STILL RUNNING IN THE FIELD
Some freedom returns quietly, one step at a time.
Truckee. Hobart Mills. My sister Jeffrey’s place.
Jasper Stone stood in the open field, surrounded by wild grass, pine air, and the kind of quiet you do not manufacture. You receive it.
He is thirteen now. My life companion. My service dog. Named after the jasper stones in Scripture.
So when I saw him standing there in that field, still moving through open ground, something in me paid attention.
He is not young anymore.
Neither am I.
But there we were.
Still in the field.
Still breathing mountain air.
Still moving.
Still here.
DEDICATION
To the Holy Spirit, for all He continues to do in me — refining me, pressing me, shaping me, strengthening me, and carrying me through the seasons of life I would not have chosen, but could not have survived without Him.
To my wife, Marty, who walks each step with me side by side. Sometimes lifting. Sometimes pulling. Sometimes steadying what pain, age, and exhaustion try to weaken. Her presence has been one of God’s faithful mercies in my life.
To my sister Jeffrey, who continues to offer more than a place to visit. She offers an environment, a sanctuary, and open ground where we can come with our dogs, breathe again, receive the blessing of time together, and keep bringing God back to the center of all of it.
And to the reader, who may find something in this Spark that stirs a question, awakens a memory, softens a hard place, or helps them see something a little differently than they did before.
SCRIPTURE
“For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb.” — Psalm 139:13 (NKJV)
“He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” — Philippians 1:6 (NKJV)
“Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it?” — Isaiah 43:19 (NKJV)
THE HOOK
I thought I was taking a trip back to the pines.
God knew He was showing me what had survived.
THE STORY
There are places that hold more than memory.
They hold evidence.
Truckee has always done that for me. Hobart Mills. My sister’s place. The trees. The open ground. The dogs running like they have been released from every rule except joy.
But this trip carried a different weight.
For years, age, extensive surgeries, exhaustion, and pain had been working on my body and speaking to my confidence.
Not loudly every day.
Not dramatically every moment.
Just steadily.
You may not get back there.
You may not drive that far again.
You may not walk those woods again.
You may not stand in that field and call altitude life instead of limitation.
Pain has a way of shrinking a man’s map.
Not all at once.
Just one surrendered distance at a time.
A road gets too long.
A walk gets too uncertain.
A hill gets too expensive.
A place you love becomes something you remember instead of somewhere you return.
That was part of the reckoning.
This was not just a trip.
It was a return.
Marty drove ahead of me. The dogs were split between vehicles because there was too much life for one car to carry. Pine trees lined the miles like old witnesses. The Sierra Nevada opened wide, and my sister’s place came back into view — tucked away in the kind of country where the forest breathes with you and neighbors are measured in miles.
And something inside me cracked open.
Space.
Quiet.
Breath.
Memory.
Joy.
We had not been sure this trip would happen.
Honest truth — we had not been sure I could make it.
But there we were.
Marty with that joy in her eyes that carried more than happiness.
It carried relief.
The kind of relief a wife feels when she has watched her husband fight long and hard for a moment most people would not even think to count.
Jeffrey glad to have me back in those woods again.
The dogs moving through the field like creation had been waiting for them.
And Jasper Stone, my old faithful companion, standing in the open ground.
THE MOMENT
That is the part that stayed with me.
Jasper in the field.
Not performing.
Not posing.
Just being.
Thirteen years old now, with a lifetime of miles in his body and loyalty in his bones.
He has been with me through seasons I still do not know how to explain. He has been beside me in the room when pain was louder than words. He has walked with me when walking was not simple. He has traveled with me, waited with me, watched over me, and given me the quiet companionship that does not require explanation.
And now there he was in the field at Hobart Mills.
Still moving.
Still alert.
Still Jasper.
I watched him, and something in me got quiet.
Because I understood him.
He is aging too.
He is carrying his own seasons too.
And somehow, watching him move through that open ground felt like watching both of us receive a small mercy from God.
Not a loud miracle.
Not a dramatic rescue.
Just a field.
A dog.
A man.
And enough strength for the moment in front of us.
THE TURN
That day, I took a walk in those woods.
A small walk by most standards.
A monumental one by mine.
There were seasons when I wondered if simple things like that would ever return. To walk without fear. To breathe mountain air. To watch my dogs sprint through God’s creation. To feel the burn of elevation and call it life instead of limitation.
