May 17 part 1, Lamenting the Darkest Day

“No!” the French man shouted the word which means pretty much the same in any language.  He threw my credit card across the counter onto the floor in a tirade of rage with what sounded like a very large multi-syllabic word, but I’m quite confident there was lots of profanity interlaced inside.

I  had left Arudy early and enthusiastically, with no intention of stopping at Asson as I’d been advised.  It was a simply beautiful day, and although I hadn’t seen the breath-taking beauty of the mountaintops, nor the grueling triathlon I experienced last year, the rural French countryside so far was romantic and charming, and really lovely.

Less than an hour into my day, as I was passing through one of the tiny villages, I noticed I had just passed a huge wooden door that was slightly ajar. I continued past, until I realized the shape of the shadow this building cast onto the ground; I spun around to see what I had missed. Certainly not a cathedral by any standards, but when I stepped through the open doorway, I gasped. The icons, the stained glass, the statues, the crucifix, the altar were breathtaking. I slowly took off my backpack and leaned my trekking poles on the doorway. Habit made my way to the second pew on the right, where I always seemed to find myself in these little harbors. Only when I looked down to the bulletin on the seat in front of me was I drawn in. The French village église where I was kneeling was St. Colome’s church.
(Years earlier, Cullen had expressed frustration that he couldn’t find a patron “Saint Cullen,” and decided St. Colome was close enough.) The gravity of this day hit me for the first time. This was May 17, always to be my darkest day, but I was in a magnificent place, where people asked Cullen’s “patron saint” to pray for them. Seemed fitting enough, and I spent over an hour there.

Sanctuary in St. Colome Church

 

     

Even though I was now well behind in my timetable for the day, I found myself walking in much of a daze, without paying much attention, and this was risky since wrong turns were easy to make on poorly marked trails and roads.  I glanced up and smiled, realizing I was on the right road.

As I hiked along and worked out the logistics of the remaining two days, I realized I had such an early return flight from Pau Airport on Monday morning that I would need to stay there Sunday (tomorrow) night.  This would mean not being at Lourdes to see the candlelight procession at night, and I had been told that this would be very memorable.  I now firmly resolved that I would not only make it to Betharram, but that I would continue on into Lourdes on this date; it had been my intention all along to be at the shrine today.  For the first time, I decided I’d stop, change my socks and insoles, and have a proper lunch, and a double espresso!

Despite my time at St. Colome, I must have had quite a pace, because I entered Assom much earlier than I had originally anticipated.  As I entered the café I tried to make sense of the daily special posted on the chalkboard.  After ensuring the proprietor would accept a Visa credit card (I was now completely out of Euro), I ordered and sat at an outside table.  Gilles (pronounced “ghee”) was overly obliging, so happy to help me, prompt with every course, and so polite. After a filling meal, he apparently misunderstood me (who would have guessed?), and brought me two double espresso!  I was walking all the way for sure now!

Patting my full tummy, I chased the ibuprofen with the last swallow of coffee, and went back inside to pay. After reading the introduction to this post, you no doubt, know this doesn’t end well.

Apparently, all the credit-cards in Europe have embedded microchips in them (as fraud protection).  I had been warned of this as I spoke to the Capital One rep on the way to the airport to inform them that I would be in France and that charges from there would be legit.  She assured me, however, that it should be no problem, just to have them enter the number manually.  I had used this card every day with no problem; the few times the reader needed the chip, the vendor was able to manually enter.  Not today.

The kind Gilles had another side.  He was now a furious maniac at the thought of a 12 Euro loss.  The keyboard on his card reader was broken and would not allow manual entry.  I attempted every possible solution.  Could I mail him the funds? Of course not, he had no reason to trust me. Would he accept a $50 bill and give me 20E of change (a more than generous exchange rate)? Of course not, he was afraid of being taken advantage of. How about taking my $50 bill and I trust him to mail me the change. Of course not.

By now his wife was shouting also, and I couldn’t tell if she was upset with me for trying to pay with monopoly money, since I clearly knew my credit cards were no good, or at her husband for being an idiot. Or whatever.

