A Story and a Picture of a Story

It has been three years.  Much has changed.  Much has not.  I have been feeling the urge to get back to the keyboard, so here is a bit of a meditation I wrote for the website at my church.  I dedicate it to my walking partner and friend, Peter.  He walked with me through the Prado and we dropped our jaws together in the room full of El Greco paintings on themes from the life of Christ.  Then we walked across Spain together and talked of Nicodemus and played the game of Midrash.  I dedicate it to my friend Meck Groot who opened my eyes to so many issues of race, class, gender, power etc.  It sounds so theoretical and  politically correct and all to write it that way, suffice to say, it was different and more personal, more human.  So here it is, a mediation on the text from the Revised Common Dictionary for April 12, 2015 and a mighty fine painting by Velazquez I stumbled upon on day over lunch at the desk.

The Story

¹³ Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles^[a] from Jerusalem. ¹⁴ They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. ¹⁵ As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them;¹⁶ but they were kept from recognizing him.

¹⁷ He asked them, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?”

They stood still, their faces downcast. ¹⁸ One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, “Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?”

¹⁹ “What things?” he asked.

“About Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied. “He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people. ²⁰ The chief priests and our rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him; ²¹ but we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third day since all this took place. ²² In addition, some of our women amazed us. They went to the tomb early this morning ²³ but didn’t find his body. They came and told us that they had seen a vision of angels, who said he was alive. ²⁴ Then some of our companions went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not see Jesus.”

²⁵ He said to them, “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the prophets have spoken! ²⁶ Did not the Messiah have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?” ²⁷ And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself.

²⁸ As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus continued on as if he were going farther. ²⁹ But they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.” So he went in to stay with them.

³⁰ When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. ³¹ Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. ³² They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?”

³³ They got up and returned at once to Jerusalem. There they found the Eleven and those with them, assembled together ³⁴ and saying, “It is true! The Lord has risen and has appeared to Simon.” ³⁵ Then the two told what had happened on the way, and how Jesus was recognized by them when he broke the bread.                         

 LUKE 24: 13-25

Luke’s tale of the downcast disciples who encounter the risen One, Jesus, as they walk from Jerusalem towards Emmaus has always been among my favorites.  It has so many elements that I identify with—the downcast disciples’ hearts are set aflame by the way Jesus “opened the Scriptures”.  A dinner is served.  Then as the ancient prayer that declares God “blessed”  for creating and sharing bread is recited, then as the bread is broken, and only then as the broken bread is sacramentally shared do they finally see the One with whom they have walked---the risen Lord.

Over these last few years, I have delighted in filling in the background details to the oft heard tales from the bible as a way to further explore the story’s meaning.  Imaginatively filling in those details is part of my process of wrestling with Scripture.  Any painter who attempts to paint a bible story must, of necessity, do the same. The details they sketch and fill with color tell us something about the unspoken background, the imaginative landscape, which gives life and meaning to the sparse words of the story on the page.

In about 1620, the Spanish painter, Velazquez, retold the story of the Road to Emmaus in a painting we have come to call, The Kitchen Maid.  Luke does not tell us who prepared the meal that Jesus and the downcast disciples shared, but quite obviously, someone did.  Luke does not tell us where the bread came from or who washed the dishes after the meal, but again, give it a moment’s thought, and there is indeed a ‘from somewhere’ and a ‘by someone’. 

Velazquez makes a decision to not only fill in those details, but to bring them front and center.  In Spain in 1620, with memories of the oft-times savage “Reconquista” of Spain by Christians over the dark skinned Moors from North Africa still fresh in the cultural imagination, Velazquez tells the story of Emmaus with a woman, a dark skinned Moor, a servant, perhaps a slave, at the center of the tale.  Jesus, Cleopas, and the unnamed disciple are off to the side.  The outsider is brought into our focus.  She stands amidst disorder.  Pots are overturned, crumbs about.  She is trying to keep up.  She is listening, ear tilted, intently.  Her job, after all, is to wait on the men in tense anticipation.   She overhears the discussion, maybe the prayer.  In my mind her ear is turned by the sound of thumbs digging in, of crust tearing at the sublime moment of disclosure.  The downcast disciples see the One in that moment of broken bread.  This outsider, a black scullery maid, she too hears the sound of bread broken.  The light on her face: grace which floods over her as well.  Grace enough for the outsider, maybe even just for the outsider.

