Peace Blogging aka Dona Nobis Pacem in the Blogosphere ~
We've been declaring it for twenty-one years all over the world.
Somewhere along the way, we became a Tribe.
Our 2026 theme is Let It Be Known
Please sign the Mr. Linky at the end of this post and leave a comment in the comment section. You may tag me on Facebook as well. Tell us where you're from. I hope you will visit each other and share the peace vibe with your neighbnors.That's the best part of being a peace blogger.
. It's a launch!
Dona Nobis Pacem ~ A Little Grace
She smelled of mothballs and Jesus.
Her hem touched the floor. Her hands folded reverently. Every bare inch of her country-sunshine-smooth-skin was covered. I mean covered from head to toe. Like hell might burst open at any minute if she wore a hint of lipstick while some pitchforked demon took her away. Little black laced-up knee-high proper lady boots. The kind that didn't click-clack or squeak. The kind that didn't attract attention. Unpolished.The kind that made a statement, leaving no doubt that Practical belonged in her first, last, and middle name.
She was my Aunt Grace.
Makeup? Hardly. Perfume? A sin. Just camphor mixed with turpentine and Vick's Vapor Rub and....those.... mothballs that wafted from the cellar in a so-clean-you-could-eat-off-the-floor cobblestone house right up into the kitchen by the spooky basement door.
Oh, did I mention she was 4 ft nothing?
Towering over giants and loud-mouthed children who might need a swat on the behind if they got too rambunctious near the pickled beets on the neatly-lined basement shelves...or near the fireplace that was always stoked with smoldering embers.
To say she was a force to be reckoned with is an understatement.
Her house held oil lamps. Blooming everywhere. Casting shadows on that one last spiderweb she forgot to broom down. There were ancient OPEN Bibles in every room with Uncle Henry's wire-rimmed spectacles gently laid upon the wrinkled pages. He was always on a journey from room to room, through fiery brimstones and sanctified handkerchiefs used for loud Amening, after every prayer and verse.
Aunt Grace and Uncle Henry scuttled around in a black 1936 Chevrolet Sedan. It looked like a hearse with a hunchback.
I was afraid to get in it, but it matched her shoes and his hat.
Aunt Grace was too short to drive. Sitting on a Sears & Roebuck catalog only made things worse - she could see out the windshield but couldn't reach the pedals; and besides, everybody knows there were shhhhhhhhhh naked ladies in brassiere advertisements amongst those pages. For shame!
And they were forever planning for something - something was about to happen. The shelves were stocked and well water siphoned into barrels just in case something happened.
I never saw them touch.
It wasn't proper.
Their only outings were Sunday mornings to the little white church, where Uncle left his hat on the pew seat, and Auntie made sure she was still covered everywhere that legally mattered.
Both were most comfortable, however, behind a contraption pulled by Nellie the Mule, who wobbled and tilled the garden the old-fashioned way. We were most happy under the wall-to-wall grapevines that provided muscadines for wall-to-wall pear preserves in the musty cellar. Aunt Grace kindly served us red-striped peppermint sticks when it wasn't even Christmas. And lemonade.
It was not so much what was said in that house - it was the silence.
It had a presence. Children were to be seen and not heard in those days. I was almost afraid to speak, much less utter something accidentally unacceptable - which I was prone to do - so I tried to make-believe she couldn't read my sometimes salacious mind, lest I get a swat or a you're-going-straight-to-hell look over dinner.
There was no talking at dinner.
Even if I thought a cuss word, she knew it.
I loved her.
She had a fascination with the inward being. She nurtured it with fine food, homemade love, and service to others. She took in orphaned children, making a home where there was no home, while she walked with a grace that bore her name in the folds of her skirt. Ladylike. Confident. Humble. Knowing. She knew who she was and Whose she was.
Freud would have loved her. My grandfather told a story of an Angel in Light standing by his hospital bed, while he lay sick with a heart attack and not expected to live. Every time he told it, even years later, he wept. This soft-spoken messenger came to capture his soul for safe-keeping, making sure he was ready to go. There was no angel.
It was Aunt Grace.
