Shalom.
It is more than peace. It is harmony. It is a peaceful relationship with self and the world and God.
Shalom.
The word rose and fell from our lungs like slow reaching waves on soft sand. Each wave washed layers of harmony, lifting and floating and rebaptizing the room of worship leaders in these unexpected waters of beauty.
The harmony? The “Shalom” sound that washed over us? It was a brilliant and beautiful minor chord–peacefully dark–profoundly dark, this rich layered chord that we don’t often rest in during our sweet happy Sunday services.
And so we sat in the wash of darkness.
And just as the tide of minor notes rolled in, it rolled out, leaving us in a salt-air of silent Shalom. Serenity. Sitting inches from someone else, I was oblivious. I was standing alone on that peaceful beach with my toes still damp.
And these words floated into my mind like a beacon: “It is right. It is ok. You are ok.”
The words–the thoughts–were as clear as the slow Shaloms that passed through our unhurried lungs. And these words were just as soothing.
I didn’t fight for that moment. I didn’t push for it. There was too much stillness in my own soul for me to even have the chance to say “hmm… I wonder what this will be about?”
The words found me. The Shalom with self and world reached for me. And it enveloped me and it swaddled my soul like the soft hands of my mother when she carefully calmed my colicky cries.
And the cries faded. The fight faded.
I’m no longer fighting for light. For illumination. For revelation. I’m no longer fighting to see and to know. I’ve released the weapons of my own resistance, resting them on the white seat I sat in during that Shalom. And I’ve laid myself down, belly side up and vulnerable to whatever the next day has for me with its unknown colors and costs and cares.
And I, with an ocean of hope in my deep-down insides, cannot wait to discover what the day will bring.