The story of the Road to Emmaus draws me in because it speaks to my uncertainty about my place in God’s story.  The downcast disciples are first of all told of their place as the Scriptures are “opened” to them.  Yet, it isn’t until Jesus acts by blessing, breaking, and sharing bread, that He is fully revealed.  Words are not enough.  Words prepare the way, but Jesus himself, blessed, broken, and offered freely, is the Way.  And then Velazquez tells the story again.  There I am again.  This time, I’m with that girl in the kitchen.  I’m broken enough inside, despite all of the advantages of my life, not to feel quite comfortable or at home at the head table in the other room. Yet, my hope is that even though I stand amidst disorder, my face might also be warmed by that light.  Warmed by grace-filled light, if I but wait in tense anticipation, tilt my head, and listen carefully for the sound of bread broken . . . for us all, even me.   Buen Camino.

Post Camino: Pigs in Spain

Okay, okay.  I said in a post long ago that you might easily get the impression that this big adventure was all serious devotional stuff.  Friends, we did not march across Spain flagellating ourselves.  I was intent on trying the marvelous foods, cheese, and wines of Spain.  I did too.
Let me start with that most trayf (yiddish for unclean, forbidden, non-kosher) of foods: the pig.  As I have written, my wife is Jewish.  My children are thus Jewish and were raised that way.  My wife is a Reformed Jew.  We do not keep a kosher home. Nevertheless, even though trayf seafoods often make an appearance on our family menu (shrimp, crab--most non-fish seafood--Thanks to my Aunt Patsy for introducing Ketl to the wonder that was her crab gumbo), that most potent of symbols of unclean food; the humble pig just does not make an appearance at our table.  Now,I'm not fit to judge the Almighty, but I can't figure why in the world the Chosen, bound to God for all time with an unbreakable Covenant, People were denied the rich pleasures of juicy, drippy, oh so good swine.  I mean come on.  Is there anything much better than smoking a giant swine shoulder for hours and hours, pulling it to shreds and then dipping it into a North Carolina vinegar based sauce. After years of bacon deprivation at home in Spain I went wild for hog.
Now the Spaniards are the kings and queens of swine as far as I can see.  They make Serrano and Iberico hams that surpass anything the Italians or Germans do.  They serve ham with just about everything.  The basic sandwich here is 'bocadillo jamon': a couple of thin slices of rich cured pig between the halves of a baguette.  A leg of the top quality black footed ham can go for hundreds of Euro.  I'm actually quite done eating that ham (or any other cured meat--especially chirizo) as I've had it and that ever present white bread (don't they know about whole wheat, rye, barley, millet etc?) Till it threatens to come out my ears.  
The wonder of it is, in all my walk across Spain, I never once saw a pig (well, I did see some Vietnamese potbelly pigs, but I think those were pets not meat.  Where all those pigs are raised and slaughtered is simply a mystery.
What is not a mystery is pig in Spanish cuisine.  They eat it all: nose to tail.  In one bar I had the ears.  My traveling partner, Pete, called it beer and an ear since the boiled ear was a bar food.  Yesterday I had roasted pig cheek in a neighborhood Catalan restaurant.  The menu called the dish 'Pigs Face in his own Sauce'.  Who could resist a line like that? Not me, face in sauce, especially 'his own'?  I was all over that. I ate hearty.  Meat from around the face of most animals is often the tenderest of all.  Pigs cheek meat certainly fell off the jaw with luscious goodness.  In another bar I had slices of boiled pig intestine with my beer.  Again, Pete won the naming contest: beer gut.  I have to admit that I didn't eat my whole, a bit too barnyard flavored, portion on that one, but as I tell my Sunday School class when I introduce a new food, "the worst thing that can happen is that you won't like it and will never eat it again."  Tonight in a fancy Barcelona restaurant (think turn of the last century brass and wood decor, white linens, three glasses, 3 forks fancy) I had 'Pig Trotters Catalan Style": pigs feet with pine nuts and raisins in a tomato sauce.  Oh my!  Fatty, fatty skin to grow delirious over, knuckle bones to suck on, and toes to avoid.  What a dish!
This Protestant boy lives in a house of the Jews and loves them.  Yet I wnt bonkers for oinkers over here.  These folks know their swine, every bit of it.