Whether running through apple tree branches or playing beach in the white sand she kept on the driveway, we always went home with a basket of fruit and the imaginary smell of seagulls and surf.
It was a beautiful place to be. To play. To hide. To explore.
To imagine.
Until she got sick
That's when the cussing started.
It was just a cold. And she needed an antibiotic. So, Uncle Henry cranked up the old black squeaky-clean monstrosity and drove her into "town" (I use that term loosely) to see the only doctor around for at least fifty miles. He was the same country physician I saw as a child, housed in a tiny brick building with one nurse who doubled as a receptionist and walls full of Norman Rockwell prints.
It smelled of alcohol pads and hysterical babies.
He was known for his gruffness and impatience, bordering on rudeness. No nonsense. No personality. No breath mints.
Children feared him. The worst part of needing a doctor in our town was having to actually go to the doctor in our town.
But Aunt Grace was feeling a tad under the weather. She clutched her invisible pearls, covered from head to tippy-toe in a white button-up shirt, plaid black maxi-skirt and invisible jewelry.
She was elegant in her own righteous way.
As she entered his office to file her complaint, carefully sitting down across from him in the scrunchy, noisy brown leather-padded chair, he looked at her and scowled,
"What the hell is wrong with YOU?!"
Have you ever heard thermometers break?
Harp strings stop playing midair?
Saint Peter readying a room?
My mother re-told this story to me many times. When she'd get to this part I'd hold my breath, waiting for the punchline again and again and again. It never came.
Aunt Grace didn't flinch. She didn't hesitate. She didn't raise her voice - she raised her words.
"I am going to to go back out into the waiting room.
When I return you are going to greet me differently."
Diplomas rattled. Hades trembled. Charts flipped. Stethoscopes tangled all over the room. Cotton balls swabbed and syringes reloaded. The door applauded behind her as it quietly closed on a fuming, red-faced physician who'd just been brutally taken down by a 4 foot tall powerhouse of a woman who suffered no fools. Owned by a little woman with more authority in the tip of her girdle than he held with a wall full of long-handled degrees.
And it only took a Mimosa minute.
She didn't have to gather her strength. She was strength.
She gave him a little Grace, you might say.
I can imagine her stepping outside to straighten her skirt (it's a family affliction), mumbling that prayer we all learn in Sunday School and making the sign of the cross - just for good measure. But before she turned the knob and re-entered the nauseating examination room, Jesus asked,"Do you need my whip? I made one for just such occasions, you know."
With a No-Lord-I-won't-be-needing-that look, she opened the door and sat down in the brown leather chair once again.
"Good morning, Dr. Hamilton."
"Good morning, Mrs. Richardson," said the docile but scorched physician. He rose to meet her, then quietly asked, "What brings you to see me today?"
And so the healing began
No judgment. No scolding. No sermon.
She didn't ask him to change. She didn't cry and wail and play the victim.
She didn't stoop to his level.
He rose to hers.
She walked in as Grace.
She walked out as Grace.
Lately, there is a lot of talk about 'owning' your truth or 'speaking' your truth. But what I like about Aunt Grace's story in our community and in our family, is that she did more than talk. And she did it in a way that demanded respect. For herself first.
Then she gave him a way to redeem himself.
Which brings me to the point of her legendary influence in my own life, as if it happened yesterday - because it did.
Someone I love cursed me out this week.
And I had to make a decision whether to stay or go.
I thought of Aunt Grace.
She kept peace with herself first. She spoke up. Directly.
She honored herself. She respected her own standards.
And she brought resolution to what could have been a volatile confrontation with wisdom and well....Grace.
Sometimes, when we seek peace with those around us, with the world, with our loved ones, with the Earth, with political factions and loud raucous opinions - they are not ready for our words.
We must learn to offer them our peace instead.
It might be that instead of trying to change the other guy, we start by protecting the peace we already have. The old-fashioned way.
Go to Blog4Peace for more information and examples of peace globe graphics from prior years.
We will speak with
One Voice
One Subject
One Day
About this year's theme for November 4th -
One word has been rolling around in my pencil head for a couple of months.
That word is SAY.
