The infectious sound of a familiar song makes its way up the stairs and into my bedroom. Worship music fills the house from the speaker system downstairs, and my mom and dad walk from room to room rehearsing that morning’s choir selection and singing their favorite songs as they get ready for the day.

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.

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.