Apparently she came up with the obvious solution. He would take me to the bank! Now I knew none of these little town banks would exchange currencies, but I went along and indicated this was a sound solution. (At least maybe they could talk some sense into them so they didn’t lop my yahn-key head off).

Clearly it was two minutes before the bank’s closing, because we squealed out, and flew through numerous corners and (I counted) 14 stop signs without even his tapping on the brakes.  He turned, smiled, and proudly announced, “We’re here!”

Well, short story made long (sorry, it’s the Irish genes) – they would not exchange currencies, but convinced him that the exchange rate that I had offered was more than fair, and that he could deposit the American money into his account and the bank would convert after a few days.

So now I had used another 90 minutes of my over-scheduled day, but I was committed.  I had a four shot espresso buzz, and would still keep to my plan.

 

 

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May 16, A Visit With Father Pierre

Ok, the title of today’s post is a little snarky, or at least facetious.  There was no “visit” with Fr. Pierre.

I had so been looking forward to staying there at his place because of such positive write-ups there have been on the Camino-forums.  Pierre Sallenave is the Vicar of a small but magnificent church in Arudy, France.  As part of the Church property he runs an albergue and provides breakfast, and also (sometimes) an evening meal. The fee is “donativo,” or “whatever you can afford.”  Some give well in excess of 20E, and likely some give nothing.  I generally like these places the best, because there just seems to be alot of commaderie.  Everyone pitches in to prepare ingredients for a simple meal, cook, serve, and then clean up.  There tends to be alot of sharing and when at a church there would normally be quite a prayerful-ness associated with the entire experience…at least some form of benediction service, possibly even Mass.

I entered Arudy after about 8 hours of hiking and had no idea where in the town I was going.  As I was walking along one of the village roads, someone apparently spied the scallop shells tied to and clapping against my pack and without my asking, told me I must go to “Pierre,” and directed me another kilometer down a street, then gauche (left) and to look for the church.  This heightened my expectations, with a local reaching out to a complete stranger to tell them they just “had to” go find “Pierre.”

As I entered, I did as I always had when I entered each village church I had encountered, a private ritual with Cullen’s box.  Then I kneeled for a while to have a little chat.  After a few minutes, I was startled by the voice of an elderly woman, who had apparently been watching for a while.  She, of course, told me where “Pierre” lived.  I use quotation marks here, because no-one seemed to call him “Father Pierre,” simply “Pierre.”

I knocked on the inauspicious door, adorned only by the scallop shell attached to the mantle.  A smiling face swung the door open, and said something to me in French.  When I replied with my now standard mantra, “Désolé, je ne parle français,” loosely translated as “I have no idea what you just said to me,” the woman standing by him simply smiled, gave me a hug and told me, “We’ve been waiting for you.”  Of course I flashed back to the scene in “The Way,” movie, where Tom (Martin Sheen) receives the identical greeting upon stumbling into an albergue as they’re having dinner.

But that would be the only exchange where I would feel very “engaged.”

After a (becoming a theme) much-needed shower, I washed my clothes and hung them to dry, and joined the others in the kitchen and dining room where dinner was being prepared.  Nine other pilgrims would be staying here, and we all were soon slicing, dicing and braising for the soup.  I sliced the bread and set the table and was then motioned to sit and start enjoying the wine, which, of course I complied with.  But basically, I was beginning to feel “in the way,” and just not really part of the group.  This certainly was not, in any way, anyone’s fault other than my own.  I just don’t speak ANY French, and with the exception of a Belgian couple (she had been the woman earlier next to Pierre), who knew a small spattering of English words, we just could not communicate well.

I felt like I was at a tennis match watching the words go back and forth between them, but they were, in fact, just going past me.  I felt like the TV was on some Spanish language station with some very entertaining show (hmm, like Sábado Gigante here in Florida), where the foreign words were flying, and everyone was so engaged, and thought it was so funny and … I didn’t.  A couple of times she would try to translate, and I would laugh in what I thought was a similar way that they had, but I had no idea what even she was saying, or if I did, why it was funny. So eventually (no exaggeration, two hours) of this, I did what is specifically forbidden at home.  I pulled out my cell phone to check to see if I had gotten any texts (on my whatsapp).  No.