Don't you have something to SAY? In all my years of reading your work, I've never respected you more than I do now. I see you everywhere SPEAKING UP with kindness and intelligence - thoughtfully, respectfully, as peace bloggers do. I hear you loud and clear. There is much to talk about in the world today, much to discuss, much to share...and much to change.
It is time to SAY.
It is time to Let It Be Known
No matter the corner of the globe you call home, surely we all want a more peaceful world. Not just an end to war, but peace on our streets, in our homes, our communities, our families and neighborhoods.
Do you know that our words bring us together?
At least for one day, we are united.
I feel it every single year on November 4th.
This amazing EARTH is the home we share
and every year there is a raging war somewhere
So, on November 4th let's act like we live under the same roof, the way a family should act. Let's be the change.
Let's walk it out.
Let It Be Known not only in the words you say
but by the walk you walk.
(Image: Pixabay)
When you speak PEACE to war, you bring light to dark places.
When you speak PEACE to poverty, you bring hope to despair.
When you speak PEACE to anything, you change the atmosphere.
You illuminate. You inspire. You SAY.
Keep SAYING!
Let your beliefs, your hopes, your dreams, even your rants....be known.
This year's theme is wide open.
It is the year to
PICK YOUR PASSION
It is the year to stake your legacy. What words do you want your grandchildren to read? What mountain will you die on? What do you stand for? What issues are you passionate about? What stories do you long to tell?
This inclusive community has always embraced diversity and equality.
All cultures, backgrounds, religions, are welcome here.
We SAY. We respect.
Dona nobis pacem ~ Grant us Peace
No blog? You can write those three words in a Facebook post. Done!
We've been declaring it for twenty-one years all over the world.
Somewhere along the way, we became a Tribe.
I need my Tribe today
When peace bloggers visit each other on Blog4Peace day, we are shaking hands, we are holding space, we are saying I HEAR YOU and I SEE YOU. I RESPECT YOU.
Nobody does that better than peace bloggers.
Let's go deeper this year. Please visit each other!
Look for those little blue flying globes. You'll notice a shift in the atmosphere. Happens every year.
Somebody SAYS
Somebody SPEAKS
Somebody starts a WORD
Cover your words with compassion
Fuel them with empathy
...then bathe them in Love.
Peace bloggers plant words in tired soil
Each year we water, you see...
to reap a good harvest
Peace bloggers are part of something bigger than themselves.
In the past you've written poetic words about the peace you want to see in the world - and that is awesome! -
but you can also write essays on justice, freedom, global issues, poverty, human rights, equality, social issues, environmental activism, technology, food shortages, policy change, the economical landscape or anything else you heart needs to talk about. Issues we share as a global community are especially urgent this year.
And while you're at it, tell us how we can do better.
All roads lead to peace?
No, they don't. Some roads lead to destruction.
Write about it. Help us find the way home.
Pick your passion.
Write it like you mean it
LET IT BE KNOWN
In a world of much beauty, miracles, and abundance.... violence, war, suffering and poverty also exist.
We need each other.
This year especially feels bleak and urgent. You've spoken Dona nobis pacem from 214 countries and territories over the years!
SAY IT AGAIN
This is not the hour to grow faint.
You have to speak power to your peace
and peace to your power.
The only way to do that is to put legs
to your legacy.
and while you're at it
Walk with Thunder
Words without Walk are just words -
They ring hollow
and whoever heard of a hollow peace?
Your walk must follow words
Your walk will demonstrate love
or your walk will demonstrate hate
Because words are powerful
You want to know what else is powerful?
Silence
This is not an hour to be quiet
SAY
2008 Holding up my Voting sticker
Let's build our world with words that harness the power of peaceful intent, because, my friends, intention is everything.
Love is speaking
Can't you hear it?
Use this blank template to make your own peace globe
Update on Little Bro: He's been home for awhile. We are so grateful for all prayers/Reiki lifted for his healing when he was hospitalized. Thank you! He got OUT OF THAT BED (!) and came home, where he has been happier.
But treatments have been rough on him and the cancer has not stayed in one place.
There are constant appointments. He needs to gain weight before continuing, so getting him more stable is the focus. We are praying and believing for another wave of strength from Above that he so desperately needs.
