THAT’S the peace that Christ gives to his disciples, distinct from the peace that the world may give. It’s a peace that serves as a constant consolation, amid understandable fears, to those who follow Christ on earth and continue with his redemptive mission.
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you,” Christ said. “I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid,” he continued. (Jn 14,27)
This peace is not an effect of an absence of war. In fact, there is some kind of war involved because it can only be had when we struggle against our weaknesses and sins, when we try to become more and more like Christ, when we strive to enter deep into the spiritual and supernatural world of God where we will have our ultimate state in life.
This peace is not an effect of an absence of troubles and conflict in this life. We can have all sorts of difficulties, challenges and trials in this life, but the peace Christ gives us can hold on. In the midst of life’s storms, Christ’s peace can stand firm and unshaken. It can serve as a safe anchor.
Definitely, this peace is not simply a result of ignorance, indifference and death itself. No matter how deeply involved we are in the complicated drama of our life here on earth, we can still manage to be confident and hopeful, firmly convinced that we are all in the hands of God.
The peace Christ gives us is a kind of interior tranquility that springs from the divine order of things. It surpasses human understanding and is oriented toward our eternal goal rather than just some temporal security.
Obviously, this peace will require spiritual warfare and a strong relationship with Christ. It involves surrendering to God’s will and embracing Christ’s teachings. We therefore should know very well the real source of peace, giving priority to our relationship with God.
Thus, we need to be truly identified with Christ to have peace in ourselves. It is a peace that comes as a result of reconciliation. It therefore involves repentance, conversion, struggle, that Christ has shown to us by embracing the cross and dying on it.
The cross of Christ is all at once the summary of all our sins as well as the supreme act of love of Christ for us. It is both the tree of death and the tree of life. It’s where all the malice of man meets the tremendous mercy of God. Christ is asking us to carry the cross also with him. Only then can we have true peace that comes from Christ.
This is the peace that cannot waver even under the severe assaults of trials, difficulties and failures. It is the peace that involves a certain abandonment of everything in our life in the hands of God, even as we do our part of dealing with them.
We have to learn to receive and keep this peace that Christ gives us. We might have to pause from time to time to make this truth of our faith sink deeply in our consciousness and be the guiding principle of our life.
This is the peace that leads us to joy. They actually go together—“gaudium cum pace,” joy with peace, as one prayer in preparation for celebrating the Mass would put it.
Gardening realities
I have seen too many backyard gardens die quietly under good intentions. Seedlings curl, leaves yellow, soil hardens like regret—and the gardener stands there wondering what went wrong. Starting to raise plants without first learning how is not optimism; it is a costly mistake.
I say that not as a distant observer but as someone who once believed that watering daily and placing pots under the sun was already “care.” It turns out that plants, like people, have preferences that are not always obvious. Some drown in too much love—overwatered until their roots rot. Others burn under what we assume is kindness—left in the harsh midday heat when they need filtered light. There is a humbling moment when you realize that doing something feels right is not the same as doing it correctly.
The truth is simple but often ignored: raising plants is not instinctive. It is learned. Soil composition alone can undo weeks of effort—too compact, and roots suffocate; too loose, and moisture disappears before the plant can drink. Even the choice between clay and plastic pots matters, because one holds water longer while the other lets it escape. These are not trivial details; they are the difference between life and slow decline. And yet many of us skip this learning, eager to see green without understanding what keeps it alive.
I have come to respect how specific plants can be. A tomato will not behave like a fern, and a cactus will not tolerate the habits that keep leafy vegetables thriving. Each one comes with its own quiet demands—how much light, how often to water, what kind of nutrients to absorb. Ignore these, and the plant does not complain loudly; it simply fails. That silence can fool beginners into thinking they are doing fine, until it is too late to correct the damage.
There is also the matter of timing, which gardening punishes without mercy. Plant too early, and seeds rot in cold soil. Plant too late, and the heat stunts growth before it even begins. Fertilize at the wrong stage, and you encourage leaves when you need fruit. These are not guesses you can afford to make repeatedly, especially if you are investing money in seeds, tools, and inputs. Trial and error sounds romantic until the errors start adding up in your wallet.
What unsettles me most is how preventable many of these failures are. Information is not scarce anymore. A few hours of reading, asking experienced growers, or even observing how plants behave in your own surroundings can save weeks of frustration. Yet impatience often wins. We rush to plant because we want results, not realizing that the fastest way to succeed is to slow down at the beginning.
There is a quiet discipline in learning first. It forces you to pay attention—to soil texture, to leaf color, to the way water drains or lingers. It trains your eye and sharpens your judgment. Over time, you begin to notice subtle changes: a drooping stem that signals thirst, a pale leaf that hints at deficiency. These are small victories, but they build confidence that no amount of guesswork can provide.
Well, raising plants rewards patience before it rewards effort. The hands may do the planting, but it is the mind that decides whether those efforts bear fruit. And if success is the goal, then the wisest place to begin is not the garden—but the willingness to learn before touching the soil.