Worn Soles, Holy Ground

There’s something sacred about the places we walk when no one is looking.

Not the ones with polished tiles or manicured grass. I’m talking about the places in between — the cracked sidewalks, the abandoned lots, the dirt trails between the houses we knew and the ones we only dreamed of.

That’s where I’ve spent most of my life.

With worn soles.

On holy ground.

Through gardens that never grew. They always planted things, my family.

Tomatoes in cracked pots.

Rosemary cut in half in soda bottles.

Hope in every handful of dirt.

But nothing ever really took.

The soil never listened. The roots gave up quickly. The buds died in mid-sentence.

Still, they planted.

And me?

I walked.

I walked through empty plots, past backyard gates that never closed properly, past neighbors who politely looked away, and down into my own version of the sanctuary: the world outside the world. The part where weeds grew freely and were not judged for it.

Feet that know the damage. I’ve lost count of how many shoes I’ve worn.

Shoes that open like fruit.

Sandals with straps that gave way mid-step.

Shoes held together by stubbornness and duct tape.

But every scratch, every hole, every blister told the same story: I kept moving forward.

Even when I didn’t know where I was going.

Even when my faith was broken.

Even when love left and sorrow stayed.

My soles were gone, but my spirit remained.

Because I had some belief that there was holiness in the struggle. That even the ugliest paths could lead to something beautiful.

The Meaning of Holy Land We talk about “holy land” as if it were always glorious.

A cathedral. A mountain. A field bathed in golden light.

But I think holy land is where your knees hit the floor in surrender.

Where your tears meet the dust.

Where you scream into the sky and still hear the silence—and walk on anyway.

For me, that place was not found in glory.

It was found in empty bus stops.

In hospital parking lots.

On nights where I stood barefoot in the dark, waiting for a sign that never came.

And yet, I walked.

I walked through grief. When my father passed away, I walked six miles the next morning.

Not to clear my head. Not to feel better.

I didn’t feel at all.

I just walked.

Every step was a sound of disbelief.

Every sidewalk breaks a scar that reflects me.

The world didn’t stop, even though it was mine. People were buying coffee, laughing on their phones, letting dogs happily drag them along.

And I was just… dragging myself along.

But somewhere between mile two and mile five, I felt something:

I was still here.

Still walking.

And that? That was holy ground.

I walked through love. I walked through it once, holding her hand in mine.

Down a trail we didn’t know the name of, whispered dreams like they were prayers.

We talked about planting.

A life. A dog. A garden.

But gardens, like hearts, don’t always bloom as they please.

She was gone. And the trail grew with weeds and memories.

Still, I walked the same path months later. Alone.

Worn soles.

Empty hands.

But sacred ground nonetheless.

Because love had passed.

And even brief love makes a place sacred.

Walking toward yourself Now, I walk differently.

Not to escape. Not to seek. But to remember.

Remembering the child who walked the playgrounds alone.

The young man who walked through the battlefield as heartbroken as a battlefield.

The adult who walked through doubt, faith, failure, and forgiveness.

The worn soles taught me more than the polished ones. They taught me that every step is part of a ceremony, even those taken in silence. Even in circles.

Especially in circles.

Because sometimes, sacred ground is not a destination — it is a process of continuing nonetheless.

What I found in walking Not peace, always.

Not closure, not yet.

But something quiet. True

A deep knowing that I have been ground into dust.

That I have walked through gardens that never grew, and yet found meaning in the soil.

That I have touched the sacred in the most ordinary of places:

A broken dam.

A worn trail.

The soles of my own feet...

So if you are walking right now — through heartbreak, through grief, through change — know this:

You are not just walking.

You are sanctifying the ground beneath you.

Making it holy.

Step by step.