SANCTUARY

There are places we go because we need to get away.

And there are places we go because we need to come back to ourselves.

I am learning the difference.

For a long time, I thought of sanctuary as a place of safety—a place where the storms could not reach me. Somewhere removed from the noise, the demands, the conflict, and the endless troubles of the world.

But perhaps sanctuary is not a place where the storms cannot reach.

Perhaps it is a place where the storms do not get the final word.

Our outer life has a way of following us home.

Frustrations with coworkers.

Confrontations with people who see the world differently than us.

We carry conversations long after they have ended. We carry responsibilities that cannot be finished in a single day. We carry grief, disappointment, anger, uncertainty, and the weight of things happening in a world that seems determined to give us something new to worry about before we have finished processing yesterday.

Some of us become so accustomed to carrying these things that we forget we are carrying them.

They simply become part of the weight.

And eventually, we need somewhere to put it down.

That is what sanctuary has begun to mean to me.

Not escape.

Refuge.

Escape says, I do not want to face the world.

Refuge says, I have faced the world, and I need somewhere the world cannot continually take from me.

Sometimes sanctuary is a house.

Sometimes it is a room.

Sometimes it is sitting beside a window while rain taps against the roof.

Sometimes it is reading a book in a quiet nook, disappearing into its pages for an hour while everything outside of them waits its turn.

Sometimes it is music playing softly in the background.

A cup of tea.

A familiar chair.

A dog sleeping nearby.

A Bible opened across your lap.

Sometimes sanctuary is simply silence.

It does not have to be impressive.

It only has to give your soul permission to unclench.

There is something sacred about crossing a threshold and understanding that everything you encountered outside does not automatically have the right to follow you inside.

The problems still exist.

The bills still exist.

The difficult people still exist.

The news will still be there.

Tomorrow will still bring whatever tomorrow intends to bring.

But for a little while, there can be a boundary.

This far.

No farther.

Not because I no longer care about what happens beyond these walls.

But because I am finally learning that caring about the world does not require allowing the world unlimited access to me.

There are things I can put down.

There are battles that can wait until morning.

There are questions that do not require answers tonight.

There are burdens I was never meant to carry in the first place.

And there are moments when the most faithful thing I can do is simply be still.

Scripture says:

“For thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy.

I will abide in thy tabernacle for ever: I will trust in the covert of thy wings. Selah.”

— Psalm 61:3–4, KJV

Shelter.

Abide.

Trust.

Those words have begun to mean something different to me.

Because a sanctuary is more than a quiet place.

Quiet can be found almost anywhere.

What makes a place sacred is presence.

The presence of God.

There are moments when I can sit quietly and feel no need to explain myself to Him. No carefully constructed prayer. No list of requests. No attempt to find the right words.

Just presence.

His and mine.

And somehow, in that stillness, things begin returning to their proper proportions.

The thing that seemed enormous becomes manageable.

The anger that followed me through the door begins to loosen its grip.

The grief is still grief, but I remember that I do not carry it alone.

The noise inside my head grows quieter.

My breathing slows.

My heart softens.

I am restored.

Not repaired as though I were a machine.

Not prepared to rush immediately into the next assignment.

Restored.

Returned to myself.

Returned to God.

Returned to the place inside me where fear does not have to speak the loudest and the troubles of the world are no longer permitted to occupy every room.

And eventually, I will cross the threshold again.

Sanctuary was never meant to become a hiding place.

There are still people to love.

There is still work worth doing.

There are still things that should anger us, suffering that should move us, injustice that should be confronted, and people who will need us to show up.

But perhaps we were never meant to meet all of that without somewhere to return.

Because if we remain exposed to the storm long enough without shelter, something inside us can begin to change.

Compassion can become exhaustion.

Conviction can become contempt.

Anger can become hatred.

And a heart that once cared deeply can slowly begin to grow cold.

Maybe sanctuary is one of the places where God prevents that from happening.

A place where I can bring Him what the world has done to me before I carry it back outside and do it to someone else.

A place where bitterness can be surrendered before it becomes part of my character.

A place where I can remember that strength does not require hardness.

A place where the soul can become quiet enough to hear again:

Be still.

Abide.

Trust.

Then, when the time comes, I can open the door.

The storm may still be there.

The world may still be loud.

Nothing outside may have changed at all.

But something inside has.

I can step back into the world without allowing the world to take possession of me.

And when I become tired again, when the noise becomes too loud, when my heart needs somewhere to rest, I know there is a place to return.

A chair.

A book.

A quiet room.

The sound of rain against the roof.

The presence of God.

Sanctuary.

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Silent Sentinel

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