Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid. You heard me tell you, ‘I am going away and I will come back to you.’ If you loved me, you would rejoice that I am going to the Father; for the Father is greater than I (John 14:27-28).

Peace is an elusive thing. The world thinks of peace in a very zen way – absent of the chaos and noise of technology, work, much less children and the delightful lack of quiet that they bring. We as Catholics know this is not the peace Our Lord speaks of in this passage. As mothers, we also know our moments of stillness are few and far between. But although we have this knowledge of Christ’s peace, it often seems that we still are left longing for just a few moments of stillness and quiet. “Where is peace?” we ask ourselves.

In the last few years, my aunt and uncle, who are also my godparents, have passed away from cancer. My Uncle Charlie’s death was just last year, a few days before Holy Week. This year, we have the privilege of witnessing our dear friends accompany their grandmother on the final stretch of her walk to heaven. It amazes me that their journey of helping her soul be born into heaven is similar in so many ways to the journeys we took as we accompanied my aunt and also my uncle. Much like childbirth, where there are elements recognizable in every birth, the birth of the soul into new life carries similar characteristics from person to person. 

In Christ’s journey from Palm Sunday, through his Passion and death, there was great hope in the beginning. But as he is flogged, crowned, the cross cast onto his beaten body, and then finally, as he is nailed to the cross where he dies, hope—and along with it, peace—seems to die. It is only through his Resurrection that death is conquered and transformed. In his Resurrection, his disciples are given the hope that a willingly accepted cross brings. In the willingly accepted cross, the peace Christ speaks of in this Gospel spreads like a balm over our afflictions. 

Journeying with someone through their final months and weeks of life is much like an extended Holy Week. There is great hope at the beginning, even if you know this illness can only be beaten by miracles. Through the journey, there is desolation as family, friends, and the one who is dying realize that the prayer for healing is being answered, but not in the way of the hoped for physical healing. The prayer for healing instead is healing the soul of the dying person, repairing wounded relationships and preparing the soul to meet his or her Creator. And as the death of our loved ones comes, if we can accept the cross of grief, then we also are given the gift of deep and abiding peace. There is peace in knowing their earthly suffering is no longer, and peace in knowing they have reached the welcoming arms of Our Lord. A holy death is not only a gift for the person who has died but is also a transformative gift for the family and friends who bore witness to the soul’s birth into eternal life. 

This is the peace Christ speaks of, and the peace we should be looking for in our own lives. Sometimes, there is more clarity of peace in something as tremendous as death, but we, as mothers, are called daily to lay down our lives and lift up the cross—even when we feel beaten black and blue by the myriad of needs in our families. It is in these moments when we long for a little of that quiet stillness, that we must also look at the peace that Christ is offering us through our crosses and allow him to pour that healing balm on our weary hearts. It is only his peace that will carry us through on our own paths to heaven.