Five Years

I glanced at the date at the bottom of my screen, but the glance turned into deeper vision as I fell into that place. May 17 will always be the darkest day for my family, the most unnatural of places, where a father watches his son depart; where an entire family is changed, in an instant, numb and wandering, looking for whys.

Perhaps it’s that point, when we actually realize that we’re numb, that we look around and find ourselves embracing, not clinging to stay afloat, but rather holding each other up.  These are intensely personal thoughts and emotions, but shared as evangelism, as we each hold a piece of puzzle and struggle with how it fits into our own journey.

We place one foot in front of another and choose our paths alone.  At times of insight, we realize that we have chosen to walk with others by no accident.  We are, in fact, “here for a reason,” although sometimes it’s a struggle to know why.  Not in the context of, “everything happens for a reason.”  I stopped believing that a lifetime ago.  But rather, in response this sometimes tragic life, how do I respond?  Where do I go, both literally and figuratively?  Which direction do I look for guidance, to make sense out of any of it?  And whom do I find myself walking with, as I look around, when I finally emerge from the anaerobic depths.

I stopped being numb only when I finally realized that although sometimes those who I walk with are holding me up, and are “here for a reason,” this is my journey, and only I can choose to feel again, to breathe again, to live again.

Four years ago today, after hiking, falling, and crawling 540 miles from France, across the north of Spain on my first Camino de Santiago, I held my wife Sharon’s hand and entered the Cathedral of St. James.  The pilgrimage to the tomb of the Apostle is life changing for everyone who completes or even attempts it, in very unique and individual ways.  It was here that I began to look around and notice where I was, and those around me.  Somewhere during the month, I began to look at myself from a different lens and realize how my words and emotions were changing.  I don’t think these were my own eyes, this was someone else’s vision of me.

My story was one of great pain and loss, and I wanted to make everyone else know the pain, and cry with me.  I hated this journey, I hated my life, and I hated everyone I encountered because they didn’t feel my pain.  But, as I walked the Camino de Santiago, I began to feel again, to stop hating, to love again.

Somewhere along the path I had stopped enjoying the tears of others.  Clearly it had been a struggle, but I saw myself and my swollen knees, black and blue and bloody from so many falls, struggling up and down the trails, continue to carry me forward one step at a time.  And I saw myself embracing others, from Belgium, France, Germany, China, Morocco, Canada, Japan, Spain, and so many other places.  They carried their own crosses of pain – their own unique struggles and grief.  Others were there for a reason also, and my walking with them was no coincidence. My story began to change from one of death and loss to one of life and salvation.  And the words and stories and memories I found myself sharing were those of love and happiness and support for others who were also hurting and struggling to find some sense in their own lives.

   

Working through grief is hard work, and it very different for each of us.  There is no recovery, no return to the previous path, no “new normal.”  Loss is not something to get past, to recover from, so we can “get on with life.”

In the movie foreshadowing so much of my life, The Way, when “Jack from Ireland” discovers that Dr. Tom (Martin Sheen) has lost his son and is carrying and spreading his ashes along the way, he exclaims, “That’s brilliant! Tragic of course, but brilliant!”

And so it is.  Life is, in fact brilliant and beautiful.  Of course there is tragedy and great loss.  But it’s tragic because of its beauty, and we only see the brilliance of salvation because of the loss.

I don’t love my life in spite of my losses.  Like my son I have things I struggle with.  But struggles and losses don’t mean his life wasn’t beautiful, and meaningful, and love filled for everyone he encountered.  His having lived for 19 years made the world a much better place.  I have chosen to embrace my loves and losses, because they make me, me.  Cullen was here for a reason, and so am I.

    

Each year since that accident have found me remembering the date in remarkable, meaningful places.  Santiago twice, Morocco, Lourdes, and today, on the fifth year reflecting on his beautiful life, I’m at the Trappist Monastery where Thomas Merton wrote his classic Seven Story Mountain.

Today doesn’t have to be about loss.  Many celebrate wedding anniversaries, birthdays, and other joyful celebrations. Please join me in thanksgiving for a beautiful life.

His, mine, and yours.

Much Love.

Cullen’s favorite pose

Advertisement

Lessons from two Caminos: Time Heals Nothing

         

It’s ironic that the reflective solitude that I enjoyed so much  last year on the Camino de Santiago would be what made me feel lonely as I hiked this year.

