When I think of St. Augustine, I think of those words. I've been in a lot of Episcopal churches in the four years since I left St. A's. Perhaps it is the luck of the draw, but I've not heard those words anyplace else. I miss them.

Nonetheless, I've settled in a lovely church here in Charleston, South Carolina. Our sanctuary was built 20 years before the Civil War -- or the War of Northern Aggression as it is referred to now and then. We have more than 400 pledges and are talking about raising an additional $3 million to repair our steeple. Services are jam packed every Sunday. Even on Wednesday evenings, we have a full house. I seriously doubt that you'll find anyone -- even on Wednesdays -- kneeling to pray in jeans.

Convention aside, we are a terrible thorn to the Diocese of South Carolina. We've dug our heels in and are not about to leave the Episcopal church. Gays are welcomed and respected. We even have one person of color in our congregation -- a priest, originally from Barbados, who happens to be on the faculty at the nearby medical university. While we work to be inclusive, racial separation is frozen in time here. Yes, we try. Nonetheless I am often haunted by the question of whether we are working hard enough to help this community heal the very visible scars from a distant past.

But I am happy here so why do I miss St. Augustine? The answer to that question always begins with the words… "Wherever you are…."

I think of those words in a very personal way. My husband and I came to St. Augustine not long after he was diagnosed with metastatic cancer. That illness began a very personal journey for us. Oh, yes. We had been attending church regularly elsewhere. But St. Augustine became our safe harbor. It was one in which we found love and support and, just as important, space to endure devastating illness in our own way. What better time to hear words that reassured us every Sunday that wherever we were in our spiritual journey….with our pain, doubts, and, yes, sometimes anger… we were welcome.

Through it all, we knew St. Augustine was beautifully inclusive in ways synonymous with unconditional love. Even so, I took a lot for granted. Diversity at church was a given. I was only mildly impressed when virtually all the children in my grade 1-3 Sunday School class spoke a second language they had learned at home. It never occurred to me that in this country prayer could be separated along racial lines. Or that I'd ever be part of a diocese that presumes to know the depth of human love and sits in judgment of it.