Meanwhile, other-little-brother (his best friend) is working on tending to homegrown tomatoes and veggies in the garden they planted together. When they're not watching a Braves game or strumming guitars, they're turning over dirt waiting for miracles to sprout.
Love grows in different ways depending on what is needed in the season
Love can grow in a soil of hope and toil Seeds and baseball
Music
and deep brother love
Why am I talking about Love in the middle of cancer?
Because healing goes where love grows whether it's from tomatoes in earth or prayers laid down in cucumber dirt
and it's time for another Monday Mimisms on the old blog channel.
As if
The more I try to embrace new avenues and platforms, the more I keep coming back to this blog. Some of the best decisions of my life stem from this blog. Some of the happiest moments of my life were on this blog. My hardest heartaches spilled on this blog.
These pages hold truth. They hold substance. They hold memory. They hold history.
They hold me.
All the old editing software has changed. AI dictates my grammar, suggests my revisions, punctuates my prissy online diary, and attempts to steer me in a predictable forward direction...
when all I really want to do is for it to leave me alone and let me write -
Unhindered
My words
My way
When have I ever been predictable?
"May I help you with this paragraph?" asks the Intrusion of all Intrusions
"No thank you, Mr. Bot," said She, " I am just now getting used to your presence. I don't know you. You don't know me. I don't even know your Grandma. I couldn't possibly ask for your help if I don't know your Grandma. We won't be collaborating on a steamy ending nor a dubious beginning down Literary Lane.
I just want to write."
"I don't even know your real name."
"But I can do things so much faster, Ms. Lenox.
Ask me anything!"
"Well, if you insist. My heart- my human heart- is having a meltdown this afternoon. Do you have any indication of which specific cliff I'm going to fall from first? Do I need a parachute? Or will it be a casual tumbling down the rabbit hole....Do you see the memories in my soul? Do you feel them? Can you predict which heartbeat matters most, or if, even, I'll still have a beating heart by sundown? What is your data diagnosis, O-Intrusive-One? I've taken all the aspirin I can take. I've called you in the morning, in the evening, and at each crisis in-between. Your isms are not helping. You keep vomiting back to me everything I've ever said on the Internet or previously written anyway and anywhere in the whole wide world. You know my run-ons by heart. And that damn ellipsis horror at the top of my blog, you know it, too. It follows me like a pesky grammar gang, stalking my intentions, marking my territory, mocking my style.
And besides, what you write is boring. It's a waste of time. It's redundant. Why does the world want to hear me repeat myself again and again and again? That is not writing; that is regurgitation.
Oh, and theft.
That too.
Anyone can be me
when prompted correctly.
I'm working on a poem about love. Romantic love.
Can you anticipate the exact moment my tears will well up in the midst of the feels and overtake the cautious clicking of the pen? Because it will happen. Are you ready for the big, ugly cry?
Or will you try to steer me away from its power?
Can you read between the lines and catch what my heart heard him say?
All momentum stopped at the sound of his voice.
Can you write that for me? Are you privvy to my privies in the only way my pen knows to speak?
Can you remember the look in his eyes?
The breaths caught up in moments of knowing? Can you?
How much do you know, O-Swift-Machine?
How much do you know?
Will you offer psychological-isms based on Freud and Jung and self-help books? Or may I proceed with the likes of Rumi on my lips? May I conjure up some Jesus on the way to the next sentence or sit with Buddha under the Bodhi tree? I have all day, you see. My memory is long in places you haven't seen.
I need the reckoning. The shudder. The quake. The flush.
Can you feel it when it comes?
Will you wait for me?
I didn't think so.
Because I am caught and captured in the knowing, I never want to be free. My heart wants to beat out and bleed out this overwhelming angst and massive ancient love on papyrus.
Both were most comfortable, however, behind a contraption pulled by Nellie the Mule, who wobbled and tilled the garden the old-fashioned way. We were most happy under the wall-to-wall grapevines that provided muscadines for wall-to-wall pear preserves in the musty cellar. Aunt Grace kindly served us red-striped peppermint sticks when it wasn't even Christmas. And lemonade. 
