I flew to Florida at the beginning of the month to preach at our Orlando campus.

And when I’m in public spaces, I people watch.

The thing that struck me, on this trip, was the volume of Tiny People with Serious Plans.

I saw parents with an assortment of increasingly tiny children, like those Russian Dolls that each contain a smaller doll. It would be like a four year old, a two year old and a one year old, all improbably minuscule, all laser focused on getting on the plane.

They looked like miniature corporate reps on miniature business trips.

More striking than their size, though, were their carry-ons and demeanor.

A stuffed Mickey Mouse.

A Snoopy doll.

Bedazzled pink rolling luggage.

Nobody smiling.

And since airlines always use the language of limits and essentials, and you frequently have to get rid of things they won’t let you have, it got me thinking about the things we need.

What is essential?

What is indispensable?

What, for that matter, is sacred?

As a faith leader, my life revolves around cultivating and honoring sacred spaces that honor the God who made them and the people who seek to experience Him.

We honor the sanctuaries where we study, worship and pray.

We honor the Scriptures that breathe conviction, understanding, and hope into our lives.

What I watched in the airport, though, was a different kind of sacred space.

It was a tiny person squeezing the doll that gave her comfort.

It was another brave soul choosing luggage that expressed her vibe, a defiant row of diamonds and bubble gum pink plastic piercing a sea of gray.

And in these I saw a picture of the rest of us who pretend to be beyond this.

We travel through unfamiliar and hostile territory.

We experience strange and scary things.

And we pretend they don’t shake us.

But they do.

No matter how brave you are, that cancer diagnosis will make you feel helpless.

No matter how tough you are, loving someone who no longer loves you back will gut you.

No matter how seasoned you are, being surrounded by people who don’t speak your language, and hold power over you, will shake you, drain you, and tempt you to quit. Staying where you are different is possible. It may eventually be wonderful. It doesn’t mean it will be comfortable.

When everything around us is hostile, uncertain, intimidating, or just too big, we often look for something to ground us.

So we cultivate our sacred spaces, whether they are churches, gyms, parks, or bars.

We cling to our sacraments, whether they are communion wafers or Oreos.

We read our revered texts, whether they are holy books, or comic books.

We lose ourselves in our fantasies whether they are video games, or head games, or Hunger Games.

We flock to our communities, whether they are physical or digital, whether they are Good News gatherings, or Bad News networks.

And we hug the things that make us feel safe, whether they are stuffed animals, or smartphones, or money, or guns.

We flock to our communities.

We love them.

And we hope they love us back.

When God meets with Moses, in Exodus 3, he says take off your shoes. You are standing on holy ground. And then he reveals himself as the God of his fathers, and the deliverer of his people

Holy ground is where we meet with God.

It’s where we learn how we relate to him.

It’s not where we are rejected, ridiculed, or reduced for clannish and arbitrary reasons to less than the people around us.

Holy ground shows us who God is and who we are. And it is critical that we hold to it.

So I pray today, that you cling to the things that anchor you.

I pray that you run to the places that bring you joy.

I pray you find a way to preserve your peace in the world.

And if that makes you the only sparkling traveler in a dark and dreary room, I pray you put your head up, your shoulders back, and act like you belong.

Because you do.

You’ve got places to go, and I pray you get there safe.

Traveling mercies.

(Photo Credit: Gustavo Fring)