The morning air is cool, still heavy with the hush of dawn. The desert stretches in every direction, dry and rugged, its dormant sands waiting for the heat of the day to rise. Inside the tent, the silence is different — thicker, heavier.
You take a breath.
The lamb shifts beside you, sensing the moment at hand. You reach down, lifting its small, trembling body to its feet. You don’t need to look to know your son is watching. He has been awake for a while, waiting, knowing that today, he will walk with you.
When you step outside, the first thing your gaze is drawn to is the sanctuary.
It stands in the center of the camp, a tent among tents, unlike any other. Its woven colors catch the morning light, and the wind blows back the flap of the outer gate enough to reveal the golden altar, standing just beyond the entrance. The smoke of the sacrifices rises, curling into the sky, as if the prayers of an entire people are carried upward with the wind.
It is time.
Slow steps in the right direction. The journey from your tent to the sanctuary is not long, but it feels like it. Every step is a quiet confession.
The people sitting by their fires glance up as you pass. Some nod in silent understanding. Others look away, perhaps remembering their own slow walks to the altar. Some watch too long, their gazes like whispers in the air. You remind yourself that they are not the ones you are here to see.
Your son walks beside you, small footsteps pressing into the dust, mirroring yours. You wonder what he understands, what he sees when he looks at you, at the lamb, at the holy tent ahead. He doesn’t know what it costs you to take these steps — to admit you have fallen short, to bring something precious and lay it down.
And yet, he is here. Walking beside you. Learning that this, too, is part of life.
To live in the presence of God is to be seen. There are no walls in the wilderness with God. The slow steps toward the sanctuary were a declaration, in front of the whole camp, that you needed mercy. But they were also a declaration that you belonged, not because of your own righteousness, but because grace has made a way.
The priest stands waiting as you arrive, his garments heavy with the weight of the names he carries — not just yours, but the names of your people, each tribe stitched into his very clothing. No one ever really walks to the sanctuary alone. He nods. He knows why you are here.
The lamb shifts again.
You kneel, your hands pressing against its soft body, feeling the rise and fall of its breath. This moment is not about words, but something deeper — an exchange, a surrender, a transfer of all that is broken in you onto something pure. Your son watches as your hands rest on the lamb’s head, as the priest whispers prayers, as the blade flashes, as the life you brought is given.
The priest turns to you, eyes kind. It is finished.
And so you stand.
Not because you deserve to. Not because you have earned anything. But because mercy has been given.
The walk back is different. The dust is the same. The sun is higher now, warming the camp, casting light on the faces of those who watched you go. But something inside you has changed.
Your son walks beside you, his small hand slipping into yours. He says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. He has seen. He has learned. He has walked with his father to the place where mercy is found.
And now, you walk home together. Slow steps in the right direction. There is something beautiful in these slow steps.
Not hurried. Not hidden. Just a simple return to life, to family, to community — restored.
You pass the same tents, the same faces, but their looks no longer carry weight. The burden is gone. You step into your tent, into the warmth of home. Your wife looks up, seeing you, really seeing you. And she knows.
This is what it means to dwell with a God who dwells with us.
Not to stand at a distance, not to hide behind walls, but to take the slow, vulnerable steps toward His mercy. To be honest about our shortcomings. To surrender. To receive grace in the time of need.
And then, to return — changed, forgiven, whole.
This year at Light Bearers Convocation, we will be studying the meaning of the ancient sanctuary and its message for our lives today. Our theme is, “Dwell: The Sanctuary and the Heart of God.” We invite you to join us from June 25–28 for a time of deep Bible Study, inspiring worship, and authentic community.
The word convocation means, “called together.” And during this time of strife and uncertainty, we truly believe that God is calling us as His people together, into His presence, to listen for His heart, to see His glory, and to receive the life that only His grace can give.
We would love to see you there.
Angelo Grasso
Angelo Grasso serves as Light Bearers’ Spiritual Care Director and ARISE instructor. An ordained minister and trained chaplain, Angelo is deeply passionate about exploring the intersection of brain science and spiritual growth across all stages of life. He is blessed by the companionship of his wife, Kathy, and their two children, Eli and Emma.
