A place of service

Plush Noja was hard to leave. The bed and breakfast was more for late rising honeymooners than for pilgrims intent on the Way. The owner said breakfast was at 7:00, so when we arose late due to our plush surroundings, we hustled to get down to the breakfast room at 7:15. Well, our host rushed in at 7:30 got us some juice and set out bread and a Cantabrian loaf cake (I can't remember the name). She asked us if we wanted eggs fried and mixed (scrambled) and left to prepare them. So we sat, watched Spanish news, and waited. Eggs came (very good--probably the hen house next door!), and she was a little taken aback that we refused jamon anpd queso (ham and cheese) We had noted that the 'new Camino' headed south away from the coast and seemed to add 6K to the journey. The 'traditional Camino' followed a road nearer the ocean west out of town. So being the bright guys we are, we head to the west and wind around through the empty 6 floor apartment developments that grew during the boom and now stand empty during thr bust. With a bit of doing we head toward the medieval town of Isla.<br>
Isla is 6K from Noja, and a fine walk. When we arrive we decide to climb right to the romanesque church. The church was closed, but a news crew was filming a travel spot, and real pilgrims added just the color they needed. We got to go inside as the news crew (the star, the producer, and the camera guy) continued to shoot. The altar piece was a magnificant baroque rococco style--dripping with ornamentation. The stations of the cross and the side chapels and baptistry were seemingly older and in disrepair. If they keep my tape, I'll make regional TV in Cantabria intelligently commenting, "There is nothing like this in Michigan."&nbsp; You can see why many Europeans kind of smirk when we say we are from the United States, and then they say, "We thought so."
We walked on a road and later had a decision between the road and up to another church and on to an albergue the TV producer said was run by a fellow named Ernesto or straight down the road we were on 7K to Somo and the ferry to Santander.  We sat in the church yard, ate our oranges and raisins, shared prayers with Deb P and an anonymous friend, sang the Gloria and decided on the albergue in Guemes, 6.5K into the hills.
The country road became country lane and Nicodemous returned to our lips.  We walked and walked down quiet pleasant lanes past small farms enjoying the sun and finding refreshment at the occasional fountain.  At about 1:30 we see a sign pointing straight up a steep hill to the albergue.  Up we climb, stronger now than day 1.  At the top we see a cluster of buildings in the white masonry style of the Sterling vineyards in in the Napa Valley or like tourist magazine pictures of the Greek Isles.  We walk in the reception area trailing a not sweaty, every hair in place German family (dad, mom, bud, and sis--or whatever Nordic types call 'bud and sis').  There a hospitalero hands us a glass of cool water and offers a box of cookies.  As we sign in and get our credentiala stamped we note tables being set with plates, dinnerware, wine, and water.  Another hospitalero takes us to the next building and shows us the shower rooms and on to the sleeping rooms.  He tells us that lunch is served at 2:00.  We shower quickly and return to the dining area.  We are last to arrive to a long table filled with the workmen we had seen painting one of the buildings, the hospitaleros who greeted us, some other pilgrims, and a few I couldn't place.  We were served spaghetti with tomato sauce, rice with a bit of chicken (one of the hospitaleros and his wife seemed to be from the New World, and she apparently cooked the chicken and rice dish), wine, bread, and water.  After a bit, a dish of sliced hard boiled eggs in a slightly sweet tomato sauce appeared and apples and oranges were presented for dessert.  The whole time the hospitaleros moved the food, took the empty plates, and treated us as special guests.  After lunch we did our laundry and hung it in the bright sun to dry.  Other pilgrims arrived throughout the afternoon, as well as about 30 middle school aged children and a couple of teachers.  The children ran to the soccer pitch and began to what middle school children without benefit of phones and gameboys do so well.  We met 'old' friends from earlier in the week, and lounged around until 6 or so when we were called to the library to meet Ernesto.
Ernesto turns out to be a genial 70 something man or who organizes translators from among the pilgrims so all (English,Dutch,German,and Italian) could understand his Spanish.  Ernesto wanted to welcome the pilgrims and tell us about this albergue.  Ernesto was born on this property, but his family was forced to move east to find employment when he was 7 or 8.  He grew up loving to work with his hand but also called by God to serve the Church.  After ordination he asked his Bishop to assign him to a town in the Picos de Europa where we both served as a pastor to, and worked in the earth with, zinc miners.  After a time (translation rendered unclear some of the details) Ernesto is in Venezuela doing the same with gold miners there: pastor and co-worker.  He returns to Spain in time to be arrested by Franco for standing up for workers.  After release from jail, he asked his Bishop to assign him to the family hometown.  He has a vision that on the family land his parish will build an albergue for pilgrims on the Camino.  All of the buildings, maintenance, cooking, and serving are the fruit of his parishioners remembering the scripture my family reads as we learn the lessons of the Passover: "you too were once a stranger in the land.  . ."  And also the scripture we read at my church, "when I was homeless you took me in".  As the years went by the albergue added beds and a new mission: environmental awareness and organizing.  It seems that many area farmers were turning increasing numbers of acres over to monoculture: the euchalyptus tree.  They are native to the region, come to quick commercial maturity (10 years), and the euchalyptus oil producers pay big bucks.  As with any monoculture there are environmental costs: shrinking habitat for other native flora and fauna and mudslides after the clearcutting.  The albergue houses a center that studies alternative cultivation methods and organizes political opposition to the industrial interest behind the change to monoculture.  Recently the albergue started inviting school groups up to see the environmental program and to dine with the pilgrims many of their parents came up from the village church to serve.  He thanked us for the opportunity to serve us, wished us 'buen Camino', and invited us to dine. He said if we would work for a better world, the albergue was ours, ther were no owners here.
We went to the dining area now about 70 of us.  I began to see others of the albergue community, neither pilgrims nor hospitaleros, but those hurting in some way in mind or body, who simply seemed to need a place and time to heal. 
Ernesto was very interested to meet Pete as they shared professions: pastor.  The idea that he was Protestant took a little explaining (his wedding ring is a source of great confusion to folk from Italy and Spain we meet--many have never met a Protestant).  Ernesto told Pete, "Here there is no Protestant or Catholic only Christian."  Then he looked around the room and said, "Here there is no Christian, only human."
That night we ate a great feast and you know what that's like . . .