(This is part of a series of posts: one, two, three, four, five, six.)
I want a peaceful soul.
But there is a God. Holy, to the hilt. And we have very little in common on that ground. And there is a part of me that cannot do anything but war against this God. I do not say this lightly. But truthfully.
When I am not warring with him I want peace with him. That fathoms-deep peace defying understanding. I want the peace he has already declared as a reality. But only sometimes.
I want to put down my weapons that defend. And offend. I want that. So my soul can taste something of this peace. But I’m bloodthirsty.
I’ve been reading Merton. He talks of this peace and I got excited, though scared because he’s Catholic. He fell in love with the peace inside monastery walls. But that is geography.
But I hear nothing of places of peace in Paul or Peter or Jesus. The soul at peace with God retains it though the walls cannot. Though they fall around and upon, still. But scarred stands.
This peace is strong in a world of hard hearts. The pushing against the organ with it’s blood pumping is painful. A world’s worth in my chest. But it chisels away.
This peace is fixed under the weight of a used-up cross and an empty tomb. And is the the dew sitting light on the lawn. But to nourish hard ground.
Echoes and Stars 