When was the last time you experienced peace?
This question was recently posed to a group where I was in attendance. The speaker asked for volunteers to share.
As I wrote the question in my notebook to ponder later, I felt the gentleman beside me shift in his seat. I could smell his cologne as he raised his hand; he smelled of pine and tobacco. I had yet to notice him, and when I did, he was nothing like the man I had pictured based on his scent. I was expecting someone older, and I imagined him wearing classic black business pants with a white button-down shirt. Perhaps he would have hands that looked leathered due to years of fishing or hunting. I was wrong on all accounts except for the white button-down shirt.
The man beside me was older, but not older than me. He wore loose-fitting tan linen pants with a drawstring rather than a belt. His white button-down shirt was made of the same material and was partially tucked. The only thing leathered on him was his brown sandals. His skin was a rich olive with yellow undertones that gave him a bronzed glow.
As the presenter pointed at him to speak, he looked at me briefly before wiping his hands on his pants and raising his voice toward the stage. I saw a flood being restrained behind the misty teal color of his eyes, and despite his voice being controlled and calm, I sensed he was holding himself together with an unseen force greater than any dam.
“There is no expression of peace in my life. None,” he said. “I cannot give you a last time because I’m uncertain if I’ve ever experienced a first time.”
I felt the stares coming upon him, and I instinctively wanted to shield him from their darting eyes. The man’s voice began to crack as he continued. I knew the dam was about to break.
“I moved to this country when I was 17. I was so happy to be in America that I cried for three days. I came to the United States because it was known as the land of the free. I had the imagination of a teen and soon discovered that I would have to take on the responsibilities of an adult to survive. I had no one when times got tough. No one to call. No family.”
“How did you feel during that time?” the speaker asked.
“Tricked. Like a fool. I left my parents and culture because I felt controlled. I came here and realized I was controlled once again, but this time with bills, illness, and poverty. The only difference was that I was now alone. My burdens were mine to carry with no help.”
I looked closer at the man speaking beside me. The face of his gold watch covered the width of his wrist, and he wore two rings encrusted with diamonds. His fingers and toenails were buffed and polished with a clear coat, and his coal-black hair was styled with pomade that gave a light luster to each thick wave. There was nothing about his appearance or vernacular that communicated poverty.
“And how do you feel during this time in your life?” the speaker asked.
The man paused, and in his silence, I felt his struggle. I reached and put my hand upon his arm. He looked at me, putting his hand on mine, and squeezed it firmly before speaking. “The same. The bills have gotten bigger, I’m in chronic pain, and despite my wealth, I worry that it could all be taken away with one nod from God.”
“What drives you to continue?” the speaker asked.
“Drives me? Fear. Fear of what would happen if I stopped showing up to work; if I stopped picking up my mail and dry cleaning.”
“What do you fear would happen?” the speaker asked.
The dam broke. His eyes flooded, and he wept. I watched a grown man grieve, shedding tears to reveal the vulnerability of a scared boy. Catching his breath, he said, “I fear I will die alone, and no one will notice my absence. That my life will be meaningless — that I’m meaningless. What is the point, you know?” He looked at me. “What’s the point?” he whispered.
“What is important to you now?” the speaker asked.
“I don’t know anymore. Whatever I thought, I was mistaken.”
“How do you know you were mistaken?” the speaker asked.
“Because I have no peace,” he said.
When these final five words escaped his mouth, an emptiness echoed through the room, touching all who related to this man’s pain. A palpable sadness sat like an uninvited guest amongst the crowd, and I was not surprised when the gentleman did not return after the break. He left, but the effects of his honesty remained for the rest of the conference, leaving us all feeling a little more exposed.
When I returned to my hotel room, I grabbed my bible and looked up John 14:27: “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.”
I stayed with this verse, repeating it over and over aloud, allowing His Word to expose any emptiness that I may have been ignoring or looking to the world to fill.
When was the last time you experienced peace?
When do you feel most peaceful?
How can you continue to express peace within your life?
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.