That night, God met me in the exhaustion of the day.
In the ache.
In the burn.
In the quiet victory of one sentence:
I made it.
Then, at 12:03 AM, I woke up.
One word was there.
Gestation.
Not a word I had been carrying around.
Not a word I would have chosen for a field, a dog, a drive, or a walk in the woods.
But there it was.
Gestation.
And I understood something.
God had not just brought me back to a place.
He was naming what He had been doing in me all along.
THE DRIFT
We usually want restoration to look like arrival.
A clear breakthrough.
A strong body.
A clean answer.
A door flung open.
A before-and-after that makes sense to everyone watching.
But much of God’s work does not begin where people can see it.
It begins hidden.
Beneath the surface.
In the quiet.
In the pain we did not choose.
In the limitations we had to reckon with.
In the nights we wondered if the old strength was gone for good.
In the small decisions to keep trusting when nothing looked finished.
That is gestation.
The hidden life before the open field.
And maybe that is why the word landed so deeply.
Because I had spent years wanting to know what God was restoring, when He was restoring it, and how much of my old life I would ever get back.
But maybe God was not trying to give me my old life back.
Maybe He was forming something truer.
Quieter.
Deeper.
Less dependent on strength.
More dependent on Him.
THE REFLECTION
Jasper helped me see it.
That is what faithful companions do.
They do not always explain the lesson.
Sometimes they just stand in the middle of it.
There he was, in the field, still moving through the season he was in.
Not the dog he was ten years ago.
Not untouched by age.
Not pretending time had not passed.
But still present.
Still free.
Still alive in the open ground.
Maybe Jasper did not have to run for the field to still be his.
Maybe I did not either.
I think God was showing me the same thing about myself.
I am not the man I was ten years ago.
I am not untouched by pain.
I am not pretending the surgeries, exhaustion, limitations, and age have not cost me something.
They have.
But cost is not the same as defeat.
Weariness is not the same as being finished.
And hidden formation is not the same as absence.
Some freedom returns quietly.
One step at a time.
One drive at a time.
One field at a time.
One breath of mountain air at a time.
One old dog standing in the grass, reminding you that life is still moving.
WALKAWAY LINE
Not everything God is growing in you is ready to be seen, but that does not mean it is not alive.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
What if the season you thought was only limitation has also been formation?
What if God has been doing something deeper than giving back what you lost?
What if the field you are waiting to run in is not behind you — but ahead of you, prepared for the moment when what He has formed in secret is ready to stand in the light?
MY PRAYER
Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the quiet places where You meet me without noise, performance, or striving.
Thank You for the pines, the open field, the breath in my lungs, the strength to return, and the mercy of being able to stand again in a place I was not sure I would reach.
Thank You for Marty, who continues to walk beside me through every season — lifting when I am weak, pulling when I am weary, and loving me through the parts of the journey most people never see.
Thank You for Jeffrey, for the sanctuary she continues to offer — the open ground, the quiet woods, the welcome, and the gift of family time centered back on You.
Thank You for Jasper Stone, my faithful companion and service dog. Thank You for the years he has walked with me, watched over me, traveled with me, and waited with me. Thank You for the quiet loyalty that has carried more than words ever could.
Thank You for every animal You have placed in our care and along our path. Protect them, strengthen them, comfort them as they age, and let their presence continue to remind us of Your gentleness and Your faithfulness.
Father, forgive me for the times I mistook hidden formation for absence.
Forgive me for measuring Your work only by what I could see, feel, or explain.
Teach me to trust the gestation.
Teach me to honor the quiet work.
Teach me to recognize the field when You bring me back to it.
Guide the direction I am headed. Keep refining what You are forming in me. Keep pressing me through the seasons of life with Your hand on my heart, my words, my steps, my family, my animals, and the work You have placed before me.
For every reader who feels hidden, delayed, weakened, limited, or unsure if life still holds open ground for them — meet them gently. Let something in this Spark awaken hope, stir courage, soften fear, or help them see their own season through Your eyes.
Remind them that silence is not abandonment.
Waiting is not wasted.
Weakness is not the end.
And what You begin, You complete.
Let us keep moving with You.
One step at a time.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
ABOUT G~
G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.
If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.
G~