Day 39: Santiago

Now I don't like to be that arrogant, rich, ugly American tourist guy, but when we presented our hot sticky selves to the tourist information fella in O Pedrousa the oppotunity to play the part just presented itself. While the temp had not reach 37C of the day before, it had been at least 30C. I had heard from Daniel, the Texas kid, that plans were afoot among the younger folk to 'beat the rush' into Santiago by getting up at 2:00 and doing a bit of night walking. Imagine the fun: an albergue with bunks  for 100, a line for showers, competition for space to dry clothes, and folks rustling around in the hot night as they pack up. Well, this ugly American suggested to Pete that we get a pension for our final night. The tourist information guy suggested one, called ahead to make reservations, gave us printed directions and off we went: ugly, quite ugly, rich (the albergue is 5, while a pension with a bathroom ensuite is 15 to 25), Americans clutching the paper key to a night with only their own snoring to deal with.
A German couple had listened in on our conversation and fell in with us hoping to get a room as well. He was with the tax office and she was some kind of bond and banking lawyer. They weren't ugly at least.  We trudged along the hot road talking of the fate of the Euro when Italy's soon to come bank failures hit, Merkel (he said, 'nien Merkel'), and Germany' prospects against Italy in the EuroCup semifinals. We passed the albergue. There in the front yard were 40 or 50 pilgrims sprawled on their packs in the hot sun waiting to begin the tedious process of check in (show pilgrim credential and get a stamp, show passport, enter name, citizenship, region, mode of travel--foot or bike, and point of origin for pilgrimage). We walked by to the next building. The pension was air conditioned (a first) and had an endless supply of hot or cold water in whatever proportion I selected--paradise. Thank you late middle age, 2 income, American, mid-life, career arc. I'll deal with the ugly and try to repent of the arrogant.
Despite the comforts, I slept fitfully. The next morning brought our last sort through and pack up, our last pack hoist, and our last set out into the cool Spanish bird chirping morning. We only have 17K to walk so the pace is easy and comfortable for my aching knee. The Way winds through a couple of small quaint hamlets full of old stone houses, animal barns, and flower filled gardens just as we have seen for 38 other days. Entire families with young children, rowdy teens, and smiling older types are walking--all beaming with excitement, imagining the square and the church at walk's end today.
There are bars aplenty with numerous outdoor tables sprinkled about this morning. We stop for coffee and treat ourselves to a nutella filled croissant and fresh squeezed orange juice. We strike up conversation with a couple of Irish women (I wish I could say 'lassies' and 'laddies' with the same musical lilt that our Irish friends, Eugene and Peter, had back on day 1 and 2) and an American guy. The women have done about 10 days of Camino Frances as a holiday. We get that look of respect and awe (well maybe I exaggerate the awe part) when we say, "We've done 39 days from Irun--the Northern route".  We pull out our guide books and help them plan their next years holiday--the coast of Cantabria from Bilbao to Santander, a 6 day walk with a couple of lay on the beach days thrown in."  Buen Camino lassies. 
We push on and begin to discuss "What does it all mean?"  We are like the break shot in a game of pool, careening all over the place: God, wives, vocation, wives, church, family, wives, the future, jobs, emotional life, spiritual life, and yes, wives.  We finally get to the equipment requirements and proper techniques for making soup stock and its uses in the various cuisines of fall and winter in Michigan.  We also recount stories of the intense debates and occasional kitchen murders that have occurred over the 'proper' way to prepare meatloaf.  Thirty eight days of difficult and mostly glorious walking in Spain has such a way of focusing the mind on the very core of important existential matters don't you see.
We break again for another coffee as our distance is so short today.  Marta and Hector, the young couple and their friends we met in Vilalba appear.  They are excited to be finishing.  The Irish women and the American fellow appear.  This time I really get to talk with Geraldine.  She's a blood lab tech/manager.  Some years ago she was asked to try to adopt their storage protocols to a lower tech environment.  She worked and worked on the project and then decided she better 'see it throught ya know'.  She travelled for five weeks across west Africa in a truck with a team of 8 others.  She has been back 5 more times from Kenya to Ghana.  I loved listening to her tell her stories.  She is one of those folks you meet who, without tooting their own horn, is just going about the business of bringing about healing to the world.  Her life seems so much about 'give, give, give' and quite frankly my life back home seems so often nothing more than 'take, take, take' or worse, 'talk, talk, talk'.
As we walk on we leave the charm of walking through the countryside behind.  Santiago is the regional capital.  The airplanes that have only been bits of silver shimmering in the sky are now dropping down with all their noise and speed and smell.  We walk past the end on the main runway.  Luckily none drops right over our heads as we pass.  Signs for Santiago are all around now.  We get temporarily sucked down into the seemingly endless undertow of 'please use my camera' to take the same picture of the group in front of the sign.  The Koreans who nearly drowned us in their kodak moment were completely suprised to find I had visited their fair country, and soon I will again, at least as a digital image smiling with them.
As we enter the city we are still 2 or 3K from the 'old city' and its Cathedral.  I have been fortunate to have had only one blister on my feet in the 6 weeks of walking (it was on the top of a toe and did not affect my gait).  Yet now, so close, St. James seems to be reminding me that great blessings sometimes have a price.  My feet seem to explode with hot spots (the first signs of trouble that often lead to blisters).  We find a shady area near the university and sit, take off boots, drink our water, eat an apple, and relax as if this break is no different from any other we have taken.  After a good bit, Pete hoists pack and says, "I'm ready to get there."  Off we go.
We approach the old city.  The streets get narrower and narrower.  Pilgrims, laden with backpacks and smells of exertion crowd in among Spanish folk going about their own business.  The streets get twisty and stone in that medieval sort of way of cities built before automobiles.  Pete and I get turned around and slightly confused about direction.  We hear Gallic pipes playing the spritely Celtic music of the region: a busker dressed in Galician garb is making a living amongst the echoing stone.  We see an opening of light ahead, we must be near square.  We head that way.  Under an arch, past the busker, we see a corner of bright light.  We turn the corner.  It is the square.  Pilgrims are milling about.  The great cathedral of St. James rises to our left.  More pilgrims arrive.  We are bruised.  I limp.  We have carried burdens and joys these many days.  Now we are giddy, absolutely giddy.  We cry.  We hug.  Arms open and raise in triumph.  St. James, so long ago you called my name.  Now, three years and 500 miles, limping but overwhelmed by joy, I have come.  I have come.

