When I Close My Eyes, I Pray for Peace

When I close my eyes at night, the world doesn’t fall silent—it only gets quieter, like a whisper echoing through my soul. The darkness around me is not just the absence of light, but a sacred space, a kind of sanctuary where I can finally be still. In that stillness, I pray. Not because I am overly pious or full of spiritual wisdom, but because I don’t know what else to do with the ache I carry in my chest for this world. I pray for peace.

I pray for peace—not just for myself, but for the ones who’ve given up. For the quiet souls who carry invisible burdens, who have cried alone in the dark, whose battles are unseen but fierce. For the ones who feel lost in a world that moves too fast, that expects too much, and gives too little in return. I lift them in my heart and I ask, no—I plead—for gentleness to find them. May love wrap them up in arms they didn’t know were waiting.

I pray for love. Not just romantic love or the kind celebrated in songs and poems, but a deeper, quieter kind of love—the kind that shows up unannounced, in small acts of kindness, in holding the door for a stranger, in saying, “I see you,” to someone who has gone unseen far too long. I pray that every life, no matter how broken or forgotten, leads the way with kindness. That people might choose empathy over assumption, and listening over judgment.

I pray that truth and beauty remain timeless. That in a world of noise and filters and curated perfection, we never lose sight of the simple wonders—the laughter of a child, the sun rising after a storm, the softness of forgiveness, and the strength it takes to say, “I’m sorry.” That art and music, poetry and prayer, and all the fragile things that make us human, never become obsolete.

And I pray for dreams—oh, how I pray for dreams. For those dreams that are barely hanging on, fluttering like wings with torn feathers, fragile from disappointment, heavy with fear. I pray they still find air, still catch light, still rise. That even shattered wings find wind. That we stop telling people to “be realistic” and instead help them believe again. Because dreams are often the only thing that keep the soul from breaking completely.

I pray for hearts—every kind. For the ones that are broken and bruised, the ones still bleeding from goodbye, the ones weary from giving more than they ever received. For the strong hearts that keep beating even when the world is cruel, and for the weak ones that barely make it through the day. For the ones that need healing, and for the ones that need rest. I pray that each one finds comfort. That each one knows it still matters.

I pray we think before we speak. That we realize our words can either heal or harm, lift or break. That we pause before we spill anger or mock another’s pain. That we teach our children the power of their voices—not to shout the loudest, but to speak with love, to speak with courage, to speak with truth. I pray we become slower to judge, quicker to understand.

And yes, I pray for peace.

I pray we learn to forgive—not just once, but again and again. To forgive the ones who never said they were sorry, and to forgive ourselves for the ways we fell short. I pray we let go, truly let go, so we can live free. Because unforgiveness is a cage, and peace waits on the other side of the key.

I pray no soul must walk alone. That no one is left to suffer in silence, to feel as if they’re the only one fighting the dark. That someone reaches out, even if it’s just with a smile, a text, a word that says, “You matter.” I pray for connection in a disconnected world. For presence in the midst of distraction. For hands that hold, shoulders that carry, and eyes that really see.

I pray for hope. Not the flimsy kind that wilts with the news cycle, but real, gritty hope—the kind that stands even when everything is falling apart. I pray we hold on, and then hold each other. That we become hope for one another. That we stop waiting for heroes and remember we are called to be one another’s angels.

I pray for time—not just more of it, but better use of it. That we don’t waste it chasing things that won’t matter at the end. That we fill it with music, laughter, storytelling, and love. That we dance when no one’s watching, that we cry without shame, that we sing even if our voices shake. That we create beauty simply because we can.

I pray we play a song that brings the world together. A song without language barriers or cultural lines. A melody that speaks straight to the soul. That we find unity in art, in rhythm, in our shared desire for something better for our children. I pray we live as if the next generation is watching—because they are.

And so for our children, can we please… pray for peace?

Reach for my hand. Open your heart. There’s no need to stand so far apart. We were not made to be enemies. We are not meant to be divided. Our God on high is everyone’s—not just yours, not just mine. He is the God of the refugee and the ruler, the beggar and the billionaire, the broken and the bold. Every mother’s child holds the same worth. We must believe this. We must live as if it’s true.

Now I close my eyes again, and I pray for peace.

For the souls trapped by the night—those imprisoned by trauma, abuse, depression, fear—I pray for light. I pray it breaks through like morning, unexpected and unstoppable. I pray love rises to meet hate, and overwhelms it. I pray we stop choosing anger because it’s easier, and choose love even when it costs us.

I pray for faith—not just religion, but a deep-rooted trust in something greater, something good. That even in chaos, we believe in redemption. That even in war, we believe in peace. That we live by a faith that calls us to be better—to love more fiercely, to act more justly, and to walk more humbly.

I pray we feel compassionate as one heart now. That we grieve together, that we celebrate together, that we stop seeing differences as threats and start seeing them as the colors of a shared humanity. That we soften our edges. That we let love take root in the hard soil of our pride.

Unholy wars must end before they start now. We must not teach our children to hate. We must not pass down our bitterness and call it wisdom. Let us not build walls where bridges are needed. Let us not light fires where peace could grow. I pray for courage to stand in the gap, to be peacemakers in our homes, our schools, our churches, our communities.

I pray for trust. I pray for grace. For second chances and the strength to try again. For the humility to admit we were wrong and the courage to make it right. I pray we stop needing to win, and start needing to understand. I pray we lift one another up, rather than tearing each other down.

And to the one who’s hurting—I pray for you. I may not know your name or your story, but I hold you in my heart tonight. I pray for healing. I pray for peace to find you in the chaos. I pray for someone to come alongside you and remind you: you are not alone.

I pray for smiles on every child. Real smiles—the kind that come from feeling safe and seen and deeply loved. I pray we protect their innocence and nurture their dreams. That we remember their eyes are watching, learning from everything we do.

And I pray for peace.

Let it start with me. With my choices. My words. My attitude. Let it begin in the way I speak to strangers, the way I listen to my loved ones, the way I live when no one is watching. Let peace be my offering. My protest. My anthem. My prayer.

Let it echo in my breathing. Let it flow through my tears. Let it move in my silence. Let it rise in my song.

Let me be peace in a world so desperately needing it.

So tonight, as I close my eyes and whisper to the heavens, I pray not just with words, but with all that I am.

I pray for peace.
Forever and always… I pray for peace.