Maybe that’s not fair, or totally true, because I am a much different person this year. It’s now been two years since Cullen’s accident.

The old adage that “time heals all wounds” is a lie.  But at least the wound isn’t still hemorrhaging constantly. The fact is that wounds do not heal back to normal.  This is simply not true. Another axiom is that one achieves a “new normal,” which is also a lie.  There can be no normalcy when one loses a child.

From my medical perspective, an immune system attempts to repair that void or empty space where living tissue once was only by “granulating” it in with scar tissue.

So when Pontius Pilate asks, “What is truth?”  I can tell him, “The truth is, time heals nothing.”  Recovery through grief requires work.  Yes, lots of really hard work, and much of it continues to be painful.  Reading, talking, sharing, silence, and prayer. Time does create a kind of a “space” where we can put things – good things, positive things, an opportunity for suffering to be redemptive; and the “breath of life” will again come down upon us and we will find life within us.  Or we can choose to not put good things in this space, and the vacuum will suck in all of the horror, and negative, and evil, and we will dwell in this bottomless pit of sewage, where there is no life and no breath.  I witnessed this in a support group, where some members still wallowed in this lifeless sewage after 20 and 30 years.

Like Josie Vander Woude, we must allow ourselves to be pushed up out of that pit, and the “breath of life” to rush into our gasping lungs. Yes, I am much different than I was.  Perhaps last year, I simply needed some alone time.  Time to scream at God, and at Cullen, and at his stupid decision to drink that night, and at FSU for allowing him the opportunity to make such stupid choices, and at myself for not teaching him to be more effing responsible, and at God, and at my ex-wife, and at China, and at his absent guardian angel, and at God, and maybe just to scream.

One of the transitions I made last year, if you muddied through the garbled, mostly nonsensical posts of last year’s Camino, was that I found myself no longer angry.  And no longer desperately needing to tell everyone the horrible story so that they would also feel horrible, and, in turn, feel sorry for me.  And no longer even wanting anyone to feel sorry for me.  And no longer needing to tell everyone about the tragic accident; in fact I found myself actively avoiding telling the story.

I still love to talk about Cullen, and am told that I glow with pride and joy when I get to.  But now it’s the good stuff, and not so much the catastrophic loss.  Because, although it is both of these, the good stuff now allows me to rejoin life. There have been so many amazing “Gifts Left Behind” that allowing myself to dwell in that dark place would make his life here just a waste; his whole life here just a mistake.  And that’s just simply not the case.

So last year I welcomed this “time apart” from everyone that knows and loves me, and it did something to me.  Each evening, I got to see faces of other anonymous peregrinos that were becoming familiar from the previous night, or a week ago, or even from walking together for 10 minutes during that day.  We would share a glass of the local wine crop and tell each other stories of victory and loss, and that’s when I began to see the life a bit more holistically.  We all have lives, with our own losses and victories. Tired of crying, I found so much more joy in hearing others’ stories, and where they are in their lives than in telling about myself.

C.S. Lewis calls this philia (love for a brother), or even agape love, where you would give of yourself for another.  There’s a certain joy that is so much deeper about caring for someone else and ministering to them than there is in begging to be heard and ministered to yourself. And so life is a repetitive struggle between the two.  We want to be the focus, to be served, for others to make us happy.  And yet we cannot.  We can not make ourselves happy, or whole, or even healed.  Fortunately we also feel this tug towards others, and in that longing is joy.

“It is in giving that we receive.” (St. Francis of Assisi) We are called to serve, to minister to each other, to love each other.

 

Matt Maher says it well in this song that means so much to me:

(It became our theme song in Haiti, and Sarah sang it at the end of the funeral)

 

It’s waiting for you, knocking at your door

In the moment of truth when your heart hits the floor

And you’re on your knees

And love will hold us together Make us a shelter to weather the storm

And I’ll be my brother’s keeper

So the whole world would know that we’re not alone

This is the first day of the rest of your life

‘Cause even in the dark you can still see the light

It’s gonna be alright, it’s gonna be alright

 

At “the end of the day,” this becomes the manifestation of His love.  We take on a servant’s heart, and others see a change in the way we live our lives.  Everyone encountered becomes the living Christ.