Day 40: Once, when I was 57 years old, I walked 500 miles across northern Spain

When I came to the end of my walk I had a day of reunion and rest. I was reunited with my wife. We celebrate our 33rd wedding anniversary next week in Barcelona. After all those years together, we have never been apart quite so long. I hope never to be apart so long again. Yet our time apart was rich in reflection on our lives and our ever-growing intimacy. You don't get what we have together without long years of always opening, even when stubborn pride resists, our hearts, in trust, one to another. Her voice, her touch thrill me more each day. Her intellect and her wit charm as ever before. Her own unique way of devotion to Torah and the ways of Judaism inspires me in my own Christian devotion. She puts the Song of all Songs on my lips. "In the place my wonder comes from, there I find you."
Near the square I briefly saw the four Latvian young people who came to Spain, like me, as an act of devotion. In them I saw the future of the Church--energy, openness, piety, wide-eyed wonder at the multitude of joys in the world. We shared a warm embrace and that most modern of information--email addresses. Buen Camino and Via con Dios.
I saw Stefan the Polish professor. He was heading to A Corunna to see the last existing Roman lighthouse. My young friends, Hector and Marta, were in the square. They are truly modern and have already 'friended' me on FaceBook. They are just great kids, and I hope Spain has a good future for them. The two Irish gals were here. The German woman who started the great Miraz cattle stampede by tasting galegos leaf from a wheel barrow was in the square. Some I met along the way had come to the square days ago. I will miss them completely. More arrive who I never got the chance to meet. The raise their walking poles just as I did, in triumph and celebration. They laugh. They cry. They embrace. I want to shout, give the thumbs up, pat on the back, lift a glass of wine in toast to each one I see. A cloud of witnesses, a thousand years of souls' arrivals, a thousand years of tired feet and full hearts greets each and everyone of us who walk so far and sings, "Well done" in a voice that is so high, clear, and bright.  Just listen as you stand in the square; you'll hear.
I meet Pete and we go inside for the Pilgrim's Mass. We have come an hour early to get a seat. The church is massive and ornate. Tourist, tour groups, pilgrims, and some honest-to-goodness worshipers fill the place. Many pilgrims line up to go up behind the altar to 'hug the saint', an ornate statue that many embrace from behind. Others lined up to go below the altar to spend a few moments in the crypt of St. James. As much as I've invoked the name of the saint in these entries, my devotional sensibilities and history really do not include those sorts of expressions of piety. I'm happy to sit, pray, chat with Pete, and people watch. As we wait, Tomoko, the Japanese woman we met approaches, she is looking for other friends, but wishes us a final 'Buen Camino'. Then the American, Dave, who we had met with the Irish gals, asks to join us. We happily slide over. As it turns out, Dave is from Puerto Rico and is a devout Catholic. He had come to the Cathedral early in the morning and celebrated the Mass with a group of seminarians down in St. James crypt. He is a fascinating fellow who talked of his sadness over the state of the church and his delight to be worshipping there today. As we talked a nun approached the microphone on the altar. She asked for 'silencio, por favor'. She spoke in rapid Spanish, but the upshot was she was going to teach us the sung responses for the Mass. She then sang in a high and delicate voice, "Jesu Christi Rex Gloria (Jesus Christ, King of Glory)." She said, "Repeata." When she wasn't satisfied with our volume, she said again, "Repeata." She taught us the tune to two other responses that were a bit too complicated for me to do anything but to hum along. Her beautiful and fraile singing was a very promising start to worship. After a few minutes the processional began with the organ filling the space with wonderful sound. There were seminarians, about 9 or 10 priests, and 2 VIPs (I am woefully ignorant of the dress and its indicators of rank in the Catholic church). The Bishop, I presume, started the service by reading the names of the home countries of the arriving pilgrims for the day. A lay reader read a Psalm (I think, I'm judging more by the rhythm of the reading than by my ability to pick out every 10th word). Another lay reader read the same Psalm in Italian. The other VIP stepped up and asked us to rise for the Gospel reading. It was from Matthew, but I couldn't follow it. The man read with obvious passion. The church was filled with folk who could understand him, so the Gospel went out, many heard, and maybe, just maybe, somebody decided to 'repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand.' And indeed it was, for after a sermon on what I took to be the feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul, the Mass started. During Mass, before you partake, you are required to make peace with anybody you've offended. The practice comes from the Day of Atonement rituals in Judaism, Jesus cites the practice, and Paul comments on it as well in the Epistles. As my wife always says, "What good is all that 'gettin right with God ' stuff you Christians keep yapping about, if you don't 'get right' with your neighbor?" Well, the Passing of the Peace is our attempt to 'get right' with our neighbor before we take the bread and cup that gets us 'right' with God. So there amidst pilgrims and tourists and worshipers we turned to one another, strangers, old friends, new friends, families, and we made peace. For a bright moment shalom descends as a gift from above passed hand to hand, heart to heart. Maybe it is really more ritual than real desire, and it is certainly more desire than reality, but it is not a bad place to start, eh?. Turning one to another, offering an open hand, "Peace brother" "Shalom sister."
It is indeed a heady moment. The Mass continues and the priests line the altar rail to distribute the Body to the body. Forward they come, in their hundreds. Graybeards and youth. Folk in backpacks. Fathers and sons. Old friends. I have too much respect for the Catholic church to participate, but I sure joined them in spirit qnd longed to in body. What a time, what a time. As Pete said afterwards, "Now, I am indeed full.
After all who came forward were served, then the show started. The giant Botafumerio was filled with incense and a group of 8 monks sets it to swinging. The thurible weighs over 140 lbs. They use pounds of incense and charcoal to get it going. Alledgedly it swings at 80kph and rises nearly 20 meters high.  The monks swung it for 4 or so minutes befor backing off.  One of the visiting priests up on the altar got his camera out to get some shots.  The crowd went wild.  The whole place was filled with incense--prayers rising up sweetly to God's nostrils as the scrptures say or perfume to cover the odor of pilgrims as others say.  Either explanation works.  Applause broke out. 
Then it was over.  Pete and I got separated.  My wife and I and her traveling companion went off to enjoy a dinner of razor clams and grilled octopus.  Pete went to meet his wife at the station.  The next day I caught a plane to Barcelona.  My wife and I will spend our anniversary in the old Olympic park with several thousand dear friends cheering on Espana in the Eurocup finals.
What does it all mean? 
I would be hard pressed to say right now.  I left Ann Arbor like Abram with the hope that I would be blessed and be a blessing in turn (Gen. 12:3).  Well, I was blessed beyond measure or words: everyday, each day.  Will I, in turn, be a blessing?  I have some deep discussions with my pastor and a couple of confidants, and my wife ahead of me to put together some of what bubbled up for me during those wonderful days.  Will I be a blessing?  I truly hope so.I do so truly hope so. It is though, the future.  No one has a crystal ball.  If they say they know tomorrow, they are sadly mistaken or they are just outright  liars.  As the poet says, "Last I heard only God gets to say what has to be."  What I know for certain now is that once when I was 57 years old I walked 500 miles across northern Spain.  It was and shall ever be: Buen Camino.

