Grace and Peace

The phrase “Grace and Peace” was firmly entrenched in the lexicon of Emmaus Road Community Church. It was said as both a greeting and farewell during services, but it also slipped into our everyday vernacular. Emails, letters, cards—all signed “Grace and Peace.” It was a benediction, a prayer, a blessing.

Now I have those words above the door in our porch. The outside is an invitation, Bon Repos, and the inside is a final prayer, a last
thought before you leave our house, Grace and Peace.

I am aware of God’s grace in my life every day—probably every minute of every day. I see it in my husband’s hand wrapped around mine. I see it when our kids laugh together, bright, unfettered laughter that fills the house and sets Lennie barking and running in tight circles.

Grace surrounds me; I breathe it in. I sip it like wine.

But peace. That’s another story. I struggle with being at peace. There
was an X Files episode where Mulder wished for world peace. What he
got was an empty planet inhabited only by him. I have a quote on my
wall by Virginia Wolff that says, “You cannot find peace by avoiding
life.”  My first thought is, why not? That sounds like a plan. Just
avoid unpleasantness. But I don’t think Mulder or I would truly find
peace just by being alone or avoiding life.

True peace is something that comes from inside. A quiet surety of Who
is in charge and a steady confidence that He wants what is best for
us. There is a reason that the words grace and peace are often linked
together. God’s abundant favor, His overflowing mercy leads us to a
life of rest and peace.

Grace does surround me, but I think I need to breathe a little deeper
and drink to the dregs.

An Invitation

Bon Repos

I have always wanted a house with a name. (Of course my imaginary house was a centuries old stone cottage surrounded by herb gardens and flowerbeds.) And I have known the name for the last fifteen years. Bon Repos. Good Rest.

I don’t have a stone cottage but I do have an old farmhouse that has stood strong for 127 years. No longer surrounded by fields, it is nevertheless rooted on a corner at the top of a hill overlooking houses decades younger than itself. Four nights ago I saw the walls lurch violently as a small earthquake shook Northern Colorado. I imagine this house has seen its share of storms, floods, fires and even earthquakes in the last five quarters of a century, but here it stands. Cool breezes blow through the porch carrying the smell of cut grass. A certain hush inhabits the house, one that has nothing to do with sound. It is a patient waiting for people to accept what is offered.

Rest.

Bon Repos. Just like Bon Appétit but for the heart instead of the stomach. It is part wish, part command, and part promise.

Our house in Laramie was a haven, a refuge, a place of safety. But only for us. It was a bunker built for four and it sheltered us through many battles.

1801 11^th Street is different. The words “Bon Repos” are outside over our screen door. Right out in front where anyone can read them.

It is an invitation.