Go in Peace

I’m sitting in my living room, watching the remnants of a tropical storm pass by my picture window.  The rain and the wind are both violent and cathartic.  There’s something beautiful that happens when the weather matches your mood. 

The wind calms.  The rain keeps coming.  My neighbor is standing on his porch, holding his baby girl.  I am intrigued.  At first I worry.  Is something wrong? After a moment, I realize that they are dancing in the rain.  Did I ever do that with my children?  No.  Why didn’t I ever dance in the rain with my babies? 

My babies aren’t babies anymore and there’s a pandemic that’s shifting everything I thought I knew. I’m simultaneously learning all there is to know about myself and understanding less and less about the world around me.  

Is this just midlife? 

Is it midlife during a pandemic? 

The rain gusts.  The wind shakes the house.  And then… nothing.  The sun is shining again.  All is calm.  What is happening?  Why can’t we have just one thing at a time? 

Huh.  I guess the weather matches my mood more than I realized. 

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At some point, I’ll gather my thoughts coherently enough to write a post about returning to teaching during a pandemic.  As those decisions swirl in my brain and around my community, I’m trying to put them aside to focus on a few things that I can actually control.  

Well, really just one thing.  Because there is only one thing I can ever control.  

Me.  

That’s it.  The rest is just illusion and nonsense.  

I can control my thoughts, my behaviors, my actions, my habits, my reactions. 

Nothing more.  

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Since March, I’ve taken the time to focus on developing better habits.  I’m sleeping more.  I’m writing more.  I’m eating better and moving more.  I’m being deliberate about friendships and connections.  I’m trying to be more intentional and attentive with my kids.  I’m reducing stress and focusing on joy and doing a whole bunch of really cool stuff.  I’m setting better boundaries.  My yesses are more enthusiastic and my nos are firmer.  I’m trying new things.  I’m stretching myself in ways that I can control.  Life is stretching me in ways that I cannot.  

I don’t think it’s just me.  Didn’t everyone start this whole quarantine thing baking bread and planting seeds and slowing down a little?  Didn’t we all get rocked by a newfound awareness of injustice?  Didn’t we all have to find some meaning in it?  Aren’t we all trying to be better people?  

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I read a book recently that was written by an Anglican priest.  Having grown up in the Episcopal Church, I was pulled into nostalgia by her references to traditions and prayers from my youth. 

At the end of Sunday worship, the final line was always, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I hear those words and my heart settles.  But the author pointed out our tendency to think of our love and service in terms of big ideas and lofty ideals.  As a child, I know I did.  I thought that meant to volunteer and feed the hungry and build homes for the homeless. 

Now in adulthood, the writer reminded me, that love and service winds up looking a lot like the mundane bits of time that compose a life.  Does that make it any less valuable?  Can I love and serve the Lord by washing dishes?  Can I love and serve the Lord when I’m checking my email or driving to the doctor or pulling my kids off screens yet again?  Of course I can.  

And I’ve begun to use this as a mantra.  Go in peace.  Breathe.  You are loved.  You are not alone.  Peace be with you.  Go in peace to love.  Love your kids.  Love everyone’s kids. Love your neighbors.  Love protesters.  Love police.  Love sinners and saints and love people you don’t understand.  Go in peace to love and serve.  Serve your friends and your family.  Your elders.  Those in need.  Those who don’t seem to be in need.  The lonely.  The marginalized.  The weary.  The joyful.  Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  

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All of these lessons are crashing in on me.  Does it even matter if I’m becoming better as the world around me is falling apart? 

The rain comes down in sheets again.  The wind whips through the trees.  It’s terrifying and exhilarating.   

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It’s such a cliché.  Dancing in the rain, I mean.  But as a metaphor, it works… obviously.  That’s how we get clichés, after all. 

We don’t have the power to control the storm.  But peace doesn’t come from control.  Control is a tempting illusion.  Real peace comes from faith.  Faith in whatever form speaks to you.  Faith in yourself.  In your relationships.  In your community.  Faith in God or the Holy Spirit or Mother Nature or whatever you believe in.  So believe in something.  Inhale grace. Go in peace.  And if you still can, dance in the rain with your babies.  You won’t regret it.