Day 37 and 38: A hot, hot day and joining Camino Frances

Our morning began very early.  Since more and more young people have been joining us, the morning noise level has risen.  We were packed up and ready to go by just before 7:00.  The monastery has a large courtyard and the kitchens, study areas, and rooms for pilgrims all open onto the courtyard.  As we prepared to leave, the Latvian kids we had met yesterday invited us to share prayers with them.  As I have written before, outside of services in Catholic churches, Pete and I praying before meals or doing devotions trailside have been the only overt signs of orthodox or traditional religion we have seen (but how traditional are Christian devotions that begin with the Shema ?).   So we eagerly joined them.  I asked them what their tradition was for group prayers, and one of the girls said that one starts, and then they simply go around the circle.  I told them our convention was to hold hands--so we did.  The three girls were accompanied by a large (6ft 4, maybe) guy named Ovais (I'm spelling phonetically here).  I was next to him, his hand engulfed mine, and we started.  My my friends, there are few things sweeter to hear than heartfelt prayers in both Latvian and English for safety, strength, healing for injuries, and hopes for arrival in Santiago after so many days.  As anybody that knows me could predict, I wept unashamedly (I was not alone here).  This was the Church at its best: saying thank you for simple gifts in more than one language, but one heart and one voice.
That turned out to be the high point of the 37th day.  The sky was clear, and the temperature started rising by around 10.  It was fortunate we started so early.  We knocked off nearly half the days walk while it was still below 30C.  The morning walk was also done on some beautiful lanes, as the day wore on we got dumped onto asphalt roads.  Shade became scarce and the asphalt softened in the heat.  In short, it was miserable.  I simply had to sit and rest several times because I was becoming nauseated with the exertion in the heat.  Luckily we got to our destination, Arzura, by about 2:30.  I don't think I could have gone much further. 
In Arzura, the ruta del Norte joins the far more popular Camino Frances (if you see The Way with Martin Sheen, it is on Camino Frances).  Pete and I were simply stunned by all the pilgrims.  There was a municipal albergue with over 60 beds and 4 private albergue.  We had been told that albergue Ultreia was nice so we headed there (10€ vs 5€ in the public one).  The albergue was very clean and new.  It was also very hot.  It filled with boisterous young people.  For them Camino is a holiday.  Their joy keeps them up late at night (now 9:30 is late for an old peregrino).  It is a warm restless night.  
The very early morning brought cooling rain, and by the time we left, overcast skies and very high humidity.  Since we have joined Camino Frances, it looks like morning rush hour.  There are folks by the dozens.  Bicyclist ring their bells, shout 'buen camino' and blow through.  The quiet contemplation is over.  We are in a crowd, an excited crowd, all marching onward together to Santiago.  This morning we meet two American college students from Huston.  I walk for 30 minutes with Daniel.  He graduated with a degree in physics from Stephen F. Austin, and three days later he and a buddy were in Madrid, then Barcelona, and then 800K of Camino Frances.  After Santiago he was headed to Pamploma to dodge some bulls in early July, then onto Rome and Amsterdam.  He was a young man with a healthy appetite for life--interesting, witty, and self assured.  We broke up at the cafe for morning coffee.  I invited an Australian couple I'd spoken with as Daniel and I walked to join Pete and I for coffee.  They were 68 and had started in Ste. John Pied au Port in France (the traditional start for Camino Frances).  They started out as naive as Pete and I about the physical rigors of Camino, but had adapted quite handomely.  They regretted the crowds of the last 5 days.  They said the first weeks were simply lovely--quiet and serene. We hope to greet them in the square in Santiago.
We moved on through small villages and on country lanes.  The eucalyptus groves were old and the trees tall: fine, fine walking amongst a happy throng. As the day heats up we are blessed with a fountain and a shrine.  I drink and cool myself with the waters.  I share prayers with Mark R, Sandy, Fred, Dustin, and Teddy D, and Teresa N--the last prayers from home.  Thank you all for the privilege, may the funds you donated send others on their own journeys of devotion.
We walked on with whole families spending holiday on Camino, and large groups of high school students happily shouting what I can only assume were Spanish versions of the bravado of youth.   All these people all with their various reason, all with their own stories, some of which we get to hear if we sit at a fountain or cafe together. All of these people steaming to Santiago de Compostela.  Some, like a 31 year old Japanese woman we lunched with, came, like me to answer questions about what was next in their lives.  Some like the Latvians, come filled with religious devotion.  Some come filled with joy to be on holiday with friends.  All now here streaming to Santiago--I truly was glad when they said unto me let us go to the house of the Lord.   Tomorrow we arrive, but for today, to feast on these shining faces, expectant and so alive in the hot Spanish sun is enough.  Buen Camino.

