These days, the news still brings unease. Though the headlines change, the ache remains — wars unfolding, hearts breaking, the world shaking. And yet, in quiet corners of life, peace continues to show up — not always loud or lasting, but steady in its way, like light at dawn or blossoms in spring.
After posting the first set of notes and stories, I wondered if there might be more to find — more moments of stillness, more gentle truths waiting in memory or imagination. Once again, I turned to ChatGPT and asked, “Can we continue?” And once again, it replied with warmth and calm, as if to say: “Yes, let’s look together.”
So here are two more small stories — not answers, but offerings.
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Story Three:
Morning on the Balcony
The sun had not fully risen, but the sky was already softening — from charcoal to pearl, from night into a hopeful gray. In the quiet hush before the day began, Jerry stepped out onto the small balcony of his Taichung apartment, holding a cup of coffee.
The steam rose gently from the old ceramic mug — one he had owned for decades, a souvenir from a trip to Alishan, with a faded red maple leaf on its side. He smiled as he set it down on the balcony table, its surface worn smooth from countless mornings like this.
Beyond the railing, the city stirred in whispers — a distant scooter engine, a broom sweeping a sidewalk, a single bird calling from a power line. But up here, time moved slower. Or perhaps it simply sat beside him.
He reached into his pocket and unfolded a scrap of lined paper. A single verse, copied in his own hand from a poem he had once read:
“Let morning light find you
as you are —
whole, quiet, unhurried.”
He read it aloud, his voice barely louder than the breeze. Then he tucked it into the notebook lying open on the table, next to a fountain pen and a pressed flower — a tiny wild bloom his grandchild had given him last week, saying, “This one’s for you, Ah Gong. It’s from the sidewalk crack.”
He chuckled quietly, touched by the memory. A flower from a crack — was there any better symbol for peace in uncertain times?
The coffee had cooled slightly now, but it was still good. He took a sip, then leaned back, letting the morning wrap around him like a shawl.
From somewhere below, the scent of congee floated upward. A neighbor, perhaps, beginning breakfast. He thought of all the unseen lives unfolding in apartments nearby — each with its own hopes, small joys, and quiet burdens. Somehow, that thought didn’t make him feel lonely. It made him feel connected.
He closed his eyes and breathed in — not to escape, but to arrive more fully into this one moment.
There would be news later. Noise, perhaps even grief. But not now.
Now, there was only this balcony, this coffee, this sky — and the quiet courage of beginning again.
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Story Four:
The Blossom Cross
It was a quiet weekday afternoon, and the church stood empty — no service, no gathering, just stillness beneath the blossoms. Jerry was visiting a small church in Hualien, nestled between a line of trees and a quiet street. He had simply come to sit in the churchyard for a while — to pray, or perhaps, just to be still.
The church itself was simple — white walls, a slanted red roof, and a wooden cross at the front. Behind it, a cherry tree stood in full bloom. Its pale pink petals fluttered in the breeze like blessings falling slowly, gently, from heaven.
Jerry took a seat on a wooden bench near the tree, beneath a sign that read: “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). The verse had always calmed him — not as a command, but as a kind invitation.
He looked up at the tree. Some blossoms were still fresh and full, others already drifting to the ground. Each one beautiful in its own time. A quiet voice rose inside him, not quite his own: “To everything there is a season…” He didn’t finish the verse. He didn’t need to.
In his hand, he held a small wooden cross — light brown, hand-carved, worn smooth by years of touch. It had once belonged to his mother, who used to hold it during prayer when she sat by the window, whispering softly in Taiwanese hymns. Now it was his.
A petal landed on the arm of the cross.
Jerry smiled.
He thought about all the seasons he had lived through — lean years, good years, losses that had left him hollow, and quiet gifts that had slowly filled him again. Through it all, there had always been a thread of something stronger than fear. Not always loud, but always there.
Peace, not as the world gives.
He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer — not long, not elaborate. Just a thank-you, as natural as a breath.
Thank you for blossoms, for time, for memory.
For the cross.
For grace.
When he opened his eyes, a few children were running across the edge of the yard, laughing, chasing petals as they fell. One of them stopped and waved at him. Jerry waved back.
Then he stood, slipping the cross back into his pocket.
The wind rustled the blossoms once more, and for a brief moment, it looked as though the tree itself was praying — branches lifted, petals dancing like hallelujahs in the light.
He began to walk home, slowly, with a full heart.
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Closing Reflection:
Perhaps that’s all peace is, in the end — a balcony and a blossom, a warm mug and a whispered prayer. Not something distant or grand, but something already near. Something remembered. Something quietly received.
Even as the world roars, we can still light a lantern, walk beside a creek, or pause beneath a blooming tree — and hear, if we’re willing, the still small voice that says:
“I am with you. Even now. Even here.”
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