and I'm home

"Pass the peace."

And what terror I feel at those words. There is absolutely no peace in me at the thought of having to greet a roomful of strangers. My sister stands next to me, but in front and behind and beside me are people I have yet to meet. My heart pounds, and I feel sweat breaking out along my shoulderblades.

I have always hated passing the peace.

But I turn, pasting on a fake smile, hoping the fear in my eyes doesn't outshine the friendliness I'm fighting to project. The two men that were next to me are already out of the row, down the aisle and shaking hands with people they know. I look over my shoulder, but the people I came with are in conversation over part of the service and I don't feel like interrupting.

Even before I turn back around, I know he is there, and I turn to find him in my row, not even a foot away, smile wider than the ocean. He spreads his arms just as wide, eyes twinkling blue-grey, and pulls me into a hug as he laughs and greets me by name. I put my arms around him and smile, unclenching my fear in the face of his delighted joy.

And in his arms, I find everything in me letting go, and the peace that was missing rushes back in as he holds me close and tells me how glad he is that I'm there.

There is nothing flirtatious about the way he wraps his arms around me, which makes it even more precious. This is an embrace to surrender to. I rest my chin on his shoulder and lean into him, feeling so grateful.

And it is just a moment, but it seems like days of fear have melted away by the time he releases me and moves on to grin and laugh and hug my sister. Somehow, I cannot shake away the bubbling freedom he passed along in those few seconds.


I want joy that communicable.