Read this evoking poem from Trayce Peterson, one of the co-clerks of the Young Adult and Youth Gathering.

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Before this year’s Young Adult and Youth Gathering, or YAY Gathering, many Friends were preparing both spiritually and logistically. As part of that preparation, Cai Quirk, FGC’s Youth and eRetreat Coordinator, asked several Friends to share their reflections on the YAY Gathering theme. The theme was “Peace Like a River, Joy Like a Fountain: Nourishing Spirit through Creativity, Worship, and Play.”

One of the Friends to write their reflection was Trayce Peterson. Trayce was a YAY Gathering co-clerk with Asma Roshi and Sara Sheffer.

As Trayce considered what to offer—especially while bearing witness to the ongoing violence in Gaza and other parts of the world—they felt called to hold space for both truth and tenderness. They focused on the presence of sorrow and the persistence of joy and love. In writing, Trayce reflected on a visit to the West Bank and Gaza. She recounted the questions that came up after a surprising and challenging conversation with a soldier. Written in the spirit of YAY Gathering, the poem she wrote asks people to live more deliberately, with courage, tenderness, love, and hope. 

Below, Trayce has agreed to share that reflection with the wider Quaker community. Read about the power of staying open, sharing love, and, when possible, offering repair. Imagine how neighborhoods and classrooms can be sites of the simple, unadorned work of justice and mercy. 


Reflection for the YAY Gathering, July 2025
Theme: Peace Like a River, Joy Like a Fountain

I’ve been wrestling—
heart heavy, Spirit stirred—
trying to find words in a time so full of grief,
so thick with violence and silence.

We are living in a world unraveling.
Some of us watch helplessly as genocide unfolds before our eyes.
Some of us carry the weight of ancestral lands stolen,
of histories buried but not gone.
We ache,
and we listen.

It feels right, then, to begin with a story.
A memory held close—
from a sacred land,
scarred and holy.

Years ago, I joined a delegation of Mennonite and Brethren peacemakers,
sent to walk, to witness,
to listen for what Spirit might ask of us in Palestine and Israel.
We traveled throughout the West Bank, Jerusalem
into Gaza,
through ancient streets and shattered places.

Through it all, there was a strange peace—
deep, like a river running below the surface.
And there was joy,
unexpected and clear,
bubbling up like a hidden spring.

It was a joy to travel with my Mennonite and Brethren sisters and brothers—
to pray together,
to share songs,
to learn the beauty of traditions rooted in peace.
Historic Peace Churches, we are called—
and our witness was a gift to me.
Together we tasted a joy that flowed,
even through sorrow.

One moment in Hebron stays with me still.
The Ibrahimi Mosque and Synagogue—one building,
two prayers,
guarded by soldiers.
Not long before, a massacre had unfolded there.
A Jewish man filled with hatred entered a sacred space
and took lives mid-prayer.
Now the Israeli soldiers stood watch—
not to protect all worshippers, Muslim and Jewish,
but to guard against reprisals.
The grief hung heavy in the air, unspoken and sharp.

I spoke with one of them.
He told me:
“Jews and Black people share a twin struggle—
a long road of pain,
of rising,
of being othered.
You, of all people, should understand why we are here.”

I paused, Spirit steadying me.
And I asked:
“How is the Palestinian struggle for freedom
any different from the Black struggle for liberation?”

He looked at me—
his brow furrowed.
“They don’t like us,” he said.

I answered gently,
“That’s a story. A dangerous one.
There are Palestinians who love Jews, even as they long for freedom
just as there are Jews who’ve stood with Black communities in struggle.
And there are moments of betrayal, too—
but those do not define us.
Would it be fair for me to say that Jews hate Black people?
No. Of course not.”

What I remember most
is not that we disagreed,
but that we spoke our truths
with open hearts.
I saw the Divine in him.
And I believe he saw it in me too.

This, Friends, is our work:
to let our light shine in dark places,
to speak what burns in our bellies,
to ground ourselves in love
when the world would rather have us turn away.

And let us not forget—
the world desperately needs our boldness,
our joy,
our laughter.
Not because things are easy,
but because they are not.
We repair and we grow
not by pretending perfection,
but by being honest, by being true.
We learn from our mistakes,
and in that learning,
we become more whole.

And no, we do not have to cross oceans
to do this sacred work.
We are invited to it each day—
in our classrooms,
our families,
our friend circles,
our neighborhoods.
We are offered chance after chance
to speak truth,
to share love,
to offer repair when harm has been done.
These, too, are holy places.

As Friends—young and old—
we are called to wrestle,
not just with what we believe,
but with how we live.
Are we dwelling in the Presence?
Are we doing enough to bend the arc toward justice?

These questions are not burdens—
they are lanterns.
Carried daily,
they help us reach further—
toward peace,
toward right relationship,
toward healing the torn and trembling world.

-Trayce Peterson, 7.1.25