The Peace We Miss

“If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.”

— Luke 19:42

Palm Sunday is often imagined as a day of celebration—crowds gathering, branches lifted high, voices rising in praise as Jesus enters Jerusalem. It feels triumphant, almost jubilant, the kind of moment we expect to carry only joy. And yet, in the midst of that celebration, the Gospel of Luke offers us something quieter, more tender: Jesus pauses, looks at the city, and weeps.

There, in the middle of welcome and worship, there is sorrow.

Because Jesus does not see only what is before him. He sees what could have been. He sees a city capable of peace, a people capable of love, a world within reach of something better—and he knows it has gone unrecognized. Peace was there, present and possible, but it was missed. And that is what makes his words linger, what gives them their ache: “If you had only recognized… the things that make for peace.”

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, that longing feels deeply familiar.

We know what it is to search for peace—not as an abstract idea, but as something personal and urgent. Peace in our own hearts, where questions of identity and worth have sometimes been met with silence or shame. Peace in our relationships, where love has not always been affirmed as holy. Peace in the spaces that were meant to be sanctuaries—churches, families, communities—that instead left us wondering if we truly belonged. We have stood at those gates, hoping to be seen, to be known, to be embraced, and too often we have felt the quiet heartbreak of being overlooked.

Like Jerusalem, those spaces did not always recognize “the things that make for peace.”And yet, Palm Sunday does not leave us there.

Beneath the grief is a truth that is as gentle as it is powerful: Jesus still sees. He sees the missed opportunities, the moments when love should have been offered freely but was withheld. He sees the harm done in the name of righteousness, the ways people have been turned away when they should have been welcomed in. And he weeps—not because there is something wrong with you, but because you deserved peace all along.

His tears are not condemnation. They are compassion.

But this story is not only about what others failed to see. It is also an invitation—quiet, persistent, and deeply personal. Because after enough rejection, it becomes easy to internalize the same blindness we have encountered. We begin to wonder if peace is really meant for us. We question whether love must be earned, whether we are too much or not enough, whether there is something about us that keeps us just outside the gates.

And in those moments, peace can feel hidden from our own eyes. Palm Sunday invites us to look again.

To recognize that your identity is not a barrier to God’s love, but part of how you reflect it in the world. To see that your capacity to love deeply, honestly, and courageously—often forged through struggle—is itself one of the very things that makes for peace. To trust that Christ enters your life not with judgment, but with tenderness, with understanding, and with an unwavering presence that refuses to let you go unseen.

Even when others have failed to recognize your worth, even when peace has felt distant or obscured,

God has never missed it. God has never missed you.

And the peace Christ speaks of—the peace that was once overlooked, the peace that still waits to be named and claimed—is not lost.

It is still yours to receive.

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Moment of Zen: Reading

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A Quiet Friday

It’s my work-from-home Friday, and thankfully, there isn’t much on the agenda today. I’ll keep an eye on emails and chip away at a few small tasks here and there, but as the semester begins to wind down, things on the education side have slowed considerably. I have one more program left this semester, and so far everything seems to be coming together smoothly. With any luck, today will be an easy, low-stress day.

I’m also hoping to take advantage of the quiet building and get a couple loads of laundry done while the washer and dryer are free—one of those small, simple victories of a work-from-home day.

As much as I’m looking forward to a calm Friday, I’m hoping the same carries into the weekend. It’s supposed to be especially cold tomorrow, so I plan to stay bundled up and snuggled in with Isabella. Honestly, an easy Sunday sounds just about perfect right now too

I hope everyone has a restful and peaceful weekend.

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Not Quite as Planned

If they had looked like this guy—I might not have minded the interruption.

Yesterday turned out to be much busier than I expected.

I knew I had a class scheduled for the afternoon, so I had already planned to spend part of the day preparing for that. What I didn’t know was that repair work on our elevator would also become part of the day’s unfolding story.

Because the elevator has been out of order, I had planned to hold my class in collections storage. There was simply no practical way to bring everything upstairs otherwise. It wasn’t ideal, but it was manageable.

The repairman arrived first thing in the morning, attempted a fix, and quickly realized it hadn’t worked. He left to get additional tools, returned, and then discovered the issue was more complicated than expected. When I asked if they might be back later in the day, he didn’t think that would be possible given his other appointments. I told him that was actually a relief—I had a class that afternoon and really didn’t want repairs happening in the middle of it.

Of course, what should not have been a surprise: they came back anyway. Fifteen minutes before my class was scheduled to begin.

To their credit, they were respectful and did not disrupt the class, and I am genuinely grateful that the elevator is now working again. Still, it added an unnecessary layer of stress right at the moment I needed to be focused and present.

I ended up spending most of the day in collections storage. That’s not usually how my days go—I’m typically in and out, pulling what I need for a class and then returning items afterward. I’m the educator, not the collections manager. But there are certainly worse ways to spend a day, and there’s something grounding about being surrounded by history, even if it comes with a bit more physical strain.

By the end of the day, though, I had been on my feet far longer than usual, and my back is reminding me of that this morning in no uncertain terms.

If all goes as planned, today should be easier. At least, that’s the hope.

But if yesterday reminded me of anything, it’s that plans have a way of shifting, interruptions arrive whether we invite them or not, and sometimes the best we can do is adapt, take a breath, and carry on.

And maybe—just maybe—hope for a quieter day ahead… without saying it too loudly, lest we jinx it.

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Off Balance

Lately, I’ve been tired in a way that sleep doesn’t quite fix.

Not the kind of tired where you just need a good night’s rest and everything resets. It’s more of a slow, lingering fatigue—the kind that settles into your bones and follows you through the day. The kind where even small frustrations feel heavier than they should.

Part of it is just routine being off. I’ve been waking up earlier than I’d like, earlier than I’m ready for, and while I can sometimes crawl back into bed, it’s never quite the same. There’s something about interrupted sleep that lingers, leaving the day just a little more difficult to move through. You keep going, of course—you always do—but everything feels just slightly out of sync.

And when you’re already worn down, even minor things start to weigh more than they should. Little inconsistencies. Extra steps. Situations where you feel like you’re putting in more energy than necessary, or where expectations don’t quite line up. Nothing major, nothing worth a confrontation—but enough to create a quiet undercurrent of frustration.

I’ve never been someone who leans naturally into confrontation. I tend to pause, to weigh, to let things go more often than not. Sometimes that’s a strength. Sometimes it just means I carry things longer than I should.

Still, I’ve been trying to find a better balance—to speak up when it matters, but also to let go of what doesn’t.

Because not everything needs to be fought. But not everything should be carried either.

So for now, I’m reminding myself to take things a little more gently. To allow for the tiredness without letting it define the whole day. To recognize that some days are just heavier, and that doesn’t mean something is wrong—it just means I’m human.

And maybe tonight, I’ll get a better night’s sleep.

Or at least close my eyes long enough to rest.

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