For the first time (!) I was thrilled when the wine finally gave out and people started getting up.  I raced to the kitchen so I could feel like I was contributing.  I rinsed the plates and handed them to Francois to place in the dish-washer, and then scrubbed all the pots.  They were all still standing around talking, but now I didn’t feel so guilty slipping away.  I knew I needed to get into bed early, because tomorrow was going to be long and grueling.  I was told that breakfast was at 7:30, and although I had wanted to be on the road by then, was a bit relieved that I had an excuse for another hour of sleep.  Getting ready for bed, I was the only one in the “bed-room,” and had quite a conversation with the “house-cat.”  Haha, I talked more to the dumb cat that I had all week!

I opened the door to the dining room at 7:25 to find their plates empty, and everyone laughing; someone said something about my sleeping late.  I genuinely joined in the laughter this time.

We would not see each other again, because like everyone else I would encounter, they were walking west to Santiago, and I would continue to the east.  Having just completed the segment I would encounter today, they suggested my plans to Betharram were definitely a bit too ambitious.  Pointing to a tiny village called Asom on a map, they seemed to think this would be a more logical stopping point for tonight, roughly splitting the two remaining days to Lourdes more equally.  As always, I planned to go as far as the “Spirit” moved me…

 

Lonesome, Tired and Chocolate. May 15 Evening

I’m not gonna lie, I stopped for the night to stay in Oloron because of chocolate.  As evidenced by a picture posted on FB of me childishly inhaling a croissant slathered with Nutella, sometimes chocolate just hits the spot.  Now, as a guy, I don’t actually live and die for it, like some females in my life, but I gotta tell you, after hiking 29 miles through the mountains with 28lbs on my back, the thought of staying almost immediately adjacent to a famous chocolate factory in Lindt, (just outside of Oloron-Ste.Marie) was irresistible.  Besides there’s just something different, deeper, creamier, richer, more chocolaty without being bitter about European chocolate.  I could smell it for over a kilometer, and as I approached, the fragrance almost made me dizzy, I was so hungry. Reflecting over lots of stuff, it’s probably more likely that chocolate just reminds me of my wife Sharon.  I haven’t seen or talked with her (except by whatsapp text) in five days, and I still feel pretty bad about that whole Mother’s Day thing.  I’m really beginning to feel a bit lonesome and miss my family.  May 17th is their darkest day also.  Perhaps traveling halfway across the world is no longer about discovery, and grief, and recovery.  Perhaps I’m becoming what I hated most about my first marriage.  Maybe this is all about me. To answer the obvious question, “No, I didn’t get a tour of the Chocolate factory.”  They were closed and wouldn’t open until long after I would leave the next day.  But the odor of that hot vat of choco next door is hard to describe.  Not that any of that is even vaguely relevant to the spiritual things I often write about on my blogs, but it seems important now! A much needed shower, a quick bite to eat, and write a few words. I’ll post these notes later, because I’m finding functioning WiFi as scarce in rural France as it was in Spain.  It will be an early day tomorrow, because I’m looking forward to staying in Arudy, as it was one of the few places in this segment between SJPP and Lourdes even mentioned in the Camino Forums.

 

 

May 15 Remembering the Greatest in France

French folks have quite a reputation for being rude.  Last year, I noticed the Spanish so obliging that I felt humbled.  If they didn’t speak another’s language, they did what they could to communicate and be so very helpful.

Now, reputation aside, what I have discovered here is an extremely friendly France.  No one has uttered an unkind or rude comment (not that I would know!), and frankly, I’ve felt quite welcome here, especially by the older folks in the country.  I even noticed a kind of excitement when they heard my accent.  The expression, “A Yank!” or “Yaunkey!” wasn’t with disdain, as a pejorative, but rather a bit of “Welcome! I’m so glad you’re here.”

