Peaceful and quiet.

The way we exist in our own minds, that tantalizing off-centeredness that bears an apparent self-sufficiency, man is it destructive. I’ve sat in that place many times before, in my own fallen mind, and wondered how and when I can get up and begin my dreams.

As post-grad looms, concurrently heavy and bright, I picture myself in indefinite places.

My childhood bedroom, working two jobs and counteracting all possibility of financial insecurity.

A beloved (and yet likely atrocious or overpriced) flat in Brooklyn, arts-ing my way through a challenging season of adventure and consequent sacrifice.

An apartment in underrated Birmingham, enveloped in friendship and–

A taste of a peaceful and quiet life.

Paul urges Timothy in his first letter to him to pray and intercede for all people (specifically all authority), that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. I feel similarily urged.

Needless to say that adopting and digesting that prayer upsets some of my visions. For nearly all of my life, I have operated under a grand masterplan to find my own chic way in the world, and in some form or fashion leading revolution. I don’t know, I guess readers become dreamers. Like many an artist before me I carefully curated how I would use my time on earth, how I would thrust my soul out into the world.

And then I read 1 Timothy again one day, a passage I’ve read probably a hundred times.

I spent several hours after that, over a period of weeks, thinking about what’s next. That heavy and bright time looming… what would I make of it? What should I make of it? What should any of us do, in the face of decision, our own derision, and a dream or two?

I thought about it a lot, I sought wise counsel. And a dear friend and forever mentor said this to me:

“Mary Grace, you could go anywhere and thrive. You could go anywhere and find ministry. You choose now what is most important: adventure, security, or community.”

Indeed.

When I think about my dreams, I rarely think about the how, but instead the why. And when I considered my most longstanding dream, a sparkly vision of bright lights and kindling applause, a dream of dancing for work, I never ever consider the how. Because the how is hard. It is costly. And when I really think about what it costs, I often turn and run. Not far, but the act in of itself makes me question my grit. Do I really want it?

What I came to realize is that, as a believer, I have come to love and desire a selfless life. A peaceful and quiet life. One marked by faith, soaking, ministerial fullness, community and security, Sabbath. Hope, not in myself.

To succeed in this industry, I am afraid, means to give up a peaceful and quiet life. To make it, you have to make it your everything. I would go on a limb to say you have to make it your source of life, which is, for a believer, quite twisted.

A caveat must be made for the incredibly variable definition of “success.” I have chosen to define it in the way my childhood dream would: making it onto the Broadway stage. The hoops we are demanded to jump through to get there, could very well suck the soul out of someone.

I find peace and quiet in the knowledge that beyond Earth, I will not regret not “chasing my dreams.” I will regret choosing myself over and over again, leaving any chance of godliness and dignity at the doorstep. I will regret forfeiting community, and some form of security, to do something wild that holds no eternal weight. And I know, deep down in my soul, that I will not regret storing up treasures in heaven, setting my sights on that glorious coming. A life lived looking through that window is a beautiful life.

So here I stand. A peaceful and quiet life on the horizon. Wherever she may land.

From one pilgrim to another,

Mary Grace Rowell