Tonight I’m struggling to hold onto this truth as I awoke suddenly from a bad dream that brought up flashes of time against my will, things I must daily bury deep at the foot of the cross.

Tonight I must hold fast to the truth that peace is something that Jesus brings where there was a storm. Wreckage. Pain. Destruction.

He didn’t heal the well. He didn’t set free people free. He didn’t clothe and put in a right mind the well-dressed and sane. He didn’t give sight to the seeing. He didn’t tell calm seas, “Peace! Be still.”

Would we even have a concept for the peace of Christ if we had not experienced the whirlwind of suffering, in whatever form it might take, whether that be sickness, loss of loved ones, injustice, mental anguish, loss of trust in a person or entity, abuse of any kind? We would not.

We would mistake it for plans coming to fruition, success, ease, comforts, lack of trials, family unity, plenty, placid waters, knees unscuffed by desperate prayers. Who of us have not labeled such times as blessed? How easily we deceive ourselves.

Hearts that are stayed on Jesus only truly find out what true peace is when they awake from the howling, battering night and find they are still safely lashed to the mast of the ship that is carrying them through each tempest.

Just as there may be some wounds that never heal until all things are finally and fully made new but they can still in this life be redeemed, so there is a peace that is both a precious gift that is given and one that we must cling to for dear life. And the wonder is that after every storm the strength and beauty of that peace shines ever brighter, the beautiful one to whom the broken weary heart clings. The beautiful Savior

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