A few weeks ago, I visited a dear friend in the hospital, who was very ill and undergoing a battery of tests. Looking at me with tired, sorrowful eyes, he said, “I just don't feel fully alive anymore. I wonder if I am going to die.”

The following event really happened to me in 1955. People wearing masks grabbed me, took off my clothes, and dressed me in strange garments. They strapped me down to a rolling bed and wheeled me into a room where blinding lights shone directly into my eyes. Terrified, I screamed and fought to free myself, but I was helpless. I kicked, twisted, and struggled with all my might, yet there was no escape.

How do you pass the peace? And how is peace passed to you?

What constitutes peacefulness for you?

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 4:7

Years ago, while crossing the Atlantic with dear friends, I experienced one of the most peaceful moments of my life. We had come through a difficult season, and now we were finally on our long-awaited trip of a lifetime aboard the Queen Mary 2.

There are societies and groups in our world that have become known for living in peace. The Semai people of Malaysia are considered one of the most peaceful societies ever studied. Violence is extraordinarily rare, and conflict is resolved through calm discussion rather than aggression. Neighboring indigenous groups such as the Batek and Chewong share similar values, rejecting coercion, domination, and physical force.

The passing of the peace is the only moment in liturgy when we physically turn toward one another and directly acknowledge our neighbor. That gesture alone affirms something essential: we are not meant to journey the spiritual life alone. But when we offer Christ’s peace to one another, the moment rises to an even deeper level—an aspiration to live in and wish for a type of peace that is “not of this world.” In the worship service, we have for a split second, the opportunity, the space, the appointed moment blessed by God, to see into the soul of our neighbor. And for them to see into ours. Passing the peace from one soul to another is profoundly sacred. It is not of this world.

For me, the passing of the peace in church has always been both wondrous and, at times, awkward. To shake another person’s hand and say, “The peace of the Lord be with you.” is a beautiful gift. Yet I often wonder: to what extent do I truly offer Christ’s peace to my neighbor? Is this just a perfunctory liturgical exercise, an in-church social interaction, or a soul-to-soul encounter?

For me and many others I have asked, the fortune cookie is one of the outstanding features of a meal at an Asian restaurant. Even when I am full of delectables and have no room whatsoever for dessert, there is somehow always room for the fortune cookie.

Today, I reflect while in a sacred holding environment—the beach where I spent every summer of my childhood. These sands hold countless memories: surf fishing, swimming beyond the sandbar, tumbling in waves far stronger than I was, and building magnificent sandcastles destined to disappear with the tide.

When something we are searching for seems impossible to find, it is often because it is hidden in plain sight. It may be camouflaged or appear tiny amid the vastness of its surroundings but it is there as plain as day. These are the reasons a needle disappears in a haystack.

Life has taught me that those who can find a four-leaf clover seem to have an inborn gift. In the middle of thousands of ordinary clovers, their eyes somehow settle upon the rare one. What does this mean? 

“Looking for a needle in a haystack” also applies to the spiritual life. Sometimes we desperately seek something essential—guidance, clarity, purpose—yet what we need is hidden from plain sight.

You have probably heard many times the phrase, “It is like finding a needle in a haystack.” That old image—first recorded by Sir Thomas More in 1532 as “to look for a needle in a meadow”—captures a truth: some things hide in plain sight, perfectly camouflaged by the world around them. Some things can't be seen because the context is too large. But why do they seem to completely vanish? Because we are not fully present.

In May 2009, just eight months after the heartbreaking loss of our son Ben, Lark and I found ourselves in a profound spiritual desert. Eight years of battling his illness had left us overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted. Deep grief overwhelmed us. As people of faith, we believed that God cared for us, but in our pain, we could not feel God like we had hoped and prayed for. It was as if our prayers were echoing off the ceiling, and in our darkest moments, we questioned if God even knew where we were.

Simply put, presence to the moment is like dropping water on a Chia Pet—a “toy” pet with actual grass on its back. When the flat grass is watered, it perks right up and stands on end, to resemble the pet’s fur.  

I am writing this reflection in New Mexico, a state I have never before explored. Out in the country from Santa Fe, which is translated as Holy Faith, I’m journaling in the New Mexican sun.