Turning the corner, I let out a sigh of relief as I spot the water tower in the distance; just thirty minutes more. No matter how long I have been away, that water tower marks the pleasant reminder that home is now only thirty minutes away, where warm food, familiar smells, and wagging dog tails all wait for me.

If a pilgrimage is a journey to a sacred place, and a sacred place has a special connection with God, that space is a chance for us to experience a piece of heaven on earth. If God is everywhere, then a sacred place is made such by our own designation; as G.K. Chesterton wrote, “Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her.” We can cultivate a holy space in a setting of our choosing. The home should be a sacred space, where love and holiness are fostered.

As Christie Purifoy mentions in her book Roots & Sky, I have also “wondered if home is the place from which we come or the place we are headed.” Perhaps it is both. That is the sentiment I am trying to capture in this piece. The pilgrim may be heading toward the horizon, or perhaps peeking back from where she came. The journey can often feel cold, uncertain, and lonely. The trees are meant to act as a reminder that others are reaching out, on their own journey, just passing by. It only takes one to reach back and enter into a community that allows us to assist each other along the way.

As a twenty-five-year-old, I am caught between homes. Slowly but surely I am moving forward, traveling toward my sacred place—my future home. Yet, I also know that behind me is another holy space, ready and eager for me to visit. These are important moments; these allow me to remember where I came from and push me forward, giving me a glimpse of what lies ahead. Off in the distance, I can start to make out an image. I can imagine a sacred place waiting for me, and thanks to what lies behind me, I can know and anticipate the love and warmth ready to be appreciated and cultivated ahead.