She Wasn’t Being Rude

 

 

 

 

 

Klein Family Mission Trip T-Shirt Logo, Haiti 2012

“but as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”  Joshua 24:15

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.”

Six months later! Finisterre, The End of the World.

Welcome to lots of folks who have found this blog today from another link. As you may know, these posts are in reverse chronological order, so if you really have an interest (and some time!) in my entire Camino last year, keep scrolling down for 6 pages, or simply click here to start near the beginning. Be kind! Most of the early posts were from my phone in a Spanish hostel at night after hours of hiking and a few glasses of wine, so the spelling and grammar are a bit embarrassing. I intended to correct and edit, but decided it adds to the flavor and texture of my journal and growth. Enjoy. Please leave feedback!
______________________

This was technically the last of my “Camino de Santiago” posts.  I had so many mixed, tormented emotions, I opted not to publish it months ago when I completed “The Way of St. James.”

Predictably, the Camino was a very healthy thing for me to do.  Yes, of course the 500 miles was good for me physically (except, of course for my knees), but especially the real reason for my journey – spiritually, and the beginnings of working through some grief issues after losing my 19 year old son, Cullen.  Lots of conversation with my son and my God.

But the unexpected benefit was from the blogging itself, spilling myself for everyone to see was beautifully cathartic.  It was pretty embarrassing at first, when I discovered myself talking about those things so important to me, the real me.  And there I was for the world to see.  Hundreds of folks were reading this blog, and on many days, over a thousand visits here.  It’s one thing to spill your guts and stand naked for the anonymous world to see, but entirely different when realizing that many of the readers are my siblings, my church community, my patients, and childhood and college classmates.  Now, that’s something entirely different.  My wife is supposed to see me like this, but realizing that everyone else saw inside was a bit frightening, and made me anxious.

However, as I progressed, I found it very liberating.  As healthy as diaries and “journaling” are supposed to be, to do it publically kept me grounded, humble, and more confident that I’m walking with Christ on this journey.

Journey?  Sure, our “walk” through life is in fact, for each of us, our “Camino.”  I’m a long way from Spain,. and most people will never be blessed to travel there, but we all walk our own Camino, as we put one foot in front of the other on this sometimes rocky road.

So this was to be my final Camino post:

The final day of my Camino de Santiago was spent holding hands with Sharon walking through Finisterre and up towards the lighthouse.  “Finisterra” (or in Galacian, “Fisterre”), is Latin for “land’s end,” also Finisterre (finis terrae), means “end of the earth.  I’ve been told that after their long pilgrimage to pay homage and ask incercessions of Santiago and worshipping our Lord in Compostela, the perrigrino would continue on to Finistere.  The was considered the end of the earth in those days.  Over the horizon was beyond the world, the heavens, where their deceased ancestors, their own saints, existed, and so this was a fitting place to converse with them.

We watched the sun set through the drizzle from the lighthouse café.  We talked to our loved ones in silence as the majesty of God’s creation dimmed over the horizon from the end of the earth.

As we were headed home, crossing the Atlantic, I thought alot about “the others,” my friends, coworkers, and especially my family.  If I come home a “changed” person, will it impact anyone else?  Should I need for it to?

My reflex reaction, of course, is “No, this was always about me, and my own “vision quest” with God.  But when I hear those words, I want them back.  Nothing in our lives is ever just about “me.”  If it was only about me, why am I even writing this?  Obviously, I wanted to raise funds to replenish Cullen’s scholarship fund, and that’s what I told everyone, and myself.  But so many people have shared with me that they genuinely felt brought along with us.  Friends, clients, family, even former strangers who just happened to “stumble upon” this blog have told me they have been touched, and even changed, as they “travelled along with us.”  Please read on until the very end.

Call it the “pebble in the pond” ripple effect or the “butterfly effect” on air currents, we certainly do change the world forever for having walked a certain route, made today’s choices, said certain words, even been here at all.  Again I am humbled.

I feel blessed that you wanted me to share with you, and invited me in.  Please know that your prayers have lifted me and my family.  We will never be the same because of this loss, because of the Camino, because of your loving prayers, and God’s loving grace.  It has been an honor to bring you along.

