"Ma'am, can you step forward? I'm going to have to pat you down. Would you prefer a room or to do it here?"

I was annoyed. I fly several times a year, so I'm usually fairly careful about what I wear to an airport, both for maximum comfort and ease of getting through security without a pat down. Apparently my comfy leggings had triggered the TSA scanners today.

I remember sitting in the adequately comfortable chair near the back; I always sat by myself in those days and near the back with the new moms who needed to be able to sneak out at the slightest whimper from the mushy newborn clutched to her chest.

I am not a mother in a biological or traditional sense. I am a mother to dreams, revolutions, and peace treaties between friends by the fire. More than that, I’m the daughter of a Mother God who is heartbroken at the injustices of our world.

Did you read the first-person accounts of women, mothers, who had made a long and difficult journey hoping to find asylum, only to have their children taken away from them?

You and I, sister, are one. God has bound us together. Woven us of the same earth, tears, blood and sweat. No matter our race, our ethnicity or our home. No matter our season of life or marital status, we are divinely interconnected.

I don’t usually feel claustrophobic, but I did in that tiny room with glass walls, putting us all on display. We were at the San Francisco airport, entering the United States.