Each evening there is a moment—often unnoticed—when the day past seems to exhale. It might be the soft withdrawal of light across Rydal Water, or the quiet settling of wings in the yew tree above the chapel path. Whatever its form, that moment does not arrive because we have earned it.
Wendell Berry once wrote of the “peace of wild things”—those creatures who, unlike us, do not lose sleep over worlds they cannot control. They simply inhabit the one they are given. Perhaps Advent peace begins like that: not in the solving of our troubles, but in consenting, just long enough, to be held by a world that is still God’s.
God’s primary work is not rescue but presence. Advent dares to tell the story of a God who does not hurry past our fears but dwells within them; who comes not with the might of empire but with the smallness of a heartbeat in the dark. Peace, then, is not the absence of conflict but the presence of One who refuses to abandon us.
And so at Rydal Hall, where the fells lean close and the water keeps its own counsel, we are invited to practise this peace. To let the stillness of this beautiful place become our teacher. To allow the rhythm of breath—our first and last prayer—to quiet the inner clamour. To trust, even briefly, that God is already at work in the places where we feel most unfinished.
Advent peace is not a destination. It is a visitation. It comes when we pause long enough for the Holy One to step into our weariness, light a candle, and whisper, “Be not afraid.”
May that peace find you today—gently, persistently, like light returning to a winter morning.