Much Love.  Bill Klein May 2013

At the urging of something deep inside of me, and with the reluctant blessings of my wonderful wife, I’ve decided to restart sharing again through blog posting.  To avoid flooding 500 people’s inbox with unwanted stuff, I’ll be posting on my other blog, CLICK HERE, or simply go to dogtorbill.wordpress.com.  If you want to subscribe, click the appropriate places.  I’ll likely check in with something once a week, or so.  Please know that although undoubtedly I will reference my Camino, my future postings will not be about the Camino de Santiago.  Much will involve my working through lots of personal baggage and lingering, pervasive drama, that you may or not find helpful, insightful, or even interesting.  Some will be very personal, as you’ll find out in the first few posts, and you may well not feel comfortable with what I dig up.  But as always, I encourage you to please comment and give me feedback.  My skin’s not very thick yet, but as I continue down this road, and embark upon new adventures, including my ministry or apostolate that is now in formation, I look forward to lots of feedback!

Scallop Shells

I was caught off guard when a reader asked me about the significance of the scallop shell.  I was a bit embarrassed when I thought about this.   I’d never really thought much about the diversity of readers here. I’ve referenced the yellow arrow pointing the way along the route, however, at least as often, is the image of the scallop shell – most typically as a tile attached to one of the waymarkers along the road, or embedded as a brass plate into the surface of city sidewalks.

When you’re on TV or radio, or simply cutting a youtube video, you don’t see the faces.  You are speaking to an audience of one – the microphone.  Likewise, on a blog like this, I think about the four WordPress members that check-in after some of the posts, my wife, and maybe (hopefully) someday my kids when they are curious about what makes the old man tick.

My curiosity having been piqued, I dug into the administrative section of WordPress, and discovered over 500 people regularly following, and just over 7000 total search hits so far.  Hence my embarassment at thinking I was a ‘child singing a Christmas carol for his family.’  Avoiding eye contact, they would giggle, “That’s nice.”  So I’m certainly humbled to realize the outpouring of interest in my journey and my son.  I also wish I hadn’t been in such a weary hurry on my first dozen posts, trying to text my story on my phone, when I read back and see all of the (often comical) typos.  Anyway, feel free to comment – please do!  I realize you must jump through hoops, or even join WordPress to comment, but I would appreciate it.

I had become so accustomed to seeing the scallop shell, the “Image of Santiago;” it had been so ingrained in what I saw everywhere – now that I’m home, I really miss it!

A few years ago, I would have had no clue about symbolism surrounding the scallop shell either.  I took for granted all of my readers would also know those things I had learned.  In my most recent post, I mentioned in passing the tapping of the scallop shells against the small wooden box attached to the outside of my pack as I walked down the streets of Santiago, as well as all the challenging trails and paths up and down the mountains on this incredible journey.

The scallop shell has long been associated with St. James, as well as Santiago. The scallop industry is a way of life on the North West coast of Spain, and all of Galacia, for that matter, and has been for thousands of years.

The scallop shell holds symbolism for Christianity itself.  Used in those waters to scoop water to pour over the head during Christening, the shell represents baptismal renewal, the rebirth after washing away the sins.  Although my own church uses immersion for the sacrament of adult baptism, Father Tony does use a scallop shell to trickle a stream of the purifying water over an the head of an infant.  Indeed, an image of this shell is seen all over town on cars, representing well the Holy Name of Jesus Parish as her logo.  Another “coincidence” (remember, there’s no such thing!) is that the symbol of my own faith community is the same as the Camino.

The scallop shell is said to be a metaphor on the Camino, its lines representing the different routes pilgrims traveled from all over the world, all walking trails leading to one point: the tomb of Saint James in Santiago de Compostela.  Medieval pilgrims often wore a scallop shell attached to their cloaks or hats during their journey to Santiago. More than being just a symbol or a pilgrim badge, the scallop shells also had a practical purpose: they were a handy and light replacement for a bowl so the pilgrims could use them to hold their food and drink on their long journey. Pilgrims would also be given food at churches and other establishments, and a scallop shell scoop was the measure for the food they would be donated. Since the scallop is native to the coast of Galicia, the shell also became a memento, a physical proof of having completed the pilgrimage.

Pilgrims today traditionally attach a shell to the outside of their rucksack as a statement of their faith, and participants on the pilgrimage. I had attached two, one on each side, as I left St. Jean Pied de Port, France, over 500 miles ago.

