Dispatches From the Camino (#16)
We are walking the Camino de Santiago when the power goes out in Spain. At first, we do not know the power is out, of course. The only thing we notice is that our phones have quit working.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
We are walking the Camino de Santiago when the power goes out in Spain. At first, we do not know the power is out, of course. The only thing we notice is that our phones have quit working.
“I am the vine and you are the branches,” is a familiar scripture. What does it mean to be a part of the vine? And what does it mean to “remain” in the vine?
We arrive in the city of Burgos after a 14-mile walk. Although it feels like 14 million miles. Today is hot. We are sunburned, thirsty, and our skin is covered in a fine layer of crystalized salt from evaporated sweat.
You do three things on the Camino each day. You walk. You talk. You stop to pee.
Six of us have fallen in together, walking side by side for the last several miles of the Camino de Santiago. We are all strangers. All pilgrims. From different nations. There is dust on our backpacks, mud on our boots, and we all smell like something a diuretic horse produced.
We are walking through Navarrete on Easter Monday the moment Pope Francis dies. The bells of the massive church are ringing, non-stop. Locals are in a kind of reverential shock.
The woman at the hostel utters four magic words. “Si, we have beds.” This is amazing. There have been no beds in Spain for Holy Week. It’s almost Easter Sunday and we have been beggars, compelled to walk the Camino de Santiago with our hats in hand, and our hands out, looking for beds.
When we were growing up, my brother and I never got Easter baskets. Easter meant going to church and getting new Easter clothes. Our parents (actually, we just blame Mom–sorry, Mom) wanted to instill in us that Easter was not about rabbits or chocolate eggs, but rather about the resurrection of Jesus.
The stone doorway arch above us features carvings of angels and demons which date back to Roman times. Eight angels surround Christ, who is looking straight at me as though He is saying, “‘No room’ at the inn?—Now where have I heard THAT before?”
The 83-year-old woman has been opening her home to pilgrims since before I was born. Currently, she is bustling around her house, gathering fresh towels and soaps for us. We are standing in her doorway, drenched, cold, and looking about as content as wet Himalayan cats.
It is no accident that history is filled with stories of slavery and redemption—it’s an archetype woven into the fabric of human experience.
There are hundreds of pilgrims. Very few speak English. We are all from different countries, age groups, and walks of life. And yet, somehow, although we are foreigners sojourning in a strange land, we all manage to—this is beautiful—gripe about how slow the line moves.
The modern obsession with happiness—comfort, entertainment, ease—is not only misguided, it’s harmful. It’s a form of “infantile hedonism”: a worldview more suitable for children than for adults who wish to live meaningful lives.
Life is chaos. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. At its core, existence is one long, tangled mess of disorder, uncertainty, and entropy. From the spinning galaxies to the storms on Earth to the mess in your kitchen—chaos is the natural state of things.
I receive a lot of remarks in the form of emails, private messages, obscene hand gestures, etc. There’s no way I could answer all comments individually. So occasionally, I compile commonly asked questions and answer them in this column.
Today, my wife and I will become pilgrims. We will walk the breadth of Spain, upwards of 500 miles, over Pyrenees Mountains, on foot, to visit the remains of the apostle James.
My dog, Marigold, and I have been walking a lot lately. It’s not easy, walking. We have very few “good walks” inasmuch as walking in a straight line is impossible when you can’t see.
It’s overcast. I’m with my wife and my dog. We are on the wide porch of a vacation rental house. This is the main road which cuts through this small town. There are sounds of kids laughing, playing. Easy traffic.
Worship is the way that we show reverence, respect, and love for our God. And music is one of the wonderful ways that we can worship!
Six years ago. The Waffle House was packed. There were customers everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Sardine-like. I don’t know how the waitress managed to find a place for us at the counter.