of the fence, positioned directly in front of where the goats were already beginning to press and push against it. The dog did not bark or drive or push back. He simply laid down on the other side of the fence and looked at them. That was enough. The goats stepped back. The pushing stopped. The pressure eased. And in that quiet space — created not by force but by presence alone — the shepherd had room to work.

I have been thinking about that dog ever since. About what it looks like when the Holy Spirit — God Himself — positions His presence between me and the thing I am pushing against before it is time. Not always felt as a presence inside the chaos. Sometimes working from the other side entirely. Still undeniable. Still calm. And somehow that presence alone is enough to make me step back and settle — not because I was forced, but because something in me recognized the authority and trusted it.

"But when He, the Spirit of truth, comes, He will guide you into all the truth." — John 16:13 ESV

Sometimes trust looks like stopping my pushing long enough to let the Holy Spirit guide me.

When that gate finally opened it was narrow — not so tight that only one could enter, but narrow enough that there was no confusion about where to go. One clear opening, and all those goats who had been scattered across the whole field suddenly had one point to move toward. Not one of them went through alone. The whole herd pressed together and came out the other side, all of them, not one left behind.

"I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will go in and out and find pasture." — John 10:9 ESV

And on the other side the shepherd was there. He had not called out or waved dramatically — he simply showed up at the fence line. And those goats — the same ones who had stampeded straight past him when the first gate opened, who had spent the morning bumping into each other and disappearing into weeds and creeping sideways toward strangers — turned and ran to him. Full speed. No hesitation. They knew him. Not his truck, not his uniform. Him. The specific familiar presence of the one who had been faithfully preparing their next field before they could see it, working quietly at the fence while they ran past him.

"I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me." — John 10:14 ESV

And standing there watching them run to him I thought about the One who made the log and the creek and the hill in the first place. Who planted those wildflowers in the weeds before anyone knew they would be needed. Who has been watching quietly the whole time I thought no one was paying attention. Who is always working further ahead than I can see — not just two sections, but into eternity itself.

That is the Good Shepherd.

There were moments in that field I recognized in myself — the running past the Good Shepherd toward the next exciting thing, the missing what is right in front of me because I was too overwhelmed to see it from standing height. I was not above the chaos. I was just standing in the middle of it with my eyes straight ahead. Sometimes I feel like a goat. But I am not. I am His sheep, still learning what it means to trust the One who knows me, still learning to come back on purpose, sit down, get low, and look up from the middle of it.

And if any of this sounds familiar — if you have been standing in the middle of your own field with your eyes straight ahead, telling yourself that being above the weeds is enough — then this is for you too.

Trust when you cannot see. Trust when you do not understand. Trust when the answer is not right away. Trust is not a feeling. It is a choice — made in the middle of the field, not on the other side of it. And when the chaos feels like it is closing over your head, you do not have to get out of it to find what is above it. You just have to lift your eyes.

The Good Shepherd is not distant. He is not aloof. He is already two fields ahead of wherever you are standing, preparing what you cannot yet see. God plants wildflowers in what you are calling weeds. He works quietly at the fence while you run past Him. He sends His Spirit to stand between you and the thing you are pushing against before it is time. The Good Shepherd has been patient — standing at the fence line, waiting for you to turn around and run to Him. Full speed. No hesitation.

So come back. Sit down. Get low. And lift your eyes.

"The Lord will keep you from all evil; He will keep your soul. The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore." — Psalm 121:7-8 ESV