She's making banners these days. Flying them from mantels and window frames. Little paper cutaways embellished with color and love. They are filled with Christmas cheer, the regulars, you know, joy, hope, peace. She says it's therapizing [sic]. I won't argue with her--we find rest in the mundane and the strange, we take it where we can get it.

She asked me what mine should say and there was an easy answer: peace, it should say peace. My illusive friend, my favorite fruit of the spirit and my middle name if I could have chosen myself. Sometimes when superlatives are the topic of the conversation, peace is what they say about me. But I think perhaps I try too hard, it covers my person, but doesn't infiltrate my soul. It comes out of my mouth, but doesn't plummet my heart.

There are questions, to be sure, questions without answers. There are deep searches happening around here. Spelunking the cave of my heart and of His Word--staring hard enough at the evidence that I'm sure that answers will appear and I will pack and go. I am not a fool, though, and I know well enough that at the end of every day and every question and every feeble failure, what we are left with is often just Jesus and not peripheral answers or palpable principles or peace. No alliteration intended. But further in, further on, in that chapter of roadmaps and wherefores and Whos and whens, there's a blip about peace, the sort the world can't give. And I'm hungry for that.

I know I find my peace in my circumstances, my homes, my colors and my books. I know that should I need a moment, I can shut the door on the world and the rain and the demands. But in the end, peace leaves before I do.

Because peace isn't meant to be found--it's meant to be given.

And may peace rain down from Heaven
Like little pieces of the sky
Little keepers of the promise
Falling on these souls
This drought has dried
In His Blood and in His Body
In the Bread and in this wine
Peace to you
Peace of Christ to you
Rich Mullins: Peace