But how could this be so?  Clearly, it wasn’t because of the money I’ve been dropping here.  The pilgrim travels in an austere fashion, often sleeping in an alberge for 12€ a night.  Could it be that our unbiased American media is wrong?  Are we not universally hated?  I was pondering this very thing as I walked through the hedgerows between Orin and Moumour.  Then the shots rang out.

I have no idea if hunters were nearby, or if explosives were being used for demolition, but a half dozen fired off, each startling me to duck.  Almost immediately a military helicopter hovered loudly overhead.  And then the epiphany.  I imagined the aircraft as a C47 transport, fondly referred to as the “Whiskey 7.”

It’s been seventy years since my daddy, 2nd Lt. Jean M. Klein hit these shores at Normandy.  That was it!  The older French remembered their country decimated and plundered, bombed into oblivion.  Daddy’s was what Tom Brokaw referred to as, “The Greatest Generation.”  Clearly we did nothing alone, but we Yanks were welcomed with waving flags and tears of relief as we poured out our blood on the very ground I was walking on.  Hallowed ground.

Apparently daddy was quite the hero.  On my bucket list is recreating his steps from 1943-1945 from letters we discovered that Nana had kept.  I’ve blogged about him before, with his demons and his glory, but one thing’s for sure.  He’s here with me today also.  Much Love.

May 14 St. Jean-le-Vieux to Ordiarp to Mauleon-Licharre

 

Second day hiking the GR78

Look at the mileage count on today’s (May 14) MapMyHike App, it’s nothing heroic, it’s actually embarrassing.  A guidebook for the GR78 apparently doesn’t exist in English, so I splurged and prepaid for a small data plan – hope it is big enough.  Anyway my stoopid GPS lost signal in the mountains (what’s the point, right?), so I walked about an extra ten miles.  This was supposed to have been an easy day so I had planned to go well past Mauleon to get a bit ahead, in case there was a problem later.  Oh well, I’ve done this enough days over the past two years that this stuff just kind-of happens.  No worries.  It’s the Camino, the definition of the unexpected, and God’s providence.  But it was still a “little frustrating!”

The day also began on an embarrassing note.  Reminiscent of Dr. Thomas Avery (Martin Sheen) in “The Way,” we bolted out of the Alberge bright and early, but in the wrong direction. Having just posed with Monsieur Briseteia for a farewell photo, he was watching closely, and redirected.

We got started just in time for a sheep crossing. The shepherd and the dogs are just such an impressive team with their sheep. Every part of the body knows it’s role, does it without hesitation, and without complaining. Lots to learn here.

 

Lost without a shepherd

Although I took a wrong turn or two, today was just simply an incredible day. As I’m inclined to say it’s not merely the destination, it’s the journey. Why be bothered with frustration from losing my GPS navigation signal; the wasted hour allowed me more time with my son and my God. Sixty degrees ish, sunny, and the most incredible view of the Pyrenees you can imagine. I took a few pictures, but most are for my son and me. Just us.

After about six hours of the most challenging hiking I’ve encountered (by far exceeding last year, except that one day), I was really pooped. I truly needed to stop about every 20 meters to catch my breath, regroup, and focus my motivation. I kept saying, “Give me strength, focus, energy, even some kind of sign.” Almost immediately, over my head, as quick as a wink, a deer jumped across the road. I reached for my camera, and he was gone. Something else for “just us.”

A driver on the road saw I was struggling and asked ( I assume) if I’d like a ride to wherever I was going. Without hesitation, I said “Oui! S’ie vou plais!” But then, as he opened the door, for some reason, I declined and apologetically thanked him, “merci boucou!” Yes, I would do this myself, and then as if walking on air, I seemed to float to the hotel (yes, I splurged tonight, a real hotel!)

I realize it’s just my second day. But last year I almost had to quit on my third day because my knees were shot. Thanks for all your love, support, and prayers.
That’s all the light stuff. If that’s all you’re here for, thanks for dropping by.
More tomorrow! A little preaching after these pictures…

One of us has to move!
Charolais near Mauleon

Charolais in the way!

When I saw the sheep and their shepherd, I just couldn’t resist the temptation, and it’s been bothering me a lot since Easter Sunday, when I read someone’s Facebook post.

