the Peace that burns.

Written Sunday evening, March 8th, as I hung out with my family, both immediate and extended:

I couldn't bring myself to answer the phone. The little electronic device buzzed and vibrated on the table, but I closed my eyes and ignored the flashing screen like a saint resisting sin. I was reclined in the wooden glider, swaying gently back and forth, and wanted only to focus on the wind as it drove through the slender pine trees, over hill and gully, to caress my relaxed face, to rustle my already tousled hair. Wind chimes of various note and pitch were singing to me as they hung from the eaves of the house, a peaceful melody that reminded me of a garden. This vision was made even more vibrant as the scent of honeysuckle wafted up from the bushes beneath the deck. That coupled with the unmistakable aroma of a campfire burning was enough to intoxicate me on the mild Spring evening.
The laughs of my family members echoed from inside and I opened my eyes, a contented smile on my lips. Light poured from the windows, a pale yellow in the twilight, and figures moved beyond the panes within. Dessert was surely being served, a decadent chocolate truffle cake that begged a glass of milk upon mention. Still yet, I couldn't summon myself to stand, afraid that the peace of the moment would flee when I walked across the deck and closed the screen door behind me. That peace that rested on my mind and in my heart was that special calm that comes with being with family. And being outside in the nature of the Carolina woodlands made it seem to me that much more real and alive, as if the breeze itself bore testimony to the divinity of my blessings and the wonderful family I have; as if the tinkering chimes were themselves hymns of praise sung from the lips of angels, which altogether filled my ears as an ethereal rhapsody descending from on high.
As now I sit in the warmly lit living room, belly and heart full and surrounded by my very own angels, that peace remains and will surely burn through the night.