I'd been passing Beatriz and Elena pretty regularly over the last 3 days, and we'd occasionally catch up over coffee when we broke from the trail after sunrise to refuel. Elena was a retired teacher from Argentina, genuinely curious about the people she met, their countries, and their way of life. She quizzed Spaniards about the state of the economy, and entertained points of view from walkers young and old on the Catalonian separatist movement, the thesis scandal enveloping Spain's prime minister (he allegedly plagiarized it), and whether or not to exhume Franco's body from the Valley of the Fallen (which the Spanish parliament voted in favor of this week). She walked briskly when she spoke, and our conversations were brief, save for the usual pleasantries after the pilgrim's mass each evening. When we reached O'Pedrouzo about 20km from Santiago, she saw me walking down the sidewalk on the way to the hostel and invited me to join her for a beer.
There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the topics we covered, but it was an effortless conversation, easily covering a 3-hour window of time on the patio of the tiny café. I found myself telling my story, start to finish, and really taking it in for the first time as both storyteller and observer. She told me I reminded her of her son, and that was the sort of connection we carried into the final day of the walk to the Plaza do Obraidoro in Santiago. We'd look out for each other as we walked past, and we would briefly exchange notes on the state of our knees, ibuprofen supply, and how much gas was left in the tank for the afternoon. Sometimes we'd just flash a thumbs-up from a distance. She was a warm and welcome presence when pain and fatigue wanted to change the mood.
Beatriz was from Valencia, Spain. Also retired, she'd worked in Miami for several years, which is how our conversation began. She enjoyed the people and the beaches, but there was just a lot she didn't understand about the American way of life. I tried to explain those things that could be explained, and demurred when it came to American elections, politics, and all the other things you weren't supposed to talk about. Only, Beatriz wanted to talk about the things you don't normally talk about.
Beatriz lost her son when he was 20 years old. The photograph she showed me was of a strapping young man, in his soccer uniform, hair a mess, but grinning from ear to ear. She described him as always being full of love, light and able to carry the room, no matter the occasion. Tragically, he came home from a football match one evening, went to bed, and never woke up.
As we walked up the hill towards the Monte de Gozo, in halting breaths, she described the pain and darkness that overtook her life in the years that followed. Her husband took to the bottle to alleviate his pain, and she lost him to liver cancer a mere 5 years after she lost her son. She suddenly found herself alone in the world, and wanted to retreat, but said that instead, a series of coincidences and chance encounters made her believe that she was being encouraged to press ahead in honor of her son. If her son's purpose was to provide light and joy to others, then her purpose was to continue to do so where he no longer could.
On the last day of the journey to Santiago de Compostela, we reached the monument at Monte de Gozo. Beatriz caught up with me after coffee in the previous town, and we'd walked together for a good 5km. We walked up the hill to the imposing concrete and bronze monument that looks over the adjacent hillside forest, and we walked around it. For the first time since leaving Texas, I purposefully removed the tied-up bundle of prayers from my rucksack, and I held them as we knelt and prayed together. We gave thanks for the approach of the journey's end, and Beatriz asked for the peace and comfort of all who have lost a child - that they may find a new beginning in each journey's end, and carry on as the embodiment of the light and love they gave the world.
I was profoundly moved and affected by her words, and we walked in silence to the outskirts of the city. Santiago loomed in the distance.
One of the first things people ask you when you meet them on the Camino is, "why are you doing it?" I've probably answered the question a dozen times, but I don't know that I've ever responded exactly the same way. There isn't exactly one good and compelling reason for packing a single change of clothes, throwing a bunch of blister cream and bandages into a pack, and trekking off into the north of Spain without a place to stay on any given evening.
Sometimes it was a search for solitude, a chance to drown out the noise of a busy life.
Sometimes it was a renewal of faith, an opportunity to ask and attempt to answer hard questions.
Some days it was sadness, and then coming to terms with the reasons for that sadness.
Some days it was gratitude, and a willingness to be open to new people and experiences.
Through all of the reasons though, there was one common thread: Hope. We poke fun at the idea sometimes, and we deride "hope-trafficking" in our politics, in business, and in our personal affairs. But I would challenge anyone who tells you that hope is not a real and tangible thing. I've seen it with my own eyes on the Camino. It is the fire that burns deep within so many - those who have suffered, those who are lost, and even those who are simply seeking a challenge - hope propels them forward, and it gives them the strength and courage to climb their mountain. Hope is what gets us to the summit, together.
A day later, after the emotional arrival in the Plaza do Obradoiro, Elena found me in the crowd inside the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela and called out my name. I turned around and smiled, tears in my eyes from the service, and she gave me a bear hug. We didn't exchange contact information or phone numbers, and we knew we would likely never see each other again. She simply hugged me the way a mother hugs a son, and said "I hope you have a blessed, full, and complete life."
"Do good things, and good things will come to you. Your family is beautiful, and a house full of love is more valuable than anything else you will ever acquire." With that, she turned and disappeared into the crowd, for good.
Today's walk was dedicated to Wendy Grant - for her life, her friendship, and for the courage with which she faces her current challenge. Bringing people together is God's work, and she's always done so with grace and class.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I've heard it in the chilliest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
- Emily Dickinson
A final walk into the city of St. James, tomorrow.
Will