A friend of my daughter posted, on Easter Sunday, that ” We are not sheep, so we are in no need of a shepherd.” That was breathtaking to me but I crumbled to the floor that it got hundreds of likes, and lots of LOLs. Really?

I do realize that, over the past couple of years, my FB posts, and certainly my blog writings are faith centered. I get it. And I’ve lost a lot of followers, and lots of “friends” because of this. Fair enough. I’m a big boy, and I’ve gotten pretty thick skin after 50 years. But I do find both of these facts so very depressing.

You see, this person that wrote and shared such a popular, funny post also lost a son in a recent unlikely, unbelievable accident. The details or location aren’t so important. My daughter knows this man, who’s about my age, because she knew his son. I didn’t know either one.

What I do know is this. Jeshua ben Joseph truly lived. He is an indisputable historical figure. All three monotheistic religions agree. The other two hold him us a a great man, a wonderful philosopher. He said some of the most mind shattering things for the time. Including lots of clearly metaphorical references to a shepherd and his sheep. I’m no theologian, or bible scholar, I’ll insert the verses later. Jesus also claimed to be the messiah, and the son of God. This is also irrefutable. And all of his apostles (except John), and hundreds of other eye witnesses that knew Jesus were killed because NONE of them would retract or change their story, particularly about having seen Him after the resurrection, and then He disappeared before their eyes.

C.S. Lewis made famous the “liar, lunatic, or lord” argument. Jesus was one of these, and clearly not such a “great man” if liar or lunatic.

What we do with our faith when challenged with tragedy and crisis is unpredictable. It’s all just a bunch of words until we confront such a crisis. Our “profession of faith” is just a bunch of words unless we really think about them. And if we don’t agree, it’s our obligation to dig deeper to discover why not, or have an epiphany to prepare us for the unthinkable. We will stand before our God, perhaps tomorrow. Will He even know you? “He knows his sheep, and they know Him.”

May 14 – I Have No Idea What I Just Ate

Lourdes to St. Jean Pied de Port (or backwards)

A common theme in most people’s travel blogs is that they like to describe in detail, with lots of pictures, all the yummy things they’ve been eating.  Well, I’ve not done that very much, mainly because, “Who cares?”  But also, since everyone else does it, how would mine be any kind of a contribution.  Because I’m basically a food idiot, kind of like that dude on Idiot Abroad, if you’ve ever seen that British Comedy Series.  But I digress.  Anyway the real reason I don’t write about food is because it’s generally a pretty boring topic.  Except in France.  I honestly have no idea what I’m eating.

Last night, I was exhausted and famished, and predictably will be every night.  So it doesn’t really matter what it is.  Oh, they probably tell me, I just have no idea what they say.  I feel like Mr. Bean or Pee Wee Herman.  The first thing they put at our table was some kind of smashed up stuff that you apparently spread on big portions of French bread; as disgusting as it sounds, I think it was foie gras.  It was delicious, but disgusting because I remember from Vet School how that is “farmed,” and I put that in the same humane category as veal, and I have never eaten veal, as my little protest.  So geese aren’t cute little calves, so I ate and I enjoyed; I’m just glad they didn’t have veal last night. Then they had these sausage type thingies that everyone was cutting off a portion like a cake, and it reminded me a lot of Irish black pudding and white sausage. If you don’t know what they are, they are most definitely not pudding, or made by Jimmy Dean, and have a distinctly organ type of taste, kind of like liver also, but kind of a gamey deer blood type taste. Yummy. But, whatever, when in Rome…. My phone is upstairs charging, so no pix!!!

Then they served a steak, which was thin and just ok. I would have much preferred one of the cute lambs I waded through today. There was something else on the plate that I think was sweetbreads. It’s not sweet or bread. I remember this from animal science also. Look it up… The desert was interesting also. Not really used to having cheese as an after course, but it was goat cheese, and probably the best cheese I’ve ever tasted. If I hadn’t been open-minded, I’d have gone to bed hungry, but I ate everything in sight, and had a good night’s sleep with a full tummy.

