Peace on earth — or at least in my family

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I should have known better. I had just spent the last four hours driving to my brother's cabin Up North. The roads had been dicey with a misty snowfall. I was tired. It was no time to listen to the news on TV, yet I did. It is my brother's routine and as he was recovering from cancer surgery it seemed a kind thing to do, to sit with him.

He lives alone. He has an active life and we get along well. One reason is that we avoid political discussions altogether — he being "Christian conservative," as he identifies himself, and me being on the liberal end of things, including no religious affiliation and at the same time open to all.

I don't even recall exactly what piece of the news set me off. But before I knew it I was stating my case and he was stating his. To his credit he stayed calm. My voice grew more heated by the minute.

It ended with me calling him a white supremacist and then, with as much dignity as I could muster, removing myself off to bed.

I did not fall asleep. I sat up in bed staring at the snowflakes falling outside my window. "This is not how I want to be," I prayed. "It's my intention to stay open to the opinions and beliefs of others without judging them. Yet I just blew it. Please help me find a better way."

The next morning I awoke with these words settled in my mind: "Love the issues that divide us into the answers that unite us."

I wrote them down. My whole body tingled with the recitation of them. My heart felt open; I felt changed in some indescribable way, as if I had just stepped into a new vista, one as pristine as the white landscape outside.

I apologized to my brother and shared the words with him. "Here is what I know about you," I said. "You have a good heart and you would do anything to help anyone."

He nodded. "I would."

"So how about this, what if you and I stay in our heart space, seeing one another from there?"

We sat down by the fireplace, sipping our smoothies, and had perhaps the most profound talk we had ever had. I asked him to tell me about his beliefs. I heard the sincerity in his voice. When I feel another's sincerity something takes place that does not happen when intellect meets intellect — a communion forms, a coming together with another that transcends words, race, gender, religion, politics and culture.

My brother heard me, too, remarking that I lived in a tent that was bigger than his. He said it with respect.

To love the issues that divide us into the answers that unite us is about practicing love as a verb, not a noun. It immediately opens the heart to new ways of seeing, thinking, doing and being. There is a field of possibilities beyond what we can know boxed up in our labels, opinions, beliefs and judgments.

It's time we shift from our heads to our hearts. This is a way forward. There is no breathing room left in those tight little boxes.

My brother and I found ourselves full of peace and reverence for the rest of my three-day visit. This is my holiday wish for all of us. And I know my brother wholeheartedly agrees.