It’s not a healthy world for a traveler. Wrong place, wrong time, things can happen and put us in a situation where we depend on the citizens of a foreign country to care for us as human beings disoriented, wounded and lost, something few of us anticipate. Does God warn us? Do we feel reluctance or fear or nervous as we pack our bags with hopefully the right kind of clothing – with some thought to what happens if the airlines lose our luggage?

The stories I’ve heard are nightmarish, even though I’ve traveled to the most remote parts of the globe on the most odd airlines – they always seem to care and rescue us from the situation.

It has been written that there is a purpose in every journey unknown by the traveler. This is the challenge. To not have a clue as to how God will send someone to dance before you down the trail, and to sneak in little sprinkles of delight when you are least ready or expecting such things. It’s learning to be open to the challenges, the stumbles, the irritations, the delays, the disappointments because something will emerge out of that experience, and it will surely be different kinds of angels that step in for the rescue and to give ah-ha moments, joy, laughter, memories.

There are three primary destinations Christian pilgrims seek – Rome, Santiago de Compostela in Spain, and of course Jerusalem, where three faiths fight for the Holy spaces of their histories, that signify that there really was a Jesus, a Mohammed, a Moses. Last summer, with my daughter and granddaughter, we engaged in two weeks of the foot pilgrimage in Spain that we will never forget. When we received our certificates and a photograph was taken of our weary smiles, there were light spots all over us = like giant fireflies. It seemed a miracle of sorts, about which we could not reason.

Although I’ve been often to Rome (visited so many churches on one trip, 25, to see the great works of art, that my husband Sergio finally said, that’s it, no more). But Rome and St.Peter’s Cathedral still hold faiths together and the awesomeness of being in those footsteps of the ancients who formed our religion, is remarkable. Then there is Jerusalem. Ah. Jerusalem the Golden. Jerusalem the bane of Jesus’ soul. Jerusalem was to Jesus as my home Memphis was to Martin Luther King Jr. Both were assassinated to get them out of the way because they bothered people, , they said things that rattled authorities because the authorities had been getting away with corruption, privilege and evil ways for too long.

Having studied for two weeks in the ‘90ties,at St. George’s College, I had access every day to visit the landmarks of our faith. It was difficult to believe I was there, or to know why I was there, and at one point, like most tourist, I found myself carrying a wooden cross over a couple of stone streets on the Via Dolorosa. But amazingly, we were breathing the same air Jesus had breathed, walked on the same rocks Christ had walked in his sandals, and sat in the Synod or prayed at the Wailing Wall as so many have done through the decades. And at that time, we Christians were allowed to visit the Dome of the Rock and walk around the huge boulder from which Mohammed had ascended.

My fellow students at that time were mostly priests and bishops. I was a relatively newly ordained deacon. Our group celebrated the Eucharist at Shepherd’s Field, and was led by a woman priest. A few of the clergy came from zones in the United States that didn’t accept women priests yet, and they refused to share the Eucharist with us all. That was hurtful, to me, since we were all doing what Christ had told us to do together, share a meal without prejudice or judgment. Being in 1995 the first woman in the Southern Cone of South America (Argentina, Chile, Bolivia, Paraguay, Uruguay, Peru) to be ordained to holy orders – and we are late to allow such a calling since the Episcopal Church had accepted women as priests in the ‘1970ties – even Brazil, associated with the Episcopal Church rather than the Anglican Church, honored women with the priesthood. For the Southern Cone, women as deacons was enough, in their eyes, although we fought to allow us the next step for 20 years and finally the Archbishop of Canterbury opened the door, our diocese voted positively and Uruguay’s three women deacons became priest last November 2015. Now I am returning to the place where Jesus was birthed, ministered, and ascended to give thanks for all God has allowed me as His servant, which never ends no matter what I am called.