“Here I am, rushing around, but you’re so peaceful.”

“You give me peace and energy.”

Completely separate from each other, two friends told me these words in one day.

Later in the week, I had an English lesson with a new student for the first time. We were telling each other about ourselves, and I said that I am not a nun even though some people think I am when they see my veil. Further, I love the Bible and Jesus–that Jesus is my hero, and I try to live like He did. Except that when I hear myself say that, I cringe because it sounds so audacious.

Then my student volunteered an observation: “I like how you are happy when you talk about Jesus. I think it should be this way. Most people look angry and sad when they are in church. That’s why I don’t go anymore.”

It seems to me that those conversations and observations are connected. I am not by nature placid or serene. There are many things that deeply distress and anger and unsettle me. I don’t live in utopia; my life is wonderful but not perfect or without storms.

The peace my friends saw wasn’t something I concoct.  Which is a good thing because otherwise it would be limited to about as long as my cup of coffee lasts in the morning.  The best thing about  God’s peace is that it’s beyond, higher than, and superior to logic. It’s something I can’t put words to, can’t explain, can’t even quantify except to say that it’s bigger than anything around me–anything that would otherwise discombobulate me.

What my friends see as peace is actually like me being wrapped in a thick fuzzy blanket. I think it has something to do with Jesus being my hero. He keeps me from going to pieces.