Deacon Jude Tam Tran

PEACE IN A STORM

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” — (John 14:27)

They call me “Your Majesty,” which sounds impressive until you realize it mostly means people expect you to make decisions while wearing very uncomfortable clothes. Crowns are heavy, thrones are hard, and everyone thinks a king has all the answers. Let me assure you—most days, I’m just a man trying to choose wisely… and not spill soup on my royal robe.

One day, after a particularly long week of disputes, petitions, and arguments over things like land boundaries and whose goat wandered where, I realized something unsettling: I was ruling a kingdom full of restless people—and if I was honest, I was restless too. So, I announced a challenge.

“I will offer a prize,” I declared, “to the artist who can paint the most beautiful picture of peace.”

You should have seen their faces. Artists love a challenge, especially when gold is involved. Soon my palace was filled with canvases, brushes, dramatic sighs, and people staring at empty space as if peace might float down from the ceiling.

When the day arrived to judge the paintings, my great hall looked like an art gallery. I walked slowly, hands behind my back, nodding thoughtfully like a king is supposed to do—even when he has no idea what he’s looking at.

Most of the paintings were… predictable. Gentle meadows. Sleeping sheep. Sunsets so calm they nearly put me to sleep. Beautiful, yes—but something felt missing.

Eventually, I came to two paintings that made me stop.

The first one made everyone else stop too.

It showed a tranquil lake, smooth as polished glass. Mountains rose majestically around it, reflected perfectly in the water. The sky was a brilliant blue, decorated with soft white clouds that looked like they had nowhere important to be. When people looked at it, they sighed. A few even smiled and said, “Ahhh.” If peace had a vacation home, this was it.

“This,” one courtier whispered, “is true peace.”

I nodded. It was flawless. Serene. Calm. And yet… my heart remained strangely unmoved.

Then I turned to the second painting.

I heard gasps. One nobleman actually stepped back, as if the storm might splash out of the canvas and soak his shoes.

This painting was chaos.

The mountains were jagged and bare, sharp as broken teeth. The sky was dark and furious, cracked open by lightning. Rain fell in sheets. A waterfall thundered down the mountainside, violent and foaming, smashing into the rocks below.

Someone muttered, “This is not peace.”

I almost agreed—until I leaned closer.

Behind the waterfall, barely visible unless you really looked, was a small bush growing stubbornly out of a crack in the rock. And in that bush sat a mother bird, perched on her nest.

Her wings were tucked in. Her eyes were calm. While the storm raged around her, she sat perfectly still, protecting her young.

And suddenly… I felt it.

Peace.

Not the kind that depends on perfect conditions. Not the kind that vanishes when trouble arrives. But the kind that survives the storm.

“I choose this one,” I said.

The room erupted.

“But Your Majesty!” someone protested. “The other one is peaceful!”

“Yes,” I replied, “it is peaceful because nothing is wrong.”

Then I pointed to the storm. “This one is peaceful because something is right.”

You see, ruling a kingdom teaches you a hard truth: life is not a tranquil lake. It is more often a thunderstorm. Problems don’t wait their turn. Hardship doesn’t knock politely. Storms arrive whether we’re ready or not.

The Bible says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” (John 14:27)

The world’s peace is fragile. It depends on quiet circumstances, full bank accounts, healthy bodies, and cooperative people. Remove one of those, and peace collapses like a poorly built bridge.

But true peace—the kind that bird had—is anchored deeper.

That bird didn’t stop the storm. She didn’t control the waterfall. She simply trusted that where she was placed was enough.

That’s the wisdom I learned that day—and the wisdom I offer you now:

Peace is not the absence of trouble. It is the presence of trust.

Everyday life will bring storms. Bills. Illness. Misunderstandings. Unanswered prayers. You can spend your life waiting for the lake to become still—or you can learn to build your nest behind the waterfall.

Learn to be still even when things are loud. Learn to rest even when answers are delayed. Learn to trust even when the sky looks angry.

And if a small bird can find peace in a storm, surely, we humans—crowned or common—can learn to do the same.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend another royal meeting. I hear there’s an argument about goats again.