Why walk the Camino? Why walk near two hundred miles in a few days carrying all your things, like a turtle, crawling up mountains, and trudging through valleys? Why “do” the Camino? I’ve heard it described as… “extravagant.”
Why would anyone do this? For centuries and generations pilgrims have journeyed seeking help or blessing. The stories of pilgrims coming to walk through grief and let it go are beautiful. (Seeing them in real life and the movies like “The Way” both are sweet.) My favorite journey I’ve heard on the Camino is of two best friends: one strong, one in a wheelchair. The strong said to the other, “I’ll push you.” Five hundred miles later, they did it – together.
These stories of loss, strength, struggle, trial, adventure, resilience, grace, patience, and grit; they inspire. Sometimes stories can move you. Being inspired is good, being moved is great; changed, awesome — transformation is better. That is what I will tell you about the Camino. To hear the stories, to be inspired, maybe even to go for a walk, all good, but there’s more. To be personally transformed — that is really good. From caterpillar to butterfly, bread to toast, milk to butter, water to ice, woman to one with man, single to married, wife to mother, dad to grand-dad, only son to brother, boy to man, child to adult — transformation is good. Sometimes it’s messy.
To anyone who would say that walking the Camino de Santiago is too much, “extravagant,” or unnecessary I would say that transformation is too much work, more than extravagant, and unnecessarily messy — but still more than worth it.
The Camino, “the way,” holds something special for every walk of life. Old and grieved, young and lost, successful and happy, confused and angry, unsatisfied and lonely, all can find something good on a good long walk.
To the old and grieved, I say you can walk with grief, hold her hand, and find the sweetness in her like sweetness in the bite of whiskey.
To the young and lost, I say lay down what shackles you, I say face your tuanting giant in the silent hours of walking alone, name your Goliath and bring him, even if he’s chasing you, to that iron cross.
To the successful and happy, wisdom shouts from the streets and this time bending low under the weight of your pack to lay your head in the bottom bunk of a hostel, you will find her here too.
To the confused and angry, I say pick up a rock for every offense, every unforgiveness, and grip it like you hold onto bitterness for the long and weary miles ahead like you’ve walk through life — don’t let go of those dirty rocks till your heart loosens her grip for tears to flow.
To the unsatisfied and lonely, I say “Buen Camino” and tell me your story, you’ll always find a friend along the way, new and old, you might just run into mine, He is kind.
To all I say come walk with God in the gardens.
At the beginning of this journey, I said to myself, “I come to this trail broken.” The Camino hosts pilgrims of tourism, grief, hope, searching, and all the rest. People come for fun and for food for the soul. I came as the latter. Heartbroken, shocked, feeling lost, I came to this trail, I came with grief. Two months before I took the first step of our near two hundred mile journey, my heart and plans were pointed directly at marriage — but I was rejected. Oh heartbreak, I never thought you’d catch me but here I am: caught dancing with you. How did I end up here? I’ve seen the scars of heartbreak, the limp people walk with from the blow, heard the songs and woes of loss. I didn’t want a limp in my walk of love. I came broken to this trail wanting to be whole.
Grief came on this trail with me. She looked angry, a false image of control to cover like a weak bandaid the gaping bullet hole of powerlessness. She became my friend, hand in hand with her I found tears. I found that sweetness sneaks its way into dark places like sorrow, the same way it seeps into whiskey — savored only by the palete matured over weathered years. I made a friend on the trail, her name is Grief. She softened my heart in compassion. From broken to soft, my heart has transformed — and I know this is only the beginning.
Strangers like angels led me to the Father and sweeter still they really were my sisters. I came broken, a mess, and Love came and walked with me in the form of sunshine, sweet sisters, flowers, rain, smiles, and cafe con leche every morning at 8:30. I saw the body of Christ come and help me, just like Paul speaks of. To be cared for and loved, to be encouraged and guided, oh what sweet gifts.
“Do they work,” they told me. I had questions in my wrestle with the broken pieces I faced on the trail. Like pruning, I found these questions
- What are you leaving behind?
- What are you letting go of?
- What are you going to surrender?
- What are you giving up?
- What will you give?
- What burdens you?
- What keeps you down?
I wrestled further.
Will you choose this as your rite of passage?
Or do you need something harder?
Will you leave the old man at that steel cross?
Will bitterness continue to walk with you?
Will you shed your fear and anxiety?
Will you surrender the blanket of doubt you shyly hide under in your slumber of fear?
Will you rise leaving behind a few more minutes comfortable under the blanket of visionless living?
Will you let go of a moment more in a dream to go chase the real one in real life?
Will you give up your fear for faith?
Will you give up what you’ve seen for the hope of what you haven’t yet seen?
Will you rise to the occasion? I call you now. Know that you won’t always get that.
Rise.
Take courage.
Dream again.
Hope even more.
Love with greater abandon.
Fight with wisdom.
Think harder.
Live and live abundant, live fully.
Do not cower in your shame, walk it off.
Rise.
Rise again before sunrise.
Rise again and turn away from the bad attitude.
Rise and walk.
Rise for today.
Rise to the occasion of today.
Rise.
And so I invite you also, in these questions and this last one to ask Papa:
What do You want to transform in me?