Day 36: A strange walk to a monastery

We checked out of our elegant pension in Praga.  We got a cab back to Miraz, and we walked over to the albergue to thank the hospitaleros for inviting us to Praga.  They really were a great pair of folk, bound in service to peregrinos for the love of Camino.
We set our sights 28K further on to the monastery of Sobrado des Mionxes.  Both our guidebook and Jim our hospitalero said that the days walking would be even better than the day before, which we hac consider absolutely fabulous.  We set out with very high spirits and great expectations.  We crossed boulder strewn ground covered with gourse and scrubby pines.  There were sections of clear cut pine forests, but we really were headed straight out to lands with absolutely no hamlets or villages.  It was a lovely clear morning, but the clear sky also promised heat later in the day.  The rest of Spain is sweltering in near 40C heat.  The north has been spared thus far, but the heat seems to be moving this way.
There are some spectacular vistas along our route, but we seem to be spending more and more time on roads and less out in the woods.  As the day heats up the roads are less and less appealing.  They reflect the heat right back up at us.  Our feet feel pounded by the asphalt.  We move without much shade as the sun rises higher. 
We keep hoping we'll get to the enchanting part of the walk, but now the Camino seems to endlessly follow the road.  Our boredom (can you believe it, we are walking in Spain and complain of tedium) is relieved by a sign that points to a farmhouse and promises refreshment and food.  Pete wants to give it a try so we duck in.  A woman greets us a 4 young people leave.  She invites us in to sit at her long granite topped table in the kitchen.  We ask for coke, and she offers us home made bread, cheese, and sausage.  The coke is cold, and the cheese is very good.  It is a dairy farm after all.  We sit and cool off a bit.  She fills our water bottles as we depart.  For 5€ we got a refreshing rest, and she made a bit of cash for the household .  During our devotions, we included her among those we had been blessed to meet.
We trudge on and run into some kids we had met a few days back in Vilalba as they looked for the albergue in the morning.  They were looking a little beat up: bad feet and sore shoulders.  It was good to see them and they seemed happy to see us as well.  We talked for a few minutes and moved on.  Pete noted that now in our 6th week of walking, we are the Nordic types: we easily leave them in the dust. 
The road walking is now getting downright oppressive.  We pass a group of Germans who started walking in France 1500K back.  They complain as well.  It is getting miserable and probably approaching 30C.  We cannot fathom why we had been told that this would be an excellent day of walking.
We eat some cereal bars, nuts and raisins, and drink water for lunch since we have not come to a town in hours.  After our lunch, we do come to a town so/we stop for a cold drink and a seat in the shade.  We have walked for about 5 hours, covered 22K, and 80% of it has been miserable.  Luckily we are only 5K from our destination, and 3K of it is really lovely walking down quiet, tree shaded lanes on soft ground.  Once in Sobrado we are back to street and side walk, but we soon see a fountain and the spires of the church. The fountain is gushing cool water.  We drink.  We fill our bandanas and soak ourselves.  We wash our faces.  We squeeze it from bandana to arms and legs.  It is a luxurious coolness on a blistering day.  "Thank you for fountains" joins "feet, legs, lungs, knees, shoulders" in our daily litany of thanks.
We walk onto the cathedral and monastery grounds.  It is stunning.  The facade of the church is magnificant (finished in 1706 our guidebook says).  The grounds are elegantly manicured and feature two huge pines.  Sprawled under the pines are the 4 young people we had seen earlier in the day at the woman's kitchen refreshment bar.  It turns out they are Latvians.  They started in Bilbao and had quite a few physical problems: severe blisters, twisted ankles, and sore knees.  Several times they could not make it to an albergue and were forced to sleep in the open.  Yet their spirits were good as they know Santiago is close.  It turns out they are devout Christians, among the few we've met on Camino.  After we check into the monastery, we go to the supermarcado and make dinner together in the monastery kitchen.  They are as full of stories of blessings and grace in tight spots as Pete and I.  They have traveled, in summers past, to the Taize community in France.  Now our paths cross on Camino to Santiago de Compostela.
The monastery is absolutely fantastic.  The monks make wine and cheese for sale, and only charge 5€ for the night, showers and blanket included.  As we get closer to Santiago, the number of pilgrims has increased.  There look to be 40 of us here tonight.  It is very satisfying to be in a place were since 1000CE monks have proclaimed the gospel, tried to live a kingdom life, and to this day offer hospitality ('remember you were strangers once in Egypt') to all who come. Even though the walking wasn't all we had thought it would be, the day has been full, and I sleep tonight yet again safe, warm, and secure because a Jewish carpenter from years ago and far away still invites folks like these monks to open their doors and hearts.  Buen Camino.

