A gospel sermon about holding out hope stirred memories of safe spaces and the power of being seen. From childhood sanctuaries to high-school mentors, this reflection explores the quiet encouragement that stays with us—and what it means to offer that same sanctuary to others.

My church celebrated our annual gospel service last Sunday. The sermon title was “Help Me Hold Out,” not “Safe Places,” but the music and the messages stirred thoughts about safe spaces and where we find them.

Where Do We Feel Safe?

It’s hard to hold out hope in a world where so many things are beyond our control. How do we keep from feeling lost and alone? Hopeless? Our minister closed the sermon with the following invitation:

I invite you to think of your childhood. Was there one home, that when you went in that home as a child you felt safe and happy […] What are the elements that were within that home that made you know you know you were loved and safe and cared for. I can almost guarantee a uniting factor among all of the homes you are thinking about right now is love, acceptance, celebration, joy, little bit of weirdness, right?

The energy lifted as everyone in the sanctuary flipped through their catalogues of homes that made them feel “safe and happy.” I’ve had many safe places in my life, but my mind flew from the sanctuary with the big circle window on Goodwood Boulevard in Louisiana to a fireplace in a home surrounded by crop fields on Highway 72 in Alabama.

Some of the congregation may have remembered special foods and meals, pool parties, or big gatherings. I remembered quiet times in a carpeted den, listening to Karla Bonoff and Melissa Manchester, and reading Willa Cather by the fireplace. I remembered being read and encouraged to keep writing. The weirdness? That cherry juice from a fruit stand on the highway, the pistachio pineapple dessert, and pausing on Tuesdays for episodes of Welcome Back, Kotter.

As a teenager, I didn’t realize how special having a sanctuary in my high school English teacher’s home was—what a gift her encouragement and acceptance were.

The Power of Being Seen

It is empowering to be seen. Sometimes, however, even when people love us and see us, we second-guess them and ourselves. We “grow up” and question the spark they saw in us. I did.

I was sidetracked for four decades, listening to men with PhDs who struggled to write for themselves. They were too burdened with the static of editors and critics to be true mentors, and often were just the opposite. For years, I questioned myself and turned to a fatty diet of theory, formulaic writing, and literary canons. I surrendered myself and my time to literature and academics when all my heart ever wanted was to craft my own words.

Judy knew all along. She told me: “You’re a writer. You’re an artist.” She didn’t stutter, didn’t hem or haw. She saw me. That’s what I remembered as the sermon closed on Sunday. I never should have doubted her.

When someone sees that thing in you—that something-something that makes you special, that makes you feel alive—trust it. Pull on that thread of acceptance and love; see where it leads you.

Creating Safe Spaces for Others

Our minister’s last words on Sunday before the closing hymn:

Maybe that home that you were thinking of points to something about the divine nature in all of us. Maybe our job is to create that home in us so that it can be there for other people. Maybe that is the answer to these theological questions that we’ve posed today. How can you live a life that is so full of love and acceptance and joy so that the world will finally be able to join you in bringing about paradise on this earth?

Back in the 70s—and for many decades and classes more—Judy was doing what I’m just now learning to do for myself and others. Judy saw, listened for, and celebrated what was strong, what stayed with her. She understood the importance of holding out for what is true.

What childhood home or person made you feel safe, accepted, seen, and loved? Who saw something special in you before you did? I’d love to hear about them in the comments.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025