Now breakfast held no such surprises, but for some reason they serve coffee (cafe) in a soup bowl. Again, I’m not too picky, but it was just awkward and a bit embarrassing. Something tells me I was supposed to be dipping my bread into my coffee. I kind-of felt like my son Noah, who will not allow different things to touch on the plate. Sorry, I’m not dipping my bread in my coffee. When I was almost finished, the owner a Monsieur Briseteia came in armed with a bundle from the local bakery, and literally threw me (reminiscent of Lambert’s “throwed rolls”) a croissant that was STILL WARM! Ok, this was by far the culinary highlight of the trip.

More tonight, looks like a confusing map day. Lots of paths and trails and roads cross and look really confusing. Wish me luck! I’m off.

Am I supposed to dip something into this?

Leaving SJPP, Mountain Range Crossing

Traveling in a foreign country is always risky business.  You just assume things will work out, and, of course they generally do, perhaps for the better.  Language barriers seem to be the biggest hurdle, and in SJPP (St. Jean Pied de Port), it’s a funny local mix of French, Spanish, and Basque.  Throw in the perigrinos (pilgrims), and you’ve got additional German, Portuguese, Italian, Korean, Chinese, Dutch,, on and on.  It makes for an amazing experience, but calls for much patience, from everyone.  We’re on our own spiritual Camino, but many times, we’re walking side by side.  Except for me, at least during this adventure.  No one is doing what I am.  I’ll encounter a few, but they’re ALL walking west towards the apostle (what St. James, Santiago) is called here).  And they seem to be coming from many different routes toward that end, and are generally concerned that one of us is walking the wrong way.  Another metaphor, I’m sure!

Anyway, I got started quite late, for a variety of reasons, including my inability to buy a ticket for the 5am train from the machine at the station, because none of the 5 credit cards I brought have an embedded chip in them, apparently new anti fraud technology.  Plus other confusion like the lack of any maps or guides to go backwards on GR78, which it what I’m doing, although the volunteers at the perigrinos office and the tourist bureau all agreed it was a really cool thing to do.  They wished me well and assured me that Our Lord, The Apostle, and certainly Mary herself wound be guiding me.  I think those three have quite a sense of humor, because not only did I not start until 12 (the exact minute it began to rain) but (if you were to follow my mapmyhike app on Facebook, you’ll see how many times I discovered I’d made wrong choices at forks in the road, and had to backtrack.  Those scallop shells marking the proper choices in turns are sorely missed this year!

Like an unkind flashback from last year’s first day, LOTS of  my steps were uphill or even worse, downhill.  But unlike last year, I was prepared with knee braces, and knowledge of the proper way to tie your boot going downhill to prevent your toenails from rubbing off against the insure of your boot tip.  Sounds funny, huh.  Haha, it’s not.

I decided that it might be good if I could speak to someone traveling from where I was traveling to – I really needed to know where the GR78 branched into the GR65, since I needed to turn down that way to start east instead of further north into the wrong part of France.  So I started saying “Hello,” instead of the customary “buen camino” or “bonjour,” in an attempt to find someone who spoke English.  This is a true story – the very first person I said this to spun around quickly, and said not only that he was from uusah, but in a familiar accent said St. Louis, and he’d just returned from Lourdes!  My first Camino coincidence.  And yes, I’d made several wrong turns (so had he), but the fork I was looking for was up about 3 miles.

So it’s all good.  After 17 miles (?), I dragged in to an alberge (what they call albergues here in France (or Basque, or whatever) by a working farm, called Alberge de Platane.

Dinner at “half seven” or la moitié de sept, or whatever.  Just enough time to unpack, wash clothes, and shower,  and an IV of ibuprofen!

more later, much love…

Madrid – and so it begins

 

Imagine my thrill as I arrived at the airport. This would begin my return to the Camino I’d been planning for months and I was well prepared today. I scanned my barcode at the airline kiosk to print my boarding passes with well over an hour before boarding. The people all around me were running around in a panic, I was proud for once that I wouldn’t be pushing the clock. But pride is an ugly emotion. So many of my posts seem to revolve around humility, and so it feels fitting that this one would as well.

