A few nights ago, I deliberately walked by a building on East 74th Street that used to house a Starbucks, touched the outside of it, and said a prayer of remembrance and thanksgiving and wonder. In other words, it was a pilgrimage moment.

It was a moment triggered by the Marble contingent of 85 or so who were on their trip to the Holy Land. Because it’s March, thinking of them, and wishing them well brought back sudden and vivid memories of my (attempted) trip to the same place in March of 1994.

I was an active layperson at St. James’ Episcopal Church in the city, and because of where I was in my life then in terms of my faith and because of deep connections with other parishioners and clergy, the chance to go to Israel that spring with these people was utterly compelling. This was the time. I joined the group, cleared my calendar, packed my bag, and a few days before leaving, started to get sick. An ear doctor cleared me to go, but I felt pretty lousy. Still, a once-in-a-lifetime plan is a plan.

So I joined the group that spring night at JFK, checked my bag, went through the fabled El Al security interview, and slowly passed through other security checks on the way to the gate. I felt sicker and sicker. I worried about being even worse over there. I hesitated… lagging behind the group. Doubt, aka permission to take care of myself, was entering the picture. Yes, it was belated in my case, but I can be slow in this regard.

I am not the best at decisions—especially reversing them! But as I edged toward the plane’s door, my body literally stopped and would go no further. My friends asked if they could help; I did not know what to say. I so wanted to go to the Holy Land; this trip would not be repeated. The clergy leader I so admired looked at me quizzically, and was ready to listen, help, think it through; I could not explain. But deep inside I knew, that however ridiculous I looked, hovering and dithering, something was afoot. A different sort of pilgrimage.

All at once, I bade my farewells, turned and went back, out into the clear spring night, into a cab, and back over the Triboro. (The luggage made the trip without me, no doubt a clear violation of El Al policy, and somehow found its way back the next day.) I still remember so vividly the pure exhilaration of coming over the bridge: a sense of relief, gratitude and power—the power (and amazement) that comes from listening deep within and acting on what I hear, versus over-ruling myself.

I was indeed sick; a nasty throat and sinus infection. With my suddenly empty week, and without much strength, I visited two key locales: my couch at home, and the Starbucks across the street, where I would go to read for a change of scene. In both places, I read a great book on discernment by Sue Monk Kidd called “When the Heart Waits,” and it was a book that became pivotal in my teaching.

I will always remember this week, this non-trip to Israel, as a sacred and mysterious time that was almost giddy with discovery. We all have these: Personal stories that seem to be about logistics, but are really pilgrimages at heart… times and places when we did something, saw something, said something… and we were never the same afterwards.

Sometimes pilgrimage is about going… or doing what you need to do. Sometimes it’s about finally not what doing what you don’t need to do. Sometimes you don’t know you’re on one until suddenly you realize you are. As this Lent progresses, I wish you all blessed pilgrimages, large or small, in lands made holy by awareness and attention.