Faux Peace, Real Jesus
Ahh, December… that most wonderful time of the year when all of our plans align, and we are able to do all of the fun things with our friends and family, while making beautiful memories and traditions in calm, ordered, well-planned ways.
Nope. That’s not what happens in my world.
In my world, I have the greatest ideas and intentions that I put on paper the evening of Thanksgiving. I grab a notebook, my iPad, and start writing down baking days, different venue events, and my traditional Christmas light drive (just me and the grandson in our jammies with hot cocoa). Add to that, pages of recipes for cookies and new dishes. Maybe this year will be the year that I’m able to assemble a wonderful and “easy” crockpot meal for the Rocket Scientist and me to have on Christmas Eve after two days of serving at Christmas Adam, and Christmas Eve services.
WRONG.
Usually, it all makes it to paper… and that’s as far as it gets.
Baking days become a baking day of as many “no-bake” items as I can find. Various Christmas venues and experiences turn into one, maybe, rushed event on the last day it’s available…with me almost seething inside and trying to keep it from spilling out, because no one has the “joy” like I want them to (most of all, this Grinch right here).
And Christmas Eve dinner? Well, that is fast food, picked up by the Rocket Scientist, because I’m so tired from serving that I’m on the verge of tears and physical pain.
The one thing I make sure happens, since he was two, is the annual Jammie Light Drive; that is a tradition that must be kept. (Watch… this will be the year, at age eleven, that he says, “No thanks, Gigi, I don’t like that anymore!”)
And then shame, guilt, and sadness set in.
The unreasonable voice in my head says, You shouldn’t even try… You are simply not talented enough, good enough, or organized enough to pull any of that off. Just buy all store-bought and call it good.
My brain fills up with the noise of unworthiness, rejection, fear, unlovableness: you name it, the negative noise is there.
And what’s crazy? Most times, no one else around me (except the Rocket Scientist) knows it’s happening. I put on the best game face.
Cue the Ross Gellar scene: “I’m fine, it’s fine… I don’t know why I’m talking so high. I’m fine!”
And the noise volume gets louder.
This year, with the brand-new ADHD diagnosis and beginning medication for it, I am PAINFULLY aware of the noise in my head 24/7. I’m noticing what it takes to stop that noise, or at least turn it down to 3–5 open tabs instead of 300–700 tabs open at once. And now, through some hard and deep work with an incredible (and straight-forward) counselor, the revelation of some intense thought/emotional/survival patterns from childhood that have increased that volume… the noise can be mind-numbing and deafening.
My go-to in this, again, is to shove all of the shame and grief and ugly thoughts about me and how I have “failed” at making good times happen all the way down to my toes. Put on a happy face. Make the best of it. Pretend like this wonky way was the way it was supposed to be all along (instead of the perceived perfection I desire) and trudge through the noise and chaos.
What the heck, Stacy? That’s not the peace of Christmas. That’s a version of insanity.
I know I’m not the only one. You may be going through your own version of “faux peace” that you pretend is working in the midst of your noise and chaos.
So what does it all mean?
When I talk about “faux peace,” I’m talking about the kind of peace I try to manufacture:
Peace that depends on everything going according to the plan in my notebook.
Peace that demands the house stay clean and the family stay pleasant.
Peace that only shows up if my to-do list is checked off and my emotions are neat and tidy.
That kind of peace is fragile. One unexpected text, one meltdown, one burnt batch of cookies, one wave of grief, and it shatters.
The peace of Jesus is different.
Jesus says to His disciples (who are understandably anxious and confused):
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” (John 14:27)
The world’s version of peace says, Fix all the things, then maybe you’ll feel okay.
Jesus’ peace says, I’m with you in the things that are not fixed.
The prophet Isaiah describes it this way:
“You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you.” (Isaiah 26:3)
Perfect peace isn’t about getting everything under control; it’s about what (and who) we fix our minds on. Peace is not the absence of noise, grief, or undone lists—it’s the presence of Christ in the middle of them.
Tsh Oxenreider, in Shadow and Light: A Journey into Advent, talks about Advent peace not as sentimental calm, but as a deep, rooted steadiness in Jesus while the world keeps whirling. That picture has been working on me. Real peace is not a scented candle over a dumpster fire. It’s the quiet, stubborn truth that God is here, God is good, and God is not going anywhere.
Here’s the thing: I would love it if peace showed up as a magic wand. Wave it once and -poof - my schedule is manageable, my house is clean, my grief has a tidy bow on it, everyone is kind, and my ADHD brain is a perfectly organized file cabinet.
That is not my reality.
And honestly, that’s not the story the Bible tells, either.
When the angels appear to the shepherds, they declare:
“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” (Luke 2:14)
Not: Peace to those who have color-coordinated Christmas trees and perfectly functioning families.
Peace to those on whom His favor rests, which, because of Jesus, includes messy, tired, grieving, overwhelmed people like me and you.
In Philippians, Paul writes:
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:6–7)
I love that phrase “peace… which transcends all understanding.” Sometimes the peace of God doesn’t make sense on paper. It’s not logical or earned. It’s peace that slips in when nothing around us has changed; peace that guards our hearts and minds when the tabs are still open, and the grief is still real.
That is the peace I’m hungry for this Advent: Not a pretend calm I glue on top of my chaos, but the real presence of Jesus who sits with me in the grief and the yuck.
I’ll still have a list of things to do this year. I’m not suddenly becoming a minimalist monk who does nothing but stare at the Christmas tree lights and hum “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”
But I do want to experience the peace of Jesus in a tangible way this year.
I don’t want to just read the daily Advent pages and use them like pretty Band-Aids to hide gaping wounds. I want to actually let them touch the wounds. I want to linger over the Scriptures instead of skimming them on my way to the next task. I want honest questions and honest tears to be part of the way peace comes.
So, here’s my (very imperfect) plan:
One small pause a day. Even five minutes (the faux peace me would say an hour – but let's plan to be real with our time and not performative), where I put the phone down, take a deep breath, and whisper, “Jesus, where are You in my chaos today?”
One undone thing I release. Each day, I’m going to choose one item from my mental Christmas ideal and lay it down on purpose. Not as failure, but as an offering: “Lord, I’m choosing sanity and presence over perfection here.”
One honest conversation a week. With the Rocket Scientist, a friend, or even just in my journal, naming out loud where the noise is loudest and where I’m longing for peace.
Maybe your version of that will look different. Maybe peace, for you, is canceling something. Or asking for help. Or going to counseling. Or finally admitting, “I am not okay right now,” and trusting that the God of peace will meet you there.
If you’re walking into this week of Advent feeling like your peace is a thin layer of wrapping paper over a box of chaos, this blessing is for you (and for me):
May the God of real peace meet you in the exact place where your plans have fallen apart.
May He sit with you in the car when you’re crying in the driveway, and in the kitchen when the cookies burn, and in the quiet moments when grief sneaks up and takes your breath away.
May His presence be the steady thing when your thoughts are racing, the gentle hand on our back when shame starts to shout, the deep, slow breath when your to-do list mocks you.
And may you know, deep in your bones, that the peace of Christmas
is not your performance, your schedule, or your baked goods.
The peace of Christmas is a Person.
And He has already come near to you.
Amen.
Photo by Lachlan Rennie on Unsplash
