In a few weeks my wife and I will be walking 500 miles unless we die before we finish.
We will be walking the Camino de Santiago, a medieval religious pathway across Spain. We will be on foot. With backpacks. And we shall not be called “hikers,” but in the ancient Spanish tongue: “Locos Americanos con mochilas.”
The preparations are underway. Jamie and I have been walking A LOT lately.
We must walk. Got to get in shape. Because in Spain, we will be walking 14 miles per day in hopes of finishing the route before my 103rd birthday.
We have been training every day. A lot of people see me trudging along in downtown Birmingham, wearing a large backpack, wearing a general countenance of misery, standing on a street corner, waiting for a red light, and these people usually give me pocket change.
The most common question I am asked is, “Why?” People want to know why two middle-aged taxpayers are spending their hard earned cash to travel to Spain for the privilege of living like homeless persons for upwards of two months.
The answer is simple. Because my wife said so.
No, I’m only kidding! (Sort of!) The honest answer is—and this is the truth—I can’t put my finger on why.
What I CAN put my finger on is that I am the same age my father was when he died. And this has really affected me this year.
My dad was a good man whose life was half lived. He was a responsible homeowner, a hard worker, and he diligently changed the oil every 11 miles. But I never saw him live. Really live. I never saw him take care of his own human spirit.
And so the main reason I am walking the Camino, and I don’t mean to reach for melodrama here, is to find God.
Sure, I’ve already found Him, of course. But a lot of times, I forget where He is.
He’s probably been talking to me, telling me all sorts of wonderful mysteries of the universe, but I couldn’t hear Him because I’ve been extremely busy playing on my phone.
Also, I’m walking the Camino because I’ve been married 22 years to a woman who is the greatest thing to ever happen to me. And sometimes I forget just how miraculous it is that a guy who hasn’t emptied the dishwasher in 22 years is still in a committed relationship.
I’m walking because sometimes I get so busy, so confused, so weighed down by my own self-centeredness, that I forget why I’m here. I forget what it’s all about. I forget that the meaning of life isn’t to pay the bills and cut the grass. I believe the meaning of life is to give life meaning.
So anyway, that’s why I’m walking 500 miles. Unless I die first
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Originally published on Sean’s website. Republished here with permission.
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