Picture an unknown peasant in the fourteenth century, toiling behind the plow, trying to eke a living out of the rocky soil. Maybe he doesn't even have the convenience of a horse and another man pulls the plow ahead of him, as he struggles to hold it upright, cutting through the skin of the earth, preparing it to plant seeds that he prays will sprout and blossom, in hopes of gleaning enough food to pay the landlord and also feed his family.

Maybe it's a bad day. Maybe it's raining more than water. Maybe it's one of the blood raining seasons. He hears the whinny of a horse, the clang of metal against metal. It might be a band of Vandals, hungry as he is. Or it might be the loosely organized army of some lord or king, their horses plodding under their armor across his plowed field on their way to some battle far away. Farther away than he has walked in all his years put together.

Maybe it's just not his day. He stops to watch, not seeing the point of running. He can't believe he has anything anyone would want. After all, he has only a small hut that the wind cuts through as painfully in the cold winters as a steel blade through a rusty breastplate.

It's not easy being a man who works from sunrise to sunset, or sitting wrapped in torn blankets in the dead of frost, trying to stay warm till the spring thaw. He has a few friends. They all have the same life, the same fears. Will they be able to pay the rent and have enough left to feed themselves and their loved ones? Will the landlord or the church demand more than their share again this year, the way they always do in years of famine?

Will the roving bands steal his crop after it's been harvested? Will it be too wet and stored before it can dry, rotting slowly in the absence of warmth? Yes, he thinks, and he feels. He senses himself as some way unique, different from others, though drawn to some, and avoiding others.

The expression of the knights' eyes on the sides of their nosepieces makes him uneasy. They look tired, hungry. They don't quite focus as they glance at him in passing. Then he realizes that their path will lead them right past his hut, built against the earthen bank.

They topple some stones meant to shield the sheep from eating his crop. The large hooves of the horses pound and flatten the earth, harder than it was before the plow. The furrows cut by sweat and muscle and the wood scoop of the plow are demolished. Raised earth clods fly around the horses' hooves as lightly as the chaff of grain that circles around the heavy round grinding stone of the mill.

He motions to the man standing in front of him, the harness still strapped around his chest, and they follow silently, afraid for their families as the horses near the hut. There is nothing there to take, nothing of value except to him, yet they are heading straight for his home.

No point to running. No point to fear. That would be a sign of weakness, asking for trouble. Walking to his home, almost afraid to raise his eyes to see, his thoughts and feelings turn into fears.

As one of the larger men, over five feet tall, kicks his thick leather boots into the side of his horse, goading it right up to the door, he feels his heart leap. The foot kicks out, making a loud thudding noise and the door moves slightly, hanging crooked on its hinges.

A soft wail comes from inside. Now he wants to run, but there are many of them. He pictures his wife holding his children close. Stories flood through his mind, like an irrigation ditch has broken in a heavy rain, washing up seeds that sprout the tales he's heard. He remembers others who lost everything, when the Crusaders plundered their fields, their homes, their very lives, in past years.

Seeing their stained metal, the sun glinting on the lighter patches on their backs, raises memories as dormant as a weed buried under a rock. His steps quicken. His heart quickens more as the horse stumbles its haunches against the side of the hut and one of the rocks near the base of the foundation falls out.

That he can repair, but the soft breath of fear from inside sprouts wicked weeds faster than the sun on the hottest, wettest day in June. As a few more sandstones fall out of their places, the weeds trail out, each leaf bringing another glimpse of frightening possibilities. He begins to trot, shouting. Several of the horses spin around to face him.

What could he possibly have that they wanted? Why do they stop at his poor home? What can he offer to satisfy their curiosity, so they'll move on, damaging no more than they have?

As they dismount he runs faster, hearing his wife and children screaming inside. The door is kicked in. Out of breath from trying to shout and run at the same time, one of the horses leaps towards him. He hears the snort of the beast, and he is suddenly falling backwards. It's heavy body tramples him.

The air is crushed out of his lungs as ribs snap. The pain is numbed by a feeling of disbelief. All he wanted to do was plow the field today. His last thoughts are for those he loves, those he lives to take care of. Then his empty body lies useless.

Did his death matter more than his life? How many more have lived and breathed, but stopped living and breathing, since man drew his first breath? How many more have been as needlessly wasted in the soil that gave them meaning and purpose?

Do you know his name? Did he make a mark in history? Did his life matter?

So you think your life matters? Of course it does!

Yet history has a way of erasing what you write today. It has a way of washing away the inky scratches of what has meaning to most men. A few generations and even the parchment is forgotten.

It's sad that technology has advanced faster than wisdom. It's such a simple truth to realize that the century, the country, the language, the customs, make no difference at all. Absolutely none!

Every man wants the same thing, from that first breath to the last, all the way around the globe we share. We all want a chance to live our lives without pain, without hardship, in the company of those we care about.

As I sit here, plowing the pen in the furrows of the lines, I wonder why cultures and people's differing beliefs make it so hard to accomplish such a simple desire?

Believe me, that uneducated peasant, with his limited vocabulary, was not much different from you or me. He probably owned no book, no Bible. But even those of us who are able to read are the same when it comes down to what's important. The sooner we realize that, the sooner we'll be able to live together, on Earth as it is in Heaven.