The Expecting

I dare say I am familiar with the heat greeting the entrants to the outer circle of hell. Does this familiarity ensure a better stay for me in the inner circle? I doubt it. I deem myself experienced in the terrain of the valley of death. Does this mean I am fearless at the idea of the dolorosa? Heavens, no. I heard the deafening silence in the wind that shook the mountain and shattered the rocks. Does this equip me with the virtue to listen in the breeze? I am not certain. 

But then, what do I know?

All I know is that hundreds of thousands of faithful over centuries, dared the summer’s heat, trod the undulating path and suffered a myriad of discomforts to get to a church in a small town in northern Spain. All I know is that the bones of a man lay in the crypt of that great cathedral. And all I know is that on that journey to embrace the bejewelled statue of this man, the faithful went expecting. 

Expecting what? We were asked on day zero, in an invitation to share our motivations for doing the Way. My thoughts derailed momentarily because I only had the faintest idea. But twenty odd voices professed their responses as if already prepared to answer.

A desire to be holy, a wish to grow in humility, a dream to see four humble walls raised in memory of the beloved one, to learn how to receive, to take a break from life otherwise, and so on. Our declared expectations seemed like echoes of the true pleas from the depths. Healing from sickness for self or another, reunion with a parted loved one, union with a future loved one, for a father, for a grandmother, for direction and the most haunting plea of all, por qué? There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt that we all asked, we all expected. At least most of us did. 

What was the measure of our expectations? What do I know? I only know what I saw, I only know what I heard, and I only know what I felt. 

I saw a man plod with a gait previously unbeknownst to him and with aid from a person he has never met before. I saw the weight of sudden leadership borne willingly on the back of a lowly nun. I saw the steady and deliberate distance maintained by a heart set alight by frustration and annoyance. But behind those flames I saw embers of desire for company, healing and love. I saw tears made invisible by shades but brought out into the open by the shadow of the Eucharist. 

I heard the beams of joy at the sight of creatures of nature held in the gentlest of cradles and I heard loud and clear, the story told in the silence of the pauses of a powerful testimony. I heard the delightful chuckles, more in number than the famous milestones themselves but a delight best witnessed when he is seated in the front row at every mass, minutes away from a holy union. I heard the prodding of a shepherdess nudging the hundredth sheep to baa out their innermost thoughts and I heard her stunned hush brought about by two weakened knees. 

I felt the warm embrace of the angel that fed us both with food and prayers. I felt the tears of the group shed as if from a common tear sac, for a girl who died young, for a baby separated from the cuddle of a father and for a report that was unread but already comprehended. I felt the gentle presence accompanying a fully grown man sobbing away to glory as she tried to console him in three languages at the same time. 

Would these experiences weigh up to satisfy the balance of expectation to receive what was expected? What do I know? 

I do know that the scorching sun was no match to the determination of the father praying for a father. The steepest mountain could not deter the sling thrower as if he knew it was only one among many peaks yet to be conquered. Even the innocent looking but dreaded downhill was no match to the knees that bore more than what they signed up for, He was truly with us. 

Where we were at any given time was not hard to figure out. In fact, the distance left to the next destination was a number few of us wanted to hear. But where were we in the extra-physical realm? What do I know?

I only know where I myself precisely was. At a moment when I was proud of my achievement of surviving a few days of the Camino, as I was suffering from acute prayer amnesia while internally doing a contra-camino, we entered a lowly structure on a mountain that housed what was possibly the second greatest thing I ever had the favour of being in the presence of. The train of His robes fills the temple, but a few drops of His blood found a home in a small silver chest inside that church, each drop carrying an agony unmatchable to the pain of all the pilgrims ever to walk the Way combined. At the peak of that mountain, kneeling before the miracle, I found the foot of the cross, where I belong. 

Would I do it again? Is a question I volunteer to answer before anyone cares to ask. I would, provided I am taken back in time to precisely the same tavern we slept in, to the echoes of the same harmonic snores, to the exact same amount of Spanish spoken, to the same icy cold stream, to the scent of tobacco, to the repetitive hymns, to the mountain top foot photography, to the abstract looking water colour art, to the bread tougher than my grit, to the lone British man with a rosary, to the joyful tears at the sight of Santiago and the goodbyes at the station.

Take me back to these and I will walk the Camino twenty times. 

Until such a time when that is possible I remain eternally indebted and grateful for the company, for the stories, for the tears. 

P.S- Thank you, Bryan, Joseph, Emmanuel, David, 

         Grazie, Annalisa, Giulia, Eeleanna, 

         Gracias, Yulia, Guio, Sandra, Angela, 

         Nanni, Steve, Jesmitha,

         Grazas, Marcos, Miguel,

         Gracias (translates in the ear, thank you) Fr Louis, Ana-Isobel, Fr Antonio, Ruth, 

         Teşekkür ederim, Anita,

         Merci, Antoine. 

-Sam