That peace is not made. Not just out there – on the streets littered in flowers of memorial to another, then another, whose breath is gone.
But in here.
That the chills on my skin when I talk about Kingdom fade away and take with them my willingness to make peace.
For the mothers, whose babies are now dead at the hands of the State, who will pore over every word they said to their children, will repeat their names every hour, and wonder if they could have done more to keep them longer.
And in here.
Where words flow free and coat the outside in lyrics of wax shaped brilliantly, but the Name of Love burns hot inside and what is left after the melting may be far less than comforting.
I face the horror.
Of the reality of violence and the extra threat to my sons; the way people are treated like detestable beasts. That humans executed in their beds is not enough for us to end the cycle and that does not just exist out there.
But in here.
Where I convince myself I am fundamentally better or different than the ones who led children into gas chambers and gulags.
Not just for those at greater risk because of skin color or an economic crapshoot and not just for men and women who wear badges that look like targets to men whose anger has turned to nihilism.
In here, too.
Where my opinions clash with others and they become just Others. That I will not take up arms, but I may cross them in indifference to the inherent worth and dignity of even the angry or the power-mad.
So I hope.
For peace and reconciliation. To till up every corner of creation, searching for the New Earth buried under old stories and held up to the sun like rotting trash that we all laugh about together.
But first in here.
That my heart widens just enough to allow me to scootch over and let you in, whom I see some part my enemy and not at all reluctantly, but with a smile and some food to share.