A Precious Peace

Far away in the depths of my spirit tonight
Rolls a melody sweeter than psalm
In celestial-like strains it unceasingly falls
O'er my soul like an infinite calm

Peace, peace, wonderful peace
Coming down from the Father above
Sweep over my spirit forever, I pray
In fathomless billows of love

-Warren Cornell, 1899

Whatever measure of peace I have is precious to me, but I don’t say that I’m proud of it. Maybe I don’t want to take credit for something that - although I worked hard for - I don’t fully understand. So instead of saying I am proud of my peace, I’ll say that I am grateful for it. It is precious to me. I do not take peace for granted because I am all too familiar with its absence.

Maybe peace is precious to me in the same way that a harvest is precious to a farmer. He did the work, but there are aspects of the whole process that are far beyond his control, and maybe beyond his understanding. So he does the work. He waits with expectation. Ancient mysteries unfold in unseen ways, and if the harvest comes, he is grateful. But he dare not take it for granted. Lean years are excellent teachers.

So it is with me and peace. It doesn’t exactly feel like a gift, because I fought for it. Peace isn’t something that magically appeared, like migraines and anxiety in my 30’s. In some sense, you might say that I bought peace… the purchase price being untold hours in the therapist’s chair, valued in mileage and copays. And in that sense, I acknowledge that my peace is at least partially the product of privilege.

Peace is there every day, if I choose it. My closet is full of clothes I’ve not worn in years. Every morning in the pre-dawn darkness, I put on a company logo shirt and khakis. I probably don’t have to wear the logo shirt, but it makes me identifiable around the place. Besides, I don’t think my favorite Kikkoman soy sauce shirt conveys professionalism. Every morning as I’m putting on my work shirt, I must deliberately choose peace.

There are certainly other attitudes in the arsenal each day. I could choose to be jealous of those whose lives look easy and perfect. But after 20 years of listening to people and their problems, I realize that very few lives are easy or perfect. I could choose to worry about things beyond my control. I could be angry at perceived injustices. I could saddle myself with crippling regret, or wallow in nostalgia.

But I do something like my best each day to clothe myself in peace, to protect myself from myself. And to protect myself from the pirates of peace, those who seem so hell-bent on plundering it simply for the sake of destroying it. I have no time for them, those who choose anger and retaliation, score keeping and fear. They are the bullies and tattle-tales who got taller but never grew up. They grew in inches, power, and influence, and yet they choose to live below the poverty line of peace. Let them be. And mute them.

Every week I am confronted with death and desperation, with pain and poverty. Almost daily I talk to people who long for a better prognosis or some resolution that may not arrive. I want them all to flourish, whatever that means for them. I wish peace for them, too.

I am omnivorous when it comes to peace. I crave it and consume it. I clothe myself in it. I curate it and love to share it. If you’re willing to search for it, you’ll find that it’s not far away because it’s been there all along. Peace lingers in books and music, a silenced phone, art, a well-executed sauce, or a September sunset. Life is way too short, or way too long, to live below the poverty line of peace.