"All good things must come to an end" or so the saying goes. It's in our nature to prolong the inevitable conclusion of the things that bring us joy and fulfillment, for fear that if we let that good thing go, we might never re-capture or experience it in quite the same way again, or with quite the same level of enjoyment. It's the "five more minutes" or "just one more time" plea of childhood, casually lost to the responsibilities and demands of adulthood as the years march on.
And so, it was in that spirit of childlike resistance that I never quite finished my travel blog when I left Santiago de Compostella last fall. Buried in the depths of my subconscious adult mind was the idea that if I wrote the final chapter of that incredible journey, there very simply might not be anything more to write once I got home and hung up my hiking boots.
So, I never wrote it. But I've thought about it over and again.
A good friend and former colleague of mine trekked across the Camino several years ago. Upon learning of my intention to travel last September, she shared a sentiment which I didn't quite understand in the moment. "I'm still trying to process everything that happened" she wrote, implying that while she was home and her travels well in the past, the journey she had embarked on was in fact far from complete. The end was not in fact the end. A few months after I came