Seeking Sanctuary

I just wanted a place to be alone.

A few weeks ago, I found myself roaming the halls of Alpena Community College, searching in increasing desperation for a place that wasn’t overrun by people.

The annual Science Olympiad had drawn flocks of eager young scientists ― my youngest son among them — to campus, where they hunched, goggled and lab-coated, silently over lab tables or giggled through the hallways, playing long-form games of hide and seek.

The designated driver-mom of the day, I had hours to kill while The Offspring did his science thing. Happily, I’d brought my handy-dandy laptop and a headful of ideas. All I needed was a quiet spot where I could retreat into my keyboard.

But, the people.

They were everywhere.

Humans on benches, in corners, under stairwells. Voices frolicking down corridors, laughter bursting through doorways. People, people, everywhere.

Don’t get me wrong ― I like humans. They’re fascinating, and life would be lonely without them.

Sometimes, though, they are many and overwhelming, and I need some little corner of refuge where I can hide from them all.

The word “sanctuary” has been much in the news lately.

A place of refuge or safety, a sanctuary is supposed to be. A place of comfort. Quiet. Security.

A place where you can tuck your head in and hide a little when you need to.

In national and local forums, though, the concept of sanctuary has, instead, raised concerns and blood pressure.

In so-called sanctuary cities, immigrants receive extra protections from extradition or arrest. To some, these cities are a rightful refuge. To others, they represent the illegal coddling of criminals.

Several northern Michigan communities have declared themselves Second Amendment sanctuary cities in support of gun owners’ rights. The meetings where such decisions are made have been sometimes thick with tense faces and raised voices on both sides of the issue.

There are, of course, other kinds of sanctuary that don’t make people call each other names and clench their ideals in angry fists.

The Thunder Bay National Marine Sanctuary, where big boats recline, undisturbed, at lake’s bottom, this year celebrates 20 years of allowing a treasured resource to rest at peace.

Critters and green things are kept safe at the Alpena Wildlife Sanctuary, Spitler Shore Nature Sanctuary, and other nooks set aside for quiet and security and retreat.

To me, sanctuary is a tree with friendly branches that peered over the back yard fence at my girlhood home, waiting to welcome a shy child and her latest paperback.

It’s the place I often long for, the arms of that gentle tree — a place away from the world and its sometimes-too-much-ness.

I’ll be honest — in the hubbub of a forward-slanting day, when I’m frazzled and fearful and full of regret, I forget. I forget that there is a sanctuary, a place to lean my head and close my eyes, where there is a moment of quiet and I can just breathe.

It’s not amid ships or squirrels, my sanctuary. It’s not even in a pretty church building, cloaked in quiet and stained glass and where sinful humans bare their imperfections just as much as they do anywhere else in the world.

My sanctuary is in a tree.

You are my refuge, King David achingly told the God of Israel, over and over.

And over.

A full 48 times in the book of Psalms, its author ― a wealthy and powerful king, the type of person who really shouldn’t need a place to hide, most would say — clings to his Creator, longing to conceal himself in His robes of refuge.

For a king, and for a foolish child who forgets where to lay her head, there’s sanctuary in the simple knowledge of being loved. Forgiven. In spite of everything, and in the midst of everything.

All because of One who climbed a tree, reached out His arms, and said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Life will be taxing. There will be people, people everywhere, and peace will be hard to come by.

There’s a corner, a refuge, a quiet place, a sanctuary, in being a wanted child for whom everything has been given.

Tuck in your head and breathe.

First published in The Alpena News on March 15, 2020.