The Battle for Peace

By Emily Sterling

Most weekends, I do my best to be unrecognizable. Gone are the suits and heels, and in their place, sweats and tennis shoes reign supreme. Make-up becomes optional and long hikes necessary. One cannot do this work long-term without balance, and what that looks like differs with the person.

I grew up wandering the countryside. Emerson and Thoreau remained occasional companions, and while I have largely forgotten their specifics, I still feel an overwhelming feeling of peace in nature.

Most people in my line of work don't see peace daily. People come to us because something terrible and tragic occurred; trauma camps in long lines outside our offices, stealing into otherwise quiet moments of breaks and lunches and, too often, late night wonderings. "Did the Respondent get notice yet?" "How can I best present that evidence-- she stayed with him willingly after the assault?" "What will the jury think?" Constant worry saps energy and grace, and we lose effectiveness inside and outside of courtrooms. Cases pile up, calls and emails go with delayed responses, and another person is hurt. The cycle goes and will continue, too many issues for any one person to hold all the answers. Yet we try. We comfort the hurting where we may find them and we give voice to their pain in court. We stand with and for them, carrying what we can to lessen their burdens, and God, we fight.

            We fight for truth and justice, for that simple recognition that a wrong was done and that actions hold consequences. We fight to heal and to help; we fight so that they too can know peace:

The peace that glows in a mother’s eyes, watching her toddler rise on shaky, uncertain legs. The peace of a simple garden of lavender and mint, finally grown by the adopted child in her forever home.  The peace of belonging to a youth baseball team, no danger of having to quit mid-season due to a parent’s violent whims.

            But before that peace can be earned, years of anger, hurt, and mistrust must be unbuilt. Grief must be given permission to flow freely; acknowledgment of the pain and horror must be made so that those feelings can be processed. It takes time, effort, and consistency. It takes good people willing to do hard things so that better things may be realized.

So I walk. I still wander the Texas countryside, searching for the simple and beautiful and the breathtaking, of life after the storm. I go to find my own serenity and so that I can carry some of that gift to others.

            One cannot share what one has never known.