The kiosk asked to scan my passport. No problem, it’s right here in my stack of well organized documents. But there was a problem – the photo I glimpsed as I placed it into the machine to scan was of … Noah. Apparently, I had mistakenly grabbed Noah’s passport days earlier when I was organizing all my things together. So imagine this emotional roller-coaster! I’m two hours from home, my flight leaves in a little over an hour, and I have no passport.

Mother’s Day seemed so fitting, so appropriate to begin my journey to hike to Lourdes, the shrine where the mother of our Lord appeared. But this was also my wife Sharon’s holiday. If life hadn’t so dramatically changed two years ago, this Mother’s Day would be Sharon’s day. I knew she was exhausted after a long week dealing with year-end administrative issues at school, and not so thrilled at the prospect of another Mother’s Day with me gone.

But I had to call someone to rush my passport to me. I was upset in a sullen, downcast way, but not emotional or even angry at myself. I just felt very empty. I didn’t feel mad; Yes, my Camino was all messed up, every connection would need to be changed, and I’d likely arrive hours or days after I’d intended. But as I discovered last year, I do find myself with lots more patience lately for stuff like missed flights going wrong. Things seem better in perspective. You can’t control most missed flights, they’re out of your hands and, a cancelled flight derailed my first connection last-year also. But this was my fault, and totally avoidable.
This was also so much more than an inconvenience for her, she didn’t feel well, was a bit down, and now I’d made it worse.

Yes, that’s a good word. I felt empty.

And Sharon was so good to me, like it was no big deal, like she was glad she could “make it better.” ‘Cause that’s what mommies do. I did make he next flight, and am sitting here in Madrid waiting for my final connection to San Sebastián. But it does feel tainted. Maybe in a useful way.

One of the books I read to prepare for this trip said what we needed to empty ourselves beforehand. Perhaps this allows the space, the openness to Grace, and the unexpected.

Certainly many pilgrims come for healing and relief, but others with tortured minds and broken spirits. Some seek to find that Grace to change their lives and free themselves from the bondage of materialism, addiction, and other self-enslavement.

The truth is that most folks do go home in the same physical condition. However, I’ve been told a radiant joy that totally transfigures their state of mind is astounding. A transfiguration of their inner inner experience, leaving them stronger to live and have faith through their sufferings, illnesses, and handicaps.

A final reflection may be that the Immaculate Virgin appeared in a less than immaculate grotto to a sick child of lowly status. God speaks to us in this way, through the mother of His Son, to meet us where we are in life, in the midst of our poverty and failures. He tells us that he loves us just as we are, our successes and our wounds. Furthermore, He shows that love and happiness are genuine when we serve others, in their physical or spiritual need. More later, the plane is boarding!

Join my 2014 Camino – La Voie du Marie

Fourteen year old Bernadette Soubirous was the poorest of the poor.  Her father was unemployed, having been pushed out of his job as modern advances made his profession obsolete.  The entire family of six existed in the single room that had years ago been abandoned as unfit for the village’s jailhouse.  The stench of the town’s overflowing sewage was overpowering, but the family was literally destitute, and at least had a room together where they could huddle around the fireplace.  Bernadette had been sick much of her entire life, with her asthma resulting in chronic respiratory disease.  Malnutrition, the cold weather, and lack of medical care was taking its daily toll on her.  She had missed more days of school than she had attended, and as such could barely read, the homely girl was labeled “simple” by her teachers, and teased as “stupid” by her classmates.  She was poor white trash of her day.

The story would feel uncomfortably familiar to many today, even in our own country.  But the timeless story has become infamous.  The village where Bernadette Soubirous and her family scratched for survival was Lourdes, France, in 1858.  The French Revolution had been particularly bloody for the Christianity.  The dechristianization reached its climax on November 10, 1793, with the celebration and worship of the goddess called “reason” at what had been the Cathedral at Notre Dame.  Over 20,000 priests had been executed, abandoned their faith, or deported.  Churches had been seized and demolished, worship outlawed; icons and even crosses were all destroyed and banned.  As Napoleon ascended, in the early 1800’s, a “sanctioned” religion was allowed some limited presence.

