Sometimes I go searching for peace in yoga, in bitter herbal tea sweetened with honey from back home. I look for it in beautiful crystals chosen carefully to help me name my intentions, in the sweet smoke of palo santo filling a room. I beg my spirit guides and angels to bring me to it. I strain my lungs, suspending the breath. If I can just hold on a little longer, just try a little harder, some sort of God will give me peace.
Sometimes, I forget that I don’t quite believe in God.
Sometimes, I almost fail to notice peace when it comes.
Sometimes, I pick up Henry from school, where I read a book to his class before we go. Henry’s classmates call me “Henry’s mommy” and offer me hugs and details about their busy preschool days.
We go to our favorite local coffee shop, where Henry has a popsicle with vegetable juice hidden in it and I have a pumpkin spice latte that is better than anything I’ve ever had at Starbucks. We sit outside a while, until Henry’s attention span becomes exhausted and we move on to explore again.
And life is good. And calm. And ours.
One year ago tomorrow, on Halloween, I entertained the notion of becoming a minister for the first time. The thought had literally never crossed my mind. It wasn’t even my idea – it was suggested to me by my own minister, and my entire being sighed with relief for finally having a name for the strange and persistent calling I have known for my whole life.
A few weeks later, a woman at my church suggested I help with a service one day. This inspired me to write a sermon just to see how I liked it, and there was no going back.
One year later, the calling remains, stronger than ever, as I await my admission decision for seminary. I live and work almost 500 miles away from what Henry now calls “the Tennessee church” and our family there.
Every morning, I go to what Henry calls “the Florida church” and light palo santo in my office. I try to remember to take a moment to center before I start my day. I try to channel St. Francis, whose statue stands in my grandmother’s garden and in the memorial garden of the church I serve, who keeps showing up when I take the time to see with my third eye. I try to become an instrument of peace.
I have found that I do not need a God to bring me peace. I am the instrument of my own peace – I create the melody of these beautiful, everyday moments for myself, with the gentle guidance of living angels, secular saints, and the deep calling in my soul that keeps the music playing on.
And it is well.
Wishing us all a Sweet Samhain & Happy Halloween.
Blessed Be.
More posts like this:
A Pagan Retelling of the Prayer of St. Francis
Glory, Hallelujah and the Universal Manager
Answering the Call
HP Rivers 