In search of sacred safety
Barns have always provided a sanctuary for me. When I was a child, even the slightest spray of rain was an excuse for my sister and me to run to my family’s barn with blankets and books for a Saturday afternoon of reading. The droning of raindrops on the metal roof, nickering of horses, and clucking of ducks was our symphony of safety. My daughters repeated the tradition, often stacking bales of hay to create Lego-like houses, castles, and cozy hideaways for our barn cats.
In Charlotte’s Web, a family favorite, E. B. White describes the barn where the piglet and spider first meet as an oasis of peace, where “nothing bad could happen ever again in the world.” When our house was rendered inhospitable by drunken rages or worse, my daughters and I would flee to this cathedral of goodness, burying teary faces in the neck of a horse or fighting fear by stroking a contented kitten.
I’ve accepted that I cannot protect my daughters, so instead, in prayer, I place them not in the shelter of the past but upon the altar of their true Father. There I can be sure they are loved—and safe—in the embrace of their king and their God.
Eventually I realized there was no location on my acreage safe from the emotional warfare and covert manipulation that buzz through families of the addicted like the hum and crackle of high-tension power lines so common on rural lots like ours. I found respite from the relentless vibrations of my mind and heart only in the Eucharistic adoration chapel of my parish, comforted there by my rote recitation of a rosary. After morning barn chores, I began to seek out sanctuaries of stone and stained glass, attending Mass every day.
In these more traditional sacred safe places, something remarkable happened: I began to believe I was indeed a divine daughter of God. I set aside the twisted, prideful notion that it was my job to safeguard myself and my daughters single-handedly. We needed God’s grace and protection. Only after crossing the threshold of God’s home did I muster the courage to step through the door to a new life and security in my God’s arms.
Continue Reading This article also appears in the August 2022 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 87, No. 8, pages 21-23).
About the Author
Jean Kelly believes in the power of stories, both hers and others, to give hope, build faith, and improve communities. That is why she considers herself “a lectio-divina evangelista” who teaches how spiritual reading is sometimes the only prayer that works, especially in times of desperation. The ancient practice has saved her from several destructive and co-dependent relationships by offering easy access to peace of mind. She is a novice of St. Meinrad Archabbey, on the path to becoming a Third Order Benedictine Oblate.
Related Resources
Pray: Listen to a mini-meditation about finding a safe home.
Write: About a place where you frequently find peace.