Those still practicing their faith saw no conflict with “reason,”  and continued their worship under the watchful, suspicious eye of the very changed culture after a generation of atheism.  History does seen to repeat itself.

As her father Francois was out looking for day work, Bernadette, her sister, and a friend had been out foraging for bundles of sticks to burn so their family could endure another night in the Pyrenees.  She was shivering, and stayed back as the other two girls crossed the freezing stream to grab some branches.  In just a few minutes, they would look back to see her kneeling in front of a cave where she sought refuge.  She appeared in a trance, and unresponsive to their calls.

This would be the first of 18 apparitions of a “mysterious, beautiful lady” to Bernadette Soubirous.  Even the priest and bishop would deny that anything miraculous was occurring.  This was a poor child, living by the towns trash.  They were horrified that this laughing stock was making a further joke of religion itself.  Bernadette was being ridiculed cruelly, for she had almost no education, and almost no religious formation.  The extent of her faith was staring at the crucifix in adoration of her Lord, and reciting the rosary, a sequence of prayers begging for the blessed mother of Jesus to pray for her and her family.  So why would the Blessed Virgin, the humble mother of our own Lord choose Bernadette Soubirous to appear to? She had no idea that this was the Virgin, until her final apparitions when Mary finally answered Bernadette’s question – “I am the Immaculate Conception.” This was a concept not even made dogma at the time, and was certainly not taught to schoolchildren. Why appear and speak to such a poor, ignorant, humble child?

Why indeed.  Mary herself knew humility.  Imagine the scorn and ridicule when the 14 year old was discovered pregnant before she was married.  In your mind, revisit that stable on that cold night when She and Joseph delivered the Child in an earthen floor animal refuge, where the stench of excrement was overwhelming.

In Matthew 18:2-4, we are called to have a “faith like a child,” where we stand in awe, where we contemplate in wonder that the God of the Universe would also humble Himself to show us how to love.  This is not a “childish” faith where we accept without reason or question, rather where we use the reason that we were endowed with to live in faith that we do not walk alone.

In two hours I leave for the airport where I will return to the Camino de Santiago.  Like last year, I will begin at St. Jean Pied de Port, in the French Pyrenees.  However, this year, instead of hiking west across the whole of Spain to Santiago de Compostela, I will hike to the east, a very different type of Camino, where I will arrive in Lourdes on May 17th, the second anniversary of our darkest day.

Why Lourdes?  So many people I have encountered in these past two years are hurting with their own grief, losses in many forms.  Surely, many have shared stories of death.  Others have had, and are struggling with loss of faith, a marriage, or simply shattered dreams.  My cousin has been paralyzed for decades after an accident, a nephew has a lesion on his brain, and a best friend of my daughter recently fell to spinal trauma, now also paralyzed.  There is so much pain and loss in our human condition.  I’ve shared in previous posts about “redemptive suffering,” but that offers little consolation at the time to the injured or their loving families.  They’d gladly give up their own legs for their children to be whole again.

Lourdes is about healing.  Almost two hundred years after Mary spoke with Bernadette and water miraculously flowed from the grotto, over 2 million people visit Lourdes every year for healing.  They will stand in lines for hours to glimpse at the grotto, process in the candlelight, and bathe in the miraculous waters.  Indeed, physical miracles have occurred: the lame have walked, the blind seen, and cancers cured.  The verification process is grueling and these astounding cures are breathtaking.  But for every physical cure documented, there is also a different healing at Lourdes.  A healing of the heart, of the spirit, consolation for the soul.  Can these be any less miraculous?  Many of my family and friends have asked me to return with a drop of the “miraculous waters” for them.  And I will.  I do have faith that I’ll bring back a different form of healing, for all of us.

Matthew 18:2-4

² So Jesus called a child to come and stand in front of them, ³ and said, “I assure you that unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the Kingdom of heaven. ⁴ The greatest in the Kingdom of heaven is the one who humbles himself and becomes like this child.