There are places that continue to live inside us.
One of mine is a motherhouse on the day its doors were closing.
I had the privilege of accompanying a community of women religious as they prepared to leave the home that had shaped generations of their lives.
Within those walls they had prayed the Liturgy of the Hours, welcomed new members, cared for one another through illness, buried dear friends, celebrated jubilees, laughed over meals, and quietly lived the Gospel day after day.
Before they left, we walked through the building together.
The hallways were quieter than usual.
Some rooms had already been emptied.
Others still held traces of lives faithfully lived.
We moved slowly, stopping now and then as memories surfaced—not because anyone was trying to hold on, but because gratitude deserves time.
Then, someone quietly began to sing.
“This is holy ground…”
One by one, every voice joined in.
As I listened, I realized they were not singing about the past.
They were blessing the future.
They were giving thanks for every prayer those walls had held while entrusting the building to whatever life would come next. They understood that its ministry was not ending. It was simply taking a new form of service.
That moment changed the way I think about holy ground.
Perhaps holy ground is not defined by a particular place.
Perhaps it is created wherever people faithfully walk with God and with one another.
Those sisters had made that motherhouse holy through decades of prayer, love, and service. And as they crossed into a new season, they offered one final gift.
A blessing.
Not only for what had been.
But for all that was still to come.
I’ve been wondering ever since…
What endings in my own life are asking not only to be grieved, but also to be blessed?