O Peace.

When I came home from London I wrote about peace attending me. It was a phrase I had heard in a lullaby: "Sleep, my child and peace attend thee, all through the night." I loved the idea that peace was active. It was alive and working on me. Peace wasn't passive, it was aggressive. And then, frustratingly enough, I lost it. I didn't know how to hold onto it, or let it live in me. I wanted it; I asked for it; but I felt as though it had slipped through my fingers, or run away when my back was turned.

These past few weeks though, peace has come attending again. I glimpse it through the windows. I hear it in my choir. I feel it in my slippers and taste it in my tea. I look down and I'm holding it in my arms. O Peace. You're right in the middle of these hard things. I am still so uncertain and insecure. Life isn't stopping and things are spinning and spinning. But Peace is holding my hand, reminding me everyday of my undeserved blessings.

Peace is found walking around a Farmer's Market, holding Henry's little hand, feeding him little kiwis. Peace is his ridiculous adaptation of that favorite American pastime and his silly boy laugh and his short lived exclamation, "Holy thin apple!"

Peace is this new and surprising gift I've been given. It's late nights and new housemates and someone who is just mine. O Peace. Living in my house. Driving in my car. Attending me, all through the night.