Peace is our gift to each other

I write this sitting by the fireplace, savoring the dancing flames. The Advent candles are lit, and Silent Night is playing in the background.
A settled stillness. And deep breaths for this gift of enough. Smiling about the magical power of this season, soothing, uplifting and inspiring, whether you are “a believer” or not.
“At Christmas, time deepens,” John O’Donohue reminded us. “The Celtic imagination knew that time is eternity in disguise. They embraced the day as a sacred space. Christmas reminds us to glory in the simplicity and wonder of one day; it unveils the extraordinary that our hurried lives conceal and neglect. We have been given such immense possibilities. We desperately need to make clearances in our entangled lives to let our souls breathe. We must take care of ourselves and especially of our suffering brothers and sisters.”
Letting our souls breathe. Indeed. And taking care of ourselves and one another. Exactly.
So, every Christmas I make time to read (or watch) Hope in No Man’s Land.
The setting is Christmas, 1914. World War I—raging for only four months—had already become one of the bloodiest wars in history. Soldiers on both sides were trapped in trenches, exposed to cold and wet winter weather, covered in mud, and susceptible to sniper shots.
On December 7, 1914, Pope Benedict XV suggested a temporary hiatus of the war for the celebration of Christmas, asking “that the guns may fall silent at least upon the night the angels sang.” Powers that be, said “No”.
And yet. On that Christmas Eve in 1914, in a place of mud and cold and bloodshed, something unexpected and extraordinary occurred.
A few men saw what others did not see.
With strains from Christmas carols (in three languages) floating into the sky, soldiers from both sides—in the fields of the southern portion of the Ypres Salient—stuck their heads out of the trenches, set aside their weapons and their hatred, if only temporarily, and walked out to meet in No Man’s Land.
Captain Charles Stockwell was one of the first out of the trench. He writes that he shouted, “Don’t shoot. We don’t want to fight today. We will send you some beer.”
The men exchanged presents of cigarettes and plum puddings and sang carols and songs. There is a story that soldiers from opposing sides played a good natured game of soccer.
One officer writes in a letter home, “We shook hands, wished each other a Merry Xmas, and were soon conversing as if we had known each other for years. We were in front of their wire entanglements and surrounded by Germans—Fritz and I in the centre talking, and Fritz occasionally translating to his friends what I was saying. We stood inside the circle like street corner orators.”
No, the peace did not last. The war continued. And was bloody.
But on this one night…
on this one night…
on this one night…
there is peace.
And yes, I know this—peace—is hard to believe, or apply to our world.
And I know it triggers doubt, and often, disparagement. One reaction to my recent post, “You’re joking. Peace will never happen.” Our world hurts, and so do our hearts. And it is no exaggeration to say that every one of us has a battlefield. And in truth, the battlefield can be entirely internal (grief, loneliness, anger, you name it). I may not need an enemy. You know, someone or something to push against. Although I often create one.

In all fairness, some of us are not in a place where kindness or compassion or hospitality is easy. Because there is something in our world that is heavy, unsettling and sad. And the stories I receive in letters and emails remind me that our world is fragile. So, here’s our question this week: how do we honor a no-man’s land in this kind of world?
Regardless of faith tradition, we could all use a little bit of that. You know, for peace to dwell among us. I know that I do. There is something inside of each of us that needs moments of disarmament and reconciliation.
Waiting creates a space for recollection… even in the middle, even in the muddle, even in No Man’s Land.
Recollection for what we value.
Recollection for those things and people for which we are grateful.
Recollection for the simple gifts of grace (say, plum pudding and beer on a battlefield).
Recollection of the power of a smile, a kind word, the sound of laughter and a hug.
Recollection that hospitality and inclusion have a way of healing us, just when we least expect it.
I’ve told this story many times. And will continue to retell it for its grounding power in a world that needs moments and gifts of peace.
And let us not forget… “Peace is our gift to each other.” (Elie Wiesel)
And here’s the deal: Peace is always, always small steps. Little gestures.
(Fitting that this reminder for peace this season, does not come from trumpets, or armies, or might, or braggadocio. It comes from a child in a manger. Yes. It comes from a child.)
So, here’s the deal… This week, send up a prayer.
Or perhaps, meet in no-man’s land. You never know…
Practice a random act of gentleness. One encounter at a time; “I see you.”

And on this fourth Sunday of Advent, we lit the Angel’s Candle: symbolizing peace… the purity and justice that a baby in a Bethlehem manger brought to our world. A reminder of the message of the angels: “Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”
And a Happy Hanukkah to our Jewish brothers and sisters. This Festival of Lights symbolizes the triumph of light over darkness. And resilience in the face of adversity. An eight-night celebration, commemorating the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem and the miracle of the oil that lasted for eight days, inviting reflection on resilience, freedom, and, importantly, kindness.

Savor your time my friends. And I am so grateful we are on this pilgrimage together, walking one another home. Peace to you.

Quote for our week…
“Community does not necessarily mean living face-to-face with others; rather, it means never losing the awareness that we are connected to each other.” Parker J. Palmer

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Today’s Photo Credit: Beauty where you least expect it. Erigeron (related to Old World asters) growing from a very old stone wall, along the Portuguese Camino… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to terryhershey.com 

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Letters that do my heart good…
–Such a gift you give us each week, Terry. I will now remember the duckling story and be reminded to remain open to the changes and the present moments of beauty or wonder. Your Camino journey was simply awe inspiring. Yes, we are all pilgrims each day of our lives. Thank you for your Sabbath Moments each day of the week. They are like candles to me, helping me find my way through the mire of tasks to be done and people to please. In other words, I can find myself thanks to your way signs each week. Much gratitude. Louise
–I always love what you offer. Never tire of what you share. Thank you again for all you do have a peace filled day. Cindy
–Terry, I am so very technologically challenged. I apologize for that and that I am currently overwhelmed with Stuff. I hope that I am not going to lose your inspirational messages by changing emails. I am so old school! You are such a calming lifeline to so many of us. Heartfelt thanks, Carolyn
–Terry, lovely, lovely, lovely. Thanks for sharing and continuing your life journey with us accompanying. Nathalie
–I am so happy the way called you (finally). I hope our paths cross again to hear your story first hand. Buen Camino fellow pilgrim! Phyllis
–Good morning, from Maryland! As you and I were having coffee together today, before the sunrise here, I wanted to let you know how much I was enjoying walking with you in spirit! You’ve made me pause to consider, is that something I would ever do? What an adventure you’re having with many treasures to uncover ahead.
Rob and I send prayers and hugs. Thank you for sharing this journey, not only of miles walked, but the awakening on the way. Clare