The story I’m about to tell you is resting deeply in my heart, its a lesson of accepting who you are, acknowledging that God has been trying to tell you something forever and letting go of all the things you thought your life was going to be. And I am reminded almost daily to forgive myself for not knowing it sooner.
In Sarria I met a French priest, Fr. Michel, who sat with me and told me a story. Priests like to do that – or maybe its just me. He is 83-years-old and began his journey in Saint Jean the day after me- but he’s not limping. We sat in a court yard garden in our albergue, the heat of the sun seeping into our bones, our weary bodies mending from the journey, our minds anticipating Santiago and her grand cathedral- or maybe its just me. An American he met along the way is using her cell phone to make reservations for him and their group.
Fr. Michel looks at the woman and in a reflective way begins to tell me that many years ago he lived and attended school in Berkeley (not far from where I live). Parking in Berkeley is always a challenge, but the place where he lived had a dedicated space so he never worried. One day he found out he would be losing that space, but the very same week a man offered him another space nearby. He thanked the man often by bringing him a bottle of wine, or something like that. Sometime later, this same man offered him a room just when he needed it. That is the brief version of his story. His point was he was simply trusting God that he would get a bed, he knew he was always provided for. It was clear he wanted his friend on the cell phone to do the same.
But I knew this, right? I’ve never made a reservation, and I always get a bed.
Leaving Sarria the early morning mist hovers over the castle ruins on the hill as we ascend the city streets. The road bends and meanders along the walls of the monastery, crosses hued from stone mark the way. The sun rises on the medieval city below, clearing the morning mist. The path cuts through a cemetery and crosses a railroad track. We all stop and wait for a passing train. The number of Pilgrims have increased greatly. There are hundreds of us now on this portion of the Camino de Santiago. Sarria is the starting point for many pilgrims, it is the last city a pilgrim can begin their journey and receive a Compostela – a document dating back to the 13th century.
These new pilgrims are donning clean shoes, new clothes and walk with a spring in their step, the rest of us hate them – or maybe its just me.
It’s day 29 on my Camino to Santiago, I have have five walking days left.
I enjoyed my brief encounter with Fr. Michel, but it also reminded me of what had been missing along “The Way.” – spiritual companionship with my fellow Catholics. And now I’m sort of wallowing in my remorse, unsure if I missed someone along the way I was supposed to meet. Was there someone I had been walking with all along but had failed to make the connection?
Connections seem to get harder and harder for me as we move westward. Many of the new pilgrims are locals- from Spain. Which means they speak Spanish – and I don’t. Until now everyone tried their best to communicate with everyone else. For my part I spoke slowly, choosing my words carefully and trying not to use slang, and everyone else does their best to accommodate me. Now the locals just look at me and say Buen Camino and move on.
Arriving in a local bar I’m trying to reach the Diet Coke I’ve tucked away in the side of my backpack. I want to avoid looking like a dog chasing his own tail, but I also don’t want to take the pack off. I’m searching a crowd of pilgrims for someone who might help me retrieve it. In previous days I would have recognized at least a few of the faces; now not one of them is familiar to me.
“Excuse me,” I said to one of the pilgrims, “Do you speak English.” “Oh, just a little,” he responded with a perfect American accent and a smirk on his face.
Trying not to laugh, I introduced myself. He did the same, Charles from Minnesota, and his friends, John and Bob from Indiana, Bob retrieved my Diet Coke for me. Mission accomplished.
The changing scenery is bringing new challenges to the Camino. Restaurants and bars are filling up, the Xunta’s (Government run albergues) are crowded, they’re stuffing more and more beds in one room, and the showers and toilets have introduced new privacy issues. I feel like I’m having a sleepover in my high school gymnasium. We’re all done with this, ready to finish this pilgrimage – or maybe it’s just me.
The following day, still pondering if I have missed something or someone on my journey, I pass a group of familiar pilgrims having lunch, two of them I met just before I reached Cruz de Ferro. I had said a brief hello and moved on because it was snowing that day. That evening the the two pilgrims arrived at the same albergue I was staying in. The woman was traveling with her brother, a priest, and he wanted to celebrate mass atop Cruz de Ferro. Today it is a reminder of what has been missing.
Sobbing ensues.
The following morning on the road to Santiago, Charles from Minnesota stops to tell me about the cuckoo birds he is video taping, I found the birds a bit annoying – but that IS just me.
The American lady with reservations passes me and says, “We’re all going to an albergue just outside of town, it’s supposed to be a great place.” “Sounds great,” I reply. “Do you want my old reservation in town?” She asked.
“Uh, sure…thanks.” More sobbing.
In the morning as I leave town, my face swollen from the sobbing thing, I’m counting the days left and I’m trying to fill my remaining time photographing as much as I can. Charles from Minnesota stops to ask if I would like a picture of myself. “Um sure,” I said lacking enthusiasm for having my picture taken in this physical state. Handed him my camera, thanked him and walked on.
We’re nearing the end; only three walking days left. Meeting up with familiar faces for breakfast and lunch cheered me up. I’m watching each kilometer marker now, waiting for the 50k marker so I can take a picture of it.
The number of churches to visit have increased the closer we get. I stop in to get a stamp in my passport and take a moment to pray at each one, resigning myself to the fact that my Camino didn’t turn out quite the way I had thought.
Finally, arriving at the 50k marker, I’m a little happier now and want my picture taken, but there is no one to take it. I wait for some arriving pilgrims, it’s Charles, Bob and John. We take photos and I move forward. Alone.
A short time later I stop for water. Charles and Bob arrive and offer me some home made trail mix. I kid them that they forgot the chocolate. I thank them and continue on alone to Ribadiso, our destination for the evening. Upon arriving I realized its Saturday and there is no church in town. I walked on to the next town to attend mass.
Two walking days left. As I walk I pray, “Lord, why do people keep feeding me? Am I not prepared? Am I being a burden to other Pilgrims?” Just as I am praying this, a woman sitting at a picnic table gets up and calls to me, “Peregrine, peregrine,” she says something more, in French, about Santiago, and hands me a piece of chocolate. I thanked her and said, “Si, Santiago. Mañana.” I tried.
Walking into O’Pedrouzo, I got lost for the first time in 32 days, which I’m feeling has a little more spiritual significance than I care to admit right now. Finally making my way into town, Charles, Bob and John are sitting at a restaurant, they wave me over and they feed me. Again.
Bob is reading his Facebook and quotes a scripture. “That’s this mornings reading. Are you Catholic?” I asked him. “Yes.” Our food comes, we join hands and for the first time in 32 days I said grace with other Pilgrims. They invited me to join them for mass, Charles would be concelebrating the mass.
I attended, sobbing the entire time.
Like the Apostle who had given up on “The Road to Emmaus,” Jesus had been there the whole time. He was there in Carol who taped my foot when I fell; He was there in Paulo when I took the bus to Burgos and needed a doctor. He was there in David and Debbie who fed me when I needed a meal and some company. He was there in Helvi when I needed someone to walk with in a snowstorm; He was there in the French lady who fed me chocolate. He is here in my fellow Catholics as we enter Santiago, receive our Compostela and attend mass together in the great Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.
As I reflect back on the story Fr. Michel shared with me, I realize he wasn’t trusting he would get a bed. He was trusting that he was exactly where he needed to be, in the exact place God intended him to be – that’s why he isn’t limping and I’m am.
Buen Camino
8 comments