I knew viscerally that although I was doing the walking, that many were along with me.  And I will return soon to those I left behind.  My next post will be my final one on this blog, and I’ll say a few things regarding “those that went with me.”

Traditionally, when we return home, we bring special gifts to our loved ones.  But this was not a business trip, with stuffed animals for all the kids, or a vacation with T-shirts for everyone.  Having those things would be worse than nothing at all – they would trivialize this journey.

What would be an appropriate gift that others could hold, to memorialize the Camino de Santiago?

The pictures show that the tapping of the “shells against the small wooden box” could not be those I attached to the outside of my pack for Cullen and me.  It was the others, in the outer pocket with the box, that had travelled these miles with us.  Sharon and I each carried these scallop shells on this journey; they symbolize those at home, who walk with us.  As we have now finished this part of our Camino, we have presented each member of our family one of these treasures that we carried for them.  Much Love.

Edward – 13 May 2013

As frustrating as yesterday was, we very much did enjoy staying in Portomarin.  Like many small Spanish towns, there was a central square where everyone, the locals as well as perigrinos staying at all of the albergues, seemed to congregate.  Of course I saw Dirk again, and Shar finally got a chance to meet him   We stayed at a smaller private albergue called Ultreya. Even though the private ones tended to cost a few more Euro (8-10 vs the larger municipal places which were often as cheap as 5-6), they were generally smaller and more intimate, and often washer and dryer, better showers, and even computer access.  We enjoyed meeting a few newbies on the patio as we enjoyed our home-made tapas:  bread, goat cheese, tomatoes, anchovies, pimentos, and of course a sampling of the local grape crop.  We met three Irish 20 something Irish lads, who seemed to enjoy each other and life in general, quite alot.  Good “craic!”

When you go to bed at 9:30, waking at 1:30 feels like the middle of the night.  One of the positives of such a small albergue quickly became a negative.

It was pretty obvious what was going on when I heard the Irish brogue from an adjacent room..  We couldn’t really tell if there was a scuffle or whether someone had simply fallen – a few times, and against the wall, and then a cry that sounded like it came from a little girl. My being a little ticked off at having been awoken soon turned to gigling at the entertainment.  This turned to a laughter as everyone in their room kept shushing them, as if you can shush a drunk.  Their loud apologies when informed of the shocking news that there were others also staying here, who were trying to sleep – made the scene even more comical.  They seemed truly surprised and contrite that they had inconvenienced 60 other people.  Soon however, this seemed to be forgotten when someone (else?) fell against the wall and onto the floor. This was followed by lots more shushing and several others also laughing.  They’ll regret this in the morning i chuckled…

As much as I wanted to get on the trail bright and early, as I mentioned two days ago, we were nearly out of Euro, so we stayed in Portomarin until the bank opened.  This put us roughly 2 hours behind the others leaving Portomarin, and about an of hour ahead of those that had stayed in the previous town (Momentios).

We had the road to ourselves for almost four hours, and it was really, really good.  Shar and I walked most of that time side by side, often holding hands, but not really saying anything.  Our lives are so filled with sound and stimulation, it’s such a release to just let go and quiet our selves, and our souls.

We knew we weren’t alone.  This was what I was so afraid Shar was going to miss.  The Camino de Santiago is a really long, grueling hike.  And for some people, that’s enough.  But it’s much more than that, if you want it to be.  This place is so thick with grace.  You’re in centuries of good company.

I noticed Shar using her arms, Italian fashion, as she hiked up the rocky trail, and over the old bridge  She was having a silent conversation, and I assure you she wasn’t talking to herself.

We were approaching Palas de Rei, which is where we would end our day.  As we approached an antique crumbling waymarker, I noticed a familiar face.  This was Edward, who I hadn’t seen since in a couple of weeks, at the Cruz de Ferro.  I was impressed when he seemed so glad to see my wife, and expressed such happiness that I had my her here with me now.  With his heavy German accent, he explained to her that I might not have remembered having seen him at Cruz de Ferro, but that he was so touched there seeing me that he had cried.  I remembered his tears, and his embracing me, I just didn’t realize his were also my tears.  I flashed back to my first week on the Camino, when I met him, willing and anxious to share some of Cullen.  I’ll talk more later about my evolving through this, but he was one of those truly moved by our story.  And my memory of his embrace as I slowly walked down from the mountain of stones under the cross.

