Neighborly Miracles

When I was a kid, my father used to tell me, “Tommy, you can’t have world peace if you can’t make peace at the dinner table.”

Of course, it came right after my brother Adam and I had come to blows over something stupid like who got to sit by the window. Dad, a career Air Force man, had seen more than his share of politicians promising peace, and he had a way of cutting through the noise with plain talk.

These days, it seems like every time I turn on the news, someone’s declaring that peace has broken out somewhere, usually right after a photo op and a firm handshake. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good peace deal as much as the next fellow.

It gives me hope that maybe, we humans are getting a little wiser. But I’ve also been around long enough to know that peace isn’t something you can sign into existence.

It’s more like a stubborn and stray cat. You can invite it in, but it’s only going to stay if it wants to.

Recently, there has been some excitement about what President Trump has accomplished between Israel and Hamas. I get it.

It’s tempting to put a man on a pedestal when he seems to be doing the impossible. But I was raised with a healthy suspicion of idolizing anyone, especially politicians.

My mother was fond of reminding us that “even the best folks have clay feet.” She said it once after our town council tried to elect a man who couldn’t resist the sound of his own voice.

There’s a verse in Jeremiah that’s been floating around in my head lately about people crying “Peace, peace,” when there really is no peace. That hits home for me.

I’ve seen what happens when we start believing in headlines instead of heartlines. It’s easy to point to treaties and think we’ve done our part, but peace doesn’t stick unless it’s practiced on the front porch, in the kitchen, and between the ears.

I remember when Mary and I were first married. We had our share of “peace talks.”

There was one about the toothpaste tube and how to squeeze it. Mary from the bottom, me from wherever my fingers landed. Another time, it was about whose turn it was to do the dishes.

There were no dignitaries present, no pens for signing, and certainly no press coverage, but there was negotiation, patience, and a whole lot of humor. And wouldn’t you know, the peace that came from that has lasted longer than any treaty I’ve ever read about.

What I’m saying is, we should celebrate success, sure, but not worship it. Leaders come and go, and peace, real peace, is something we build one small act at a time.

It’s in how we talk to the folks who disagree with us, how we treat the clerk at the grocery store, and how we handle the moments when we’re right but let someone else feel heard anyway.

So before we start engraving anyone’s name on a marble statue for “bringing peace to the world,” maybe we ought to look closer to home. If I can get through a Sunday dinner without a family debate over politics, that feels like a miracle, and I’ll take that kind of peace any day.

As for the world’s troubles? Well, I’ll keep hoping for the best, but I’ll also keep practicing at home. After all, Dad was right, if we can’t find peace at the dinner table, we’ve got no business trying to export it.