We all chase a certain kind of peace.
The peace that comes with a signed contract, a filled bank account, a achieved dream. We believe that if we can just reach that summit, then—then—we will have security. Then we can finally exhale. I know this chase intimately because I lived it. And I learned the hard way that this kind of peace is often the most beautiful, and most dangerous, illusion.
It started with a victory. After decades of grinding work and financial struggle, I closed the biggest deal of my career. It was a dream come true. For the first time in my life, the numbers in my bank statement weren’t a source of daily anxiety but of soaring pride. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and security. I had done it. I had built my own fortress.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the walls of that fortress began to change me. The pressure was off, so my thinking shifted. Prudence, that careful old friend born from necessity, began to feel unnecessary. I started making expensive decisions—flashy purchases, overly generous gestures. I was spending not just money, but the very sense of groundedness that had gotten me there. I was trying to be a bridge for my family’s past struggles, using money as my building material. I confused having resources with having wisdom.
The peace felt real, but it was built on the fragile foundation of circumstance. I didn’t know it yet, but I was living out the ancient warning: “When people say, ‘There is peace and security,’ then sudden destruction will come upon them…” (1 Thessalonians 5:3).
thanks Marvelmozhko at Pixabay for this photo
The destruction was not financial. It was personal, and it was terrifying. From nowhere, my son was hospitalized. The fear that overtook our family was absolute. The world shrank to the four walls of a hospital room. In that moment of sheer panic, the illusion shattered. My fortress of financial security revealed its true purpose: not for show, but for survival. The very resources I had been carelessly spending became a sacred provision, a gift from God that allowed us to focus solely on my son’s recovery without the immediate terror of medical bills. He was in and out of the hospital for nearly two years, and that money was a lifeline.
But then, it was gone. The immense fund dwindled to nothing. I had to borrow money. We went from a peak of abundance to a valley of lack. It was a humbling, frightening crash. Yet, in that emptiness, something miraculous happened. My son, by the sheer grace of God, recovered. The ordeal forged a deeper, more resilient bond between my children. We were stripped of the illusion but found we had gained everything that truly mattered: our family’s health, our love for each other, and a crystal-clear understanding of what provides real security.
I had to confront a painful truth: I was not ready for that huge deal. I was not yet capable of handling the responsibility of wealth because I had not first mastered the responsibility of my heart. I had placed my peace in the gift, not the Giver.
This painful journey led me back to the simplest and most profound instruction in the manual of life: “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble” (Matthew 6:34). I used to read that as a suggestion. Now I understand it as a survival manual.
The crisis taught me that real security isn’t the absence of trouble; it’s the presence of grace in the midst of it. It’s not a bank balance that protects you, but a faithful God who provides exactly what you need when you need it—sometimes through abundance, sometimes through the kindness of others, and always through the strength you never knew you had.
Now, my practice is daily. My goal is no longer to build a fortress for tomorrow but to faithfully manage the day I’ve been given. It is difficult. The old habits of worry and projection die hard. But I am learning to fix my gaze not on the uncertain future, but on the certain goodness of God, proven not in my wealth, but in my rescue.
If you find your peace shaken today, ask yourself: where does my security truly lie? Is it in something that can vanish overnight, or in the One who holds all our nights and days in His hands?
The journey to the answer is the path to a peace that is not an illusion, but a promise
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