This is some of the stuff I’ll always remember.  I never asked his last name, so we’ll never meet again.  We don’t need to.  Our paths crossed once, and we are both better for it.

Unfortunately, I never really took any pictures of Edward.
He took this of himself by mistake, when he was taking a picture of Shar and me!

Picture Edward took of us!

Time alone with Shar 13 May 2013

Alternative Scenic Route (Dragonte Mountain) – 21st Day, 8 May 2013

In John Brierly, “A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago,” he on many occasions presents two or sometimes three alternative routes to reach the day’s suggested destination.  The grey dotted route is mainly paved, typically the least strenuous, but often reportedly boring, less scenic, and asphalt hard on the feet.  The gold dotted route is that suggested by Brierly, much more altitude, and as such, more strenuous and demanding.  Unlike in snow-skiing, the green route is not the easiest.  The green route is mentioned only for the benefit of the “experienced hiker,” who is in “excellent physical condition and who has the internal compass of a mountaineer,” as he is “likely to presented with many alternative roads and paths that are unmarked, and who will not become disheartened or frustrated if he becomes disoriented or lost for a period of time.”

Sounds like me, right?  Guess which route I ALWAYS took when presented with the options…

Today being no different, I made the responsible decision that (apparently) no one else that I knew had made.  Without hesitation, I chose the green route (a no-brainer) and headed up to Dragonte.  I say without hesitation, not because I’m particularly athletic, or have a death-wish, or even some kind of daredevil.  No, I always chose the highest, most demanding route because I’m pretty sure this is a once in a lifetime thing for me to do.  So really do it.

And kind of personal.  My last trip with my son, time together.  That additional time we all wish we had spent with our kids when they (or we’re) gone.  Lots of long conversations.  Explanations of things I had done and not done – why and why not – and how I really thought I was being a good dad at the time.  Apologies for those things that didn’t work out well or had resulted in misunderstandings, frustrations and disappointments.  And appreciation for being such a really great son, a really great friend to so many, a really great human being.  I continue to be in awe of that person.  On so many levels.

So, and I share this with great hesitation, because it is so very personal.  But if you’re still reading after three weeks, you are undoubtedly a pretty good friend, and have much love for me and my family.  Many have no Idea why I’m doing this, other than to work through some grief.  There are some reasons too personal to share – they are between me, my son, and our God.

But remember, I’ve said many times – I’m not doing the Camino for Cullen, I’m doing the Camino WITH Cullen, but for me, and those I love, who need me back.  I’ve been gone for a while.

So, yes, at the risk of some mental health label, I am walking the Camino de Santiago, the Way of Saint James with my son Cullen.  And yes, his ashes are in my backpack (no, I’m not spreading them), but even if they weren’t, he’d truly still be here with me.  And I have genuinely felt his presence on many occasions.  In the wind, in the warmth I feel on a frigid day, in the color and the fragrance of the lavender here on the mountains in the springtime.  And although most people would look and say I was walking alone, in reading some of my prior posts, I noticed myself talking about things “we” did or saw.

Today, the green route was the most physically demanding, albeit exhilarating thing I’ve ever done.  I did post a few pictures on FB.  Here’s a few more.  Today was the Camino in a nutshell.  Time alone, lots of prayer, fascinating history, indescribable beauty.  Anyone who denies the existence of our God has clearly never seen anything like this.  And yes I was lost once for over an hour.  Don’t believe in angels?  I didn’t either.  More to come regarding that.  Much Love

Hospital de Orbigo, 4 May, 2013

There´s a saying while walking here, anytime an uncanny coincidence occurs, any time you were thinking or talking about something and it happens immediately, you run into someone you met days, if not weeks ago, expecting to never to see them again. “It´s the Camino!” just seems to explain it in a nutshell.  So many really, really interesting, if not strange things happen here.  I´ve heard reference to the literally millions over the past thousand years who have made the pilgrimage, often with a troubled or heavy heart, filled with a loving, if not healing spirit.  “The place is thick with God´s healing grace, you could cut it with a knife,” a priest from New York, who had been a missionary in Africa, said to me.  “Think of the tens, if not hundreds of thousands who died here, struggling to make the journey.  Think of the saints, such as your St. Francis of Assisi (knowing I was a vet) who walked these very same footsteps.  Don´t be surprised when surprising things happen!”  I have not been surprised, but I am in awe.

