My blog is titled paz. That’s peace in Spanish for those of you like my loving father
who don’t understand the beauty and simplicity of google translate. If I, a
person of far too many words, had to choose one word, it would be paz. OK, I need to choose two words. Love and peace. After all, “the final
word is love.” Love is that divine,
all-consuming goodness that has the power to transform everyone and everything.
It is all I am and all who I can be. (If of course I give God an inch of wiggle
room to work in me. Still very much working on that.) If love is the final
word, the what, then I think peace is the how. It’s my dream,
my hope, faith and charity. It’s my dream—for myself, for my brothers and
sisters, and the world at large. Peace is how I hope for this dream and where
God leads me. I wait in good faith, with the peaceful trust that my prayers
will be answered. I know the peace of
being at home with God like I know a good friend. It’s the peace of sharing
a good beer and good conversation with a great friend. Peace is my charity. It
is how I love. Like the disciples were sent forth to bring peace into each
household they enter, I am also sent forth to bring good news. That good news
doesn’t come forth in my words. (We’ve covered how I have issues with words
sometimes.) God asks me to sit, eat, drink and stay in each household I enter.
I’m a peacemaker. However, it has taken me quite some time to learn that God
and I have this peacemake’n deal going on (this covenant). I wasn’t the gal
given the peacemaker necklace in pre-K.
All
this is getting to the point that I want to write about peace. But here’s the
thing. Just like I know peace, I also
know the insufferable impatience for which Teilhard de Chardin wrote his
prayer (“Patient Trust”). I know the restlessness that St. Augustine has helped
so many of us name. “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you, Lord.” I
know the leg-twitching, list-making, mind-spinning utter impatience. I know the
uneasiness that precedes its arrival, and I know the desire to cast it off like
Dumbledore’s army fighting the dementors. “Get this shit out of my house.” I
know that restlessness. I can even see the restlessness: when I check my agenda
10 times a day, tear through the dvd cabinet, read two chapter of every book on
the shelf, wash copious of laundry. However, the state of my laundry basket
suggests that last symptom may not be so terrible. It’s the smallness of the
restlessness that’s insufferable. Merton wrote that which makes me feel better.
I guess he also felt like he hadn’t yet reached the level of Teresa and Therese
who knew the joy of suffering. The smallness is so frustrating because it
doesn’t stop us. We’re just restless.
We’re just impatient. I still teach
my classes and do my chores. I still smile and laugh and live. I keep going.
Sometimes when I don’t encounter a foot-stopping, breakdown-making event, I
forget to stop myself. It is totally possible to live with restlessness.
I
won’t take this time to write about how we idolize our schedules and
productivity. Far smarter people have already done that. I just wanted to take
a page to write about the other side of paz.
I wanted to speak to my embarrassingly normal experience. I still struggle to
find a good exercise routine and still eat one too many cookies. I still hit
snooze in the morning. I worry if I say and do the right thing.
I
still struggle to love and be a pacemaker.
I still get up each day and try again.
For
our closing song at the chapel in my neighborhood, we often sing Santa María del camino. And
I mean often. It’s a simple song, which I believe is why we sing it. (We don’t
have any musicians or a choir.) However, like many of the songs sung in mass
here, it is the simplicity of the words that allow them to enter right into
your heart and speak to your soul. The refrain says, Ven con nosotros a caminar, Santa María ven. Come with
us to walk, Mary; Mary, come. But my favorite part (which I sing loudly,
enthusiastically and off-key like all the other grandmas in mass) is the second
verse.
Aunque te digan algunos
que nada puedes cambiar,
lucha por un mundo Nuevo,
lucha por la verdad.
Even
though some people tell you that you can change nothing, fight for a new world.
Fight for the truth. Fight for the truth. I like the
sound of that. It sounds like my dream, my faith, hope and charity. It sounds
like my call to be a peacemaker. It also sounds big and bold and a little bit
intimidating. But just as the restlessness is frustratingly small, peace is
miraculously, wondrously small. The world-changing truth is that we still get
up each day and try again. We’re all fighting for the truth the best we know
how. Now that’s something worth getting out of bed to go see. So I turn off the
snooze button, put on my teacher clogs and try again. I see little kids deeply
concerned with playground justice. I see teachers trying their best. I see
parents working hard. I see a lot of failure too—on big and small scales. I see
it all, the world turning and turning, and I thank God I get to participate in
the good fight.
I see how I’ve
grown, but I also see how much more there is for my to walk. While standing
with the impatience at the trailhead and wishing I was on the mountaintop, I
pray for the courage to give God my hand and let Her lead me out into the
gracious darkness and miraculous wilderness. With the Graces of hope, faith and
humility, Santa María and I walk out together
singing. We witness miracles.
