The office is empty. It’s just me. There are some flowers on the desk that my wife dropped off. Over on the counter, some chocolate covered coffee beans that my staff brought in. The light on the desk lamp is on. The office next door is dark. The sky is gray, has been all day.

As I look straight ahead, into a mirror on the wall, I see a man looking back at me. There’s something familiar about him. His hair is gray, the wrinkles on his forehead haven’t flattened out and that one side of his jaw that sticks out still sticks out. But still, this isn’t the guy I looked at in the mirror this morning. Something in his eyes has changed since then.

All day I’ve been itching to write this story.  Deep down words stir, waiting for the brain to feed the heart and then release to my fingers those thoughts that won’t go away. There are times, rare moments in life when there is no utterance worthy of wrapping you lips around. The only release for such a time is to find a computer screen, a piece of paper or a journal to grasp, connect with, and use as your nonverbal sounding board. Here there are no listeners only a few who will choose to go beyond the headline of the blog to read words, instead of hearing them. There are even fewer who will read between the lines to connect with what’s really being said and that’s the best part about writing. When you write you can uncover, recover or discover those things that normally sleep in the quiet corners of our lives.

As I look into the mirror at the man staring back at me, I think I know what’s different about him. It is His eyes. Peace, in the midst of concern brings a clarity that I’ve never noticed before. It brings persistence, power and a sense of purpose. But that look doesn’t come easy. It doesn’t just happen. You find it when words cannot form to tell what is going on. You find it when flowers and chocolate covered coffee beans show up on your desk and after everyone else goes home.