Tonight, I stayed in Hospital de Orbigo in an albergue, sleeping in the same room with about 60 really good friends.  Let me comment on that atatement.

There are lots of “Hospital” named towns.  Remember the millions going before me didn´t have high tech hiking gear like us.  Girded in a sack cloth and a stick, many (esp in medieval times) made this journey of atonement and indulgence, knowing they may not make it home, or even to Santiago.  Hospitals were set up along the way to treat injuries, as well as infirmities.  The plague, scarlet fever, and tuberculosis, as well as dozens of other maladies claimed many before they could place their petition at the feet of St. James for his intercession to his close friend, our Lord, Jesus Christ.  There are many medieval headstones behind towns called “hospital.”

Sixty really good friends.  This feels like the fraternity days, with “Hell week,” just prior to initiation into the “club.”  It really is inconceivable the pains and struggles associated with a pilgrimage  I´m really not complaining Donica, I knew this stuff was part of the package.  As a natter of fact, it would be a really beautiful holiday if not for the discomfort.  That may well be part of what of makes it a pilgrimage.  The sprains, strains, bloody torn nails, the blisters, destroyed knees, pulled backs, and even heart attacks.  The cardiovascular workout involved in ascending a thousand meters in a just few kilometers is both exhilarating and body breaking.  Anyway, those who toil together, especially for a common cause tend to grow very close.  So I am serious when I say “close friends.”  Imdeed I was in a big room with 60 others stuffed into bunkbeds.  But as I looked around the room, I had walked for miles with most of them, and the others had made the way with those I did know.  A common kinship.  A royal priesthood.  Each perigrino has their own story, their own Camino.  More on that later.  Much Love.

La Virgen del Camino, 3 May 2013

Yesterday just seemed to take forever, ending through the huge (by camino standards) city of Leon (pop 130,000), took over 2 hours simply walking through Leon, all paved, stop and go at pedestrian intersections, and simply exhausting.  But I very much wanted to get the hustle and bustle of the city behind me, so I struggled past, to this quaint little village with a population of 3,300.  In the morning I walked with Dirk for about an hour, then we seperated, under the auspices of his much faster walking pace.  It is so important to spend most of the time alone, walking in silence.  I often will play the podcast of the Divine Office to start the day´s “contempletive journey,” but after that generally walk in silence for most of the day.  Sometimes at the very end, I´ll listen to Audrey Assad when I am totally shot, and can´t even lift my feet for another step, as her “singer-songwriter” style ballads have a perfect rhythm and beat for me.  Her lyrics also speak to me in such a personal way I can´t even describe.  Or I may listen to and pray with my friend Sarah Kroger, whose songs take me to a place only those who have heard her sing after communion can know.  On a side note, I’ll forever treasure Cullen’s response when I told him Sarah would be singing at my wedding to Sharon.  He said, “You mean the beautiful girl with the ‘voice of an angel?'”  Yes Cullen, you have that right.  Sarah flew back to sing at his funeral too.  Please find and buy her albums on I-tunes.

Tonight I am staying at a rather large albergue, but quite nice, and quite modern, with wifi (weefee!), and pay by the minute computers as well.  Four of us cooked, and shared a bottle of local vino.  While my clothes were on line drying, haha, someone decided they needed my bar of soap more than I did!  Go figure…  Do people not care where your soap´s been???  enjoy!

Tomorrow I should make it halfway to Astorga, perhaps Orbigo.  Cheers!

Calzadilla – Tuesday, Day 12

Just a quick note, since only 4 minutes is left on my albergue pay per minute computer.  I´ve only met three Americans on my camino.  Very interesting, but certainly gives much insight as to the rest of the world, and how we are viewed.  The truth does emerge after consumption of “a bit” of the local grape harvest.

Anyway, with seating always a commodity at pubs beneath an albergue, I asked to join a couple at their table.  Craig and Dawn recently retired from their respective jobs – Craig a hematologist, who´s quite an expert on non-hodgkins lymphoma, and Dawn – who had been working for years in hospice care.  I shared Rick´s story with Craig, and my recent reading of Ä Grief Observed,¨by C. S. Lewis.  What a tablefull of conversation with this couple who just “happened” to be from Florida, of all places.  Now I´ve met 5 people from home.  Much Love, more later…