peace.

I may never experience this again. I may experience it to a degree, but never fully. At least not like I am now. Or then again, maybe I will. But I’m not betting on it. No, no… I don’t bet on something like this happening twice in my lifetime. Not because I’m a pessimist. But rather because it’s just that good and that unique. If it happens again, it will be different. I will be different. My life will be elsewhere. So this is a one time pass through with my Father. His Grace has made it possible. Without it, I’d be in pieces.

I could argue that I don’t have any immediate “circumstantial” reasons to be at peace. (Or rather, I have lots because one look at my life in comparison to a girl my age in Africa completely skews my point). However, by way of heartache on various fronts, a season of sowing, loss, and the great unknown, how can I sit here and exclaim peace…and actually mean it? And I’m talking, really mean it.

How does one explain the verse “Peace beyond understanding?” We all want it, right? But how can it be attained? Or can it even be “attained?” It doesn’t happen through osmosis (though sometimes I wish it would), and it certainly doesn’t happen over night. Prayer helps. Prayer works. But, really, how do we get that kind of peace? It seems too lofty to even imagine it. And when we pray for it, do we believe we can get there? And even more, do we realize that to have such a peace, “a peace beyond understanding,” means that we must be in the midst of a life, of circumstances, that inherently will not bring us peace. The peace God brings will always run counter to what we are experiencing (like pain). Peace within pain.

I don’t think we recognize that when we hope for such peace, it’s probably going to come at a time when life’s happenings don’t point to peace at all.
Or here’s a better question, how does one explain that verse when it actually becomes something very real in a person’s life. A person like me. Peace that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. And I mean what-so-EVER. I’ve asked for it flippantly my entire life. And when it came, it came like a raging wind and a gentle whisper all at once. The coupling of two extremes. One; so powerful, so transcendent, and so consuming. And the other; so intimate, so sweet, and so personal. Just like my Father.

The peace rages within me. Can peace rage? In my case it can. That’s when it turns into Joy. The kind that overflows. Peace so full it can’t sit in the calm and quiet anymore. It has to get up, stand on its feet, and rage with Joy. And that is when we dance…that is when we laugh. Laughter. One of God’s supreme gifts. I found myself welling up just yesterday over an image God gifted me out of nowhere. I saw it in my minds-eye, as vivid as if it were standing before me, and wham, tears! They came immediately, in a way I have never experienced before. And I haven’t cried in weeks. As they fell down my face, with the image in my mind and the pain in my heart, I started to laugh. Out loud. I have no clue why. I was all by myself, working late. Then I began to laugh at the fact that I was laughing at nothing. Who does that? Tears and laughter at the same time.

One of the greatest paradoxes of my heart lately: to experience a painful ache so deep, while simultaneously laughing at that same depth; laughing so hard and so often.

The paradoxical duo has cleansed my soul in a way that only Jesus can. When I prayed to “laugh at the days to come,” I remember really, really wanting it. Still do. Of course, when praying for it, I didn’t count the cost of becoming “her.” And I haven’t arrived; never will this side of heaven. But I can without a doubt say my prayers are being answered. And in all the pain, how can I go back on who I've prayed to become? I cannot. I have come too far to turn back now. My heart cries out for it. My God deserves it. And my future family does too.

Now I get it. Rejoice! For this is the day the Lord has made. Rejoice and be glad in it. Not much else makes sense, but that. And finally, that is enough. Nothing else matters. Not to me.

(I’m thinking if I put things in italics, you will get the point more readily as to how supernatural this is. I don’t think its working. Like I said, words don’t do, italics will have to).

I close my eyes and I’m elsewhere. In my room, but not “in” my room. I’m surrounded. The love is thick. The gentle whisper comes. “Be still, don’t say a word.” I open my mouth to tell Jesus thank you in all my gratitude. (And yet thinking, “Wait, my pain is so deep, shouldn’t I be forcing myself to say thank you?”) But the thankfulness seeps out, uncontrollably. I can’t not thank Him. He tells me again, “Be still, don’t say a word. Not even a thank you.” So I sit with him. In my body, but out of my body. Apart of something else. Supernatural. I can literally feel the warmth in my inner being growing inside of me.

My soul is walking on water. Cleansed by laughter. Floated by peace.

I don’t say much of anything to God lately. I don’t hear his voice all that much. I’ll go hours and days without sitting down and dialoguing with him, thanking him, or requesting of him. At first I felt guilty, wondering, shouldn't I feel anxious for such a lack of words? But no…this is a silence only best friends can stand. Immanuel has a whole new meaning. “God with us.” God with me. He goes wherever I go and as often. He is nearer and quieter than he's ever been. His presence is felt in the raging Joy and the whispering Peace. It's like I’m walking 2 feet above ground. Levitating. In the earth, but not of it.

External circumstances haven't changed. Yet hope still stands firm on the grounds of confusion and loss. And faith...faith that is seeing everything in light of God's governance for Good.

Unreasonable, unbelievable, illogical peace. Existing within the pain and within joy. Grounded and founded on a deep, steady confidence that God will be God…no matter what.