I grew up in the epitome of a Southern Black Baptist church. Paper fans tucked into wooden pews with nameplates. Red hymnals. IYKYK. [1] The same benediction every 1st and 3rd Sunday. Choir robes. The Hammond organ. The call-and-response. The gold offering plates passed by ushers in crisp white gloves.

 

The memories of that season are lasting; the moments within it, shaping.

 

Looking back, I realize those familiar rhythms were doing more than filling my childhood with beautiful memories. They were forming me. The worship, the prayers, the traditions, the people—they were planting seeds in me that would continue to grow long after I left those pews.

 

And lately, one of those seeds has been resurfacing—loudly, in melody.

 

I’ve sung the words countless times over the years, but in this last week, I’ve found myself lingering over the first few:

 

 

Isn't it interesting how easily we can sing familiar lyrics without considering what we are actually saying, let alone praying?

 

Because this prayer is not simply a request for God to use us. It is a request for God to shape us.

 

 

Prepare the places in me that still need surrender.

Prepare the places in me that still respond in my own strength.

Prepare the places in me that need to become more like you.

 

Because preparation implies that I’m not already fully formed. It acknowledges that there are still places in me that need to be made ready.

 

And while Scripture assures us that the Holy Spirit already dwells within us, the prayer isn’t asking God to move into an empty heart—it’s asking him to continue to sanctify us, to shape us into women who increasingly reflect his presence.

 

Motherhood is filled with preparation.

 

Preparing breakfast.

Preparing schedules.

Preparing lessons and appointments and celebrations.

Preparing our children for what is ahead.

 

But before all of that comes the quieter invitation:

 

 

Not my circumstances.

Not my children.

Not even my home.

 

 

When we hear the word “sanctuary,” many of us picture a place for self-care or worship. A building. A minimal or sacred space. A place set apart.

 

But scripture tells us that a sanctuary was never holy because of its architecture. In Exodus 25:8, God says, “Let them make me a sanctuary, that I may dwell in their midst.” The holiness wasn’t found in the walls or the furnishings. It was found in his presence.

 

And in Exodus 3:5, when Moses stands before the burning bush, God tells him, “Take your sandals off your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” The ground wasn’t holy because of Moses. Nor was it holy because of the desert. It was holy because God was there. [3]

 

Holiness is never self-generated. It is always bestowed. Always declared. Always the result of his presence, not our perfection.

 

 

Becoming a sanctuary doesn’t mean becoming a woman who never struggles, never gets frustrated, or never falls short. It means becoming a woman who keeps returning.

 

Returning to his presence.

Returning to his truth.

Returning to Jesus.

 

Not perfectly. Repeatedly.

 

It looks like your pause before your response.

An apology when we speak from impatience.

Praying over the child who stretched you that day.

Choosing gratitude in the mundane.

Opening our hands and surrendering the things we were never meant to grasp tightly.

 

Perhaps the invitation of this prayer is not found in the extraordinary moments of faith, but in the ones that are ordinary.

 

Because a sanctuary is not only found in a church building, steeped in hymns, stained glass, and generations.

 

A sanctuary can be found in a heart that has made room for God. In the middle of the dishes. In the middle of the interruptions. In the middle of the conversations, decisions, frustrations, and quiet moments that make up our days.

 

And so, the question I now find myself asking is this:

 

 

Not because I have perfected my days.

Not because I have mastered patience or always lace my words with grace.

But because I am learning to invite him into all of it.

 

The good. The messy. The unfinished. The places where I still need to be formed.

 

Maybe that is what it means to become a sanctuary—not to become someone who has arrived, but someone who continually makes room. Someone who returns. Someone who surrenders again and again.

 

The sanctuary I once entered is now the sanctuary I am becoming. The little girl who learned the language of worship in a sanctuary is now the woman asking God to make her one.

 

She did not yet understand the depth of those words she sang from the pews and often from the choir stand. She did not know that one day, that familiar chorus would become the prayer of a mother asking God to shape her.

 

The songs I learned as a child are becoming the prayers I understand more deeply now. And isn’t this how God often works? He begins preparing us long before we know what he is preparing us for.

 

The seeds planted in those sacred spaces were quietly forming the woman who would one day pray those words with a greater yearning:

 

[1] The New National Baptist Hymnal circa 1977. I will never ever forget that Blessed Assurance is on page 27.

[2] “Sanctuary,” written by Randy Scruggs and John W. Thompson, © Full Armor Publishing / Whole Armor Publishing.

[3] When the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, “Moses, Moses!” And he said, “Here I am.” Exodus 3:4

[4] "Sanctuary," sung by CeCe Winans

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