How to Build an Altar

Six years ago, I made a mistake. I was most of the way through my second pregnancy when things went a little haywire with my blood pressure. The doctor gave me a day or two to see if we could get things under control, but when I went back for a check-up, he walked into my room with the numbers in hand and said, “You are going to have a baby today.”

At that point, I was at a hospital almost an hour away from home. Apparently hoping for the best, I had brought nothing, packed nothing. When I said, “OK, I’ll just run home and get my things” the answer was a firm no. This sweet babe was going to arrive in the next couple of hours, and there was no time for dilly-dallying to get my cute post-labor robe.

Sensing the intensity of the situation, I called my husband, my mother, and drove as quickly as I could from the clinic to the adjoining hospital parking lot. I heaved my very pregnant self out of the car, hustled to labor and delivery, and was settled in my room lickety-split. As directed, my beautiful daughter arrived later that same day. Perfect. Healthy.

But a sadness I wasn’t expecting hit me in the coming days.

This wasn’t postpartum sadness (although I’ve done that dance, too). This was something altogether different. This was regret. Regret that I hadn’t paused. Regret that I hadn’t taken a moment with her when it was “just us” to say, “Here we go, baby girl, I’ve loved our time together.” Regret that I had hustled through that time that needed to be honored. It took me a long, long time to get over that hustle.

Fast forward to this summer, and I had a chance to learn from that mistake. Because this summer was the summer when we finally sold our crib in the middle of a hectic move. We had used that crib for both of our babies. It had seen countless firsts and sleepless nights. We had experienced so many beautiful moments, and, as mentioned, difficult postpartum days. I had an attachment to that crib, as so many parents do to their babies’ belongings, and it was about to leave my presence forever.

So, unlike six years before, this time I sensed that I should stop. In a sacred moment, with my family members packing boxes inside the house, I stood in the hot garage, put my hand on that crib, and created a mental and emotional “altar.” And—I kid you not—it made all the difference in the world.

The practice of creating altars is a well-established tradition. In the Bible, altars were used as a way to mark what was, to reflect on how God had used a space, a place, or a time. It was a way to honor something yet be able to leave it behind, knowing you gave it the significance it was due. Here’s just a few examples:

One of the very first things Noah did after he stepped out of the ark was to build an altar. It was at this time that God made the covenant to never destroy the earth again (Gen. 8:20).

Abraham built multiple altars, each at different points during his journey with the Lord. These altars served as places that honored his call as the father of nations (Gen. 12:1-13 NIV), the land where his family would grow (Gen. 13:14-18 NIV), and where God substituted a ram for Isaac, the place Abraham called, “The Lord will provide.” (Gen. 22:9-14 NIV)

Moses built a couple of altars as well. Using this time-honored tradition, he marked a time when they were victorious in battle (Ex. 17:15 NIV) when he received the Law from the Lord (Ex. 24 NIV) and to dedicate the tabernacle (Ex. 40:9 NIV)

Thousands of years later, I built one too. Of course, I didn’t build that crib. But I laid my hand on it and built a mental and emotional altar in my mind to all that it had meant to me, to my family, and to the precious children God had given me. It took no longer than a minute or two, but I am certain it saved me from the sadness that would have come had I not stopped to honor what God had done in that place and time.

Building mental and emotional altars is an incredibly powerful way we can be present, honor significant times in our lives, and even relieve some of the grief we may feel. It’s no surprise that the tactic God’s people used all those years ago can be of great benefit in our lives today. Here’s to pausing, honoring God, honoring what was, and moving forward to what will be.

Anne Rulo is an author, speaker, professional counselor, marriage and family therapist and veteran coach’s wife. She and her husband Tim have two children and are passionate about reaching people for Christ and sharing information on coaching, marriage, family, and mental health. Read more from Anne at www.annerulo.com.

Photograph © Valeria Nikitina, used with permission