christmas cards on fire

redefining peace in a time of war

For my language sensitive readers, I’m giving you a bit of a warning. I use choice language in this post that may seem strong. That’s because it is. If you drink your coffee black, I think you’ll be just fine. Also, I describe some intense *things* that have violent overtones. Please know that what you’re reading is not a confession of domestic abuse. David and I are in the throes of loving a child with intense and mysterious needs. It’s a journey, and if you’re reading this, you’re on it with us.

Peace is a helluva thing. It’s a bit like pursuing happiness in the United States. Americans have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The pursuit. Ladies and Gentlemen, an active verb masquerading as a noun has entered the chat.

You see the caveat, right? Life and liberty are yours for the taking, but happiness? You gonna need to chase that dog down if you want it. Good luck. 

I recognize that my feelings can deceive me. They are not gospel, but I live in my body and I can tell you this: as of late, I have felt like pursuing peace has been more of a slog and less of a gift. If you grew up anything like me, then we were sold the lie that we were all just too blessed to be stressed. Someone out there has it worse than us, so why complain? And if we trust we don’t worry, and if we worry, we don’t trust (I literally have that last one framed, sitting on a shelf in my bathroom–don’t judge me, it’s a long story).

This last week we were invited into the week of Peace. I love Advent much like I love Lent. The “high holies” (as I like to call them) are an intimate time. There’s magic in leaning in each week and seeing what new life God is revealing. We have the opportunity to be refreshed and renewed. And in these meditative, quiet spaces, we can feel the presence of God drawing ever more near.

Or…

If you live in the back of a chaos wagon like I do, you can’t. hear. anything. There is no silence in my home unless everyone is asleep. The screaming starts at 5:45am and continues until morale improves (spoiler alert: morale rarely improves). When I talk to other parents about their daily life, there’s some overlap, so I often feel it’s ok to go into more detail, but it’s only a matter of time before I realize that some of the things I’m dealing with are outside the norm. WAY outside the norm. In these moments I realize that maybe I’m not just burned out–maybe my nervous system is actually shot and the dark, intrusive thoughts I have are from dealing with years of trauma.

So yeah, when the week of peace rolled around this year and it started with manic meltdowns and hours of screaming, I only had one response: F*ck this shit.

Where is God’s peace when you wake up in fight or flight morning after morning?
Where is it when tantrums become full meltdowns that last hours?
Where is that peace when you can’t form a full sentence without being hit in the face?When I can’t hear my own thoughts, how do I pray?
Where do you go when the missile finds your bomb shelter?

a swinging sam is a peaceful sam

I don’t think I’m supposed to fully grasp the peace of Christ if even his closest friends couldn’t understand it. I have a lot more compassion for the disciples than I used to. There’s very little of Christ’s ministry where they don’t stand back, mouths agape, and go “how did you just do that?!” So the last supper and the time just before his arrest is a bit like drinking from a firehose for them. Jesus does his best to be clear where he can, but is also vague at times. There’s only so much time he has left with them and he wants to give them everything, but he knows there’s only so much they can handle (or even understand) at that moment. In John 14 verse 27 he tells them:

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.  –John 14:27

Almost everything that happens to Christ after this moment is confusing and fear inducing. By the world’s standards. By anyone’s standards. We’re only human. We live in bodies. We can only see directly in front of us. The disciples were no different. But, the peace given to us from Christ is not as the world gives. The world gives spa weekends and meditation retreats. The world gives opioids and alcohol. The world gives Hallmark cards and Netflix binges. God bless it the world even gives noise canceling headphones. The world gives and it gives and it gives and it just isn’t enough.

This advent, I wanted the quietness of a sanctuary to meditate on God’s peace, and it’s just not happening.

…

I received a message from an old high school friend the other day via Marco Polo. As we caught up, I mentioned that I would be sending out my yearly Christmas cards soon and that this year there would be no letter inside of it. I told her I had typed an entire update about our family life, our move, the new church we had found, and at the last minute, decided to scrap the whole thing. While my letter didn’t paint life as perfectly rosy, it’s saccharin sweetness and cheery overtones didn’t feel authentic. I was telling her that instead, friends from afar would be receiving a card with a short greeting and a picture from my phone’s camera roll. I wanted to tell friends and family that we loved and missed them, but I couldn’t bring myself to glossing over what life is really like right now. This was the best I could do.

While my friend said she would miss my letter (the letter itself isn’t that special, but I have been doing this for close to a decade), she commiserated with me in not wanting to do something that wasn’t true to how life actually felt. Why tell everyone things are great when they aren’t? Why paint a Norman Rockwell when things look more like a Salvidor Dali? It’d be more honest to send a Christmas card that was on fire—but I feel the USPS wouldn’t appreciate that.

‘The Holy Family’ by Ivanka Demchuk. This arrived in our mailbox today from the Ukraine, where Demchuk continues to make art despite her country being ripped apart.

Maybe there’s steadiness in knowing that Jesus was the Prince of Peace when he was born in a dung covered manger and as he hung dying on the cross. I’m beginning to think that the peace of Christ looks a bit like a candle that stays lit even when the oil runs out. It looks like making art in a war torn country. It looks like having scars from self-inflicted wounds. It looks like wearing noise canceling headphones at 5:45am while bending down to lock eyes with your screaming toddler, letting him know you’re still there. It’s box breathing and holding the kitchen counter with shaky hands so you don’t pass out from an oncoming panic attack. It’s hoping that the darkness you’re in is not the darkness of the grave, but of the womb.

Guide us waking oh Lord, and guard us sleeping, that awake we may watch with Christ and asleep we may rest in peace.

Always,
Emily

Find more of Ivanka Demchuk’s art here.