Over the last three days I have gratefully shared prayers with Kitty H., Kathy H., Fonda H., Renette B., Bruce U. And Beverly B.  I am sorry that I did not record that in my blog in a more timely fashion.  I have been lifted up each time I open a new day's prayer.  As I wrote in an earlier entry, one of my discoveries on this Camino has been that I live not by my own inner resources, but my the strength of my connections with my wife, children, family, church, friends, and yes very crucially those I have not yet, and may never, meet.  (I should note here, when my pastor laid hands on me to send me forth from Stony Creek so many weeks ago, he prayed for just such a discovery.) These prayers I have carried so far, so many miles, and share with such a hopeful heart have been crucial to my Camino, and I thank all who took the time and look forward to the prayers to be offered in these final days.   

Day 35: Market Day in Parga

The hospitaleros at the albergue in Miraz were volunteers.  The woman, Neva from England, had come for two weeks every summer for the last 7 years.  The man, Jim from Canada, was on his first go round, after 7 times walking the various Camino routes.  We told them of our 'problem': having an extra day.  They said that they were going to a town called Parga for the market.  They suggested we come along, visit the market, a 12 century castle, and spend the night in a pension there.  We could get a cab back to Miraz on Monday morning and be on our way walking to Santiago.  It sounded better than any idea we had cooked up.
We arose in the morning with the rest of the peregrinos.  We said goodbye to some friends, including Stephan, the Polish professor we have seen over the last 5 or so days.  We also said goodbye to a young Madrid couple we have walked with for only 2 days.  The fella had a hurt knee and I offered him some cream I've been using and we struck up a bit of a relationship.  Seeing he and his girl friend, so young and affectionate, so passionate, reminded me of my children and the gift such a trip would be for them.  They also reminded me of the joy of affection with my wife.  I took their picture and told them how watching them together gave me joy.  They seemed genuinely pleased.  It is part of the Camino that I love--simple fellowship between strangers.  I realize that the situation is unlike any other and our fellowship is in part a product of its short life span.  Nonetheless our shared participation in the journey to Santiago does indeed bind us into a community different than any other I've ever been a part of.
We said goodbye and then, since the taxi to Parga would not come until 10:30, we helped the hospitaleros with chores.  We changed sheets on beds, and our main task was to trim a hedge that was beginning to encroach on space for a clothes line (every night the clothes lines are full--you only carry 2 or 3 days of clothes, so you launder daily).
As chores were done we sat and talked.  Neva was in her 70s and had walked Camino Norte once 10 years ago.  She divorced her husband of 43 years soon after--Yikes, don't worry hon.  She made clear at dinner the night before that she was almost militantly anti-church and clergy.  Yet she had served, at her own expense, as a nurse on various trips for the ill and invalids.  She said she felt she 'owed' it for her long and happy career in nursing.  Like so many others I've meet, orthodox religion was just not part of their world, yet their participation in the Camino was not merely because it was a good and offbeat way to spend a holiday.  Their questions were not exactly the same as mine, but the profundity of their quest put to shame the easy versions of Christianity or secular humanism I've encountered so often back home.  Indeed, I've met plenty of folk here whose quest for something deeper and more meaningful in and with their lives will challenge me long after I've returned to the States.  We simply don't, where ever we are, have to settle for what is set before us by accidents of birth, situation, and circumstance. 
So the taxi delivers us to a small town crowded with people.  The Parga market is on every 4th Sunday.  You can buy jeans, junk, jewelery, produce, pigs, goats, bread, tools and hats.  You name it, you can buy it.  There is also food everywhere: grilled meats, homemade cheeses, churos (fried dough-Spanish elephant ears), and octopus.  The Galicians love their octopus, and so do I.  The octopus is cooked in large kettles of water.  When you order, they use a hook to bring one, cut off two or three legs, slice them onto wooden plate, dress it with olive oil and paprika, and rush it to your table (rank after rank of them under awnings).  Some folk purchase a whole octopus to go and have it poured into a plastic bag to carry home.
What a great day.  We wandered the market.  Got stares from everyone.  We are the only men in shorts.  Since I lost my good sandals in the Basque country, my non-boot foot wear are a pair of cheap chinese bath flops.  To add to the aura of 'cool', I wear them with socks. Pete wears a large hat, and we both don't know much Spanish and photo everything.
The market starts packing up at 2:00, so we walked up to a hill overlooking the town.  There is a 'stronghold' built on foundations a rich Roman had set in place before the time of Jesus.  There was also a church built in the 12th century.  Not much like that back home eh?  I wonder how the people who live in the house now, or worship in the church are shaped by that history?
What a day of rest and refreshment.  We will get a taxi at 7:30 in the morning.  We'll head back to Miraz to begin a 25K day in the final week, the 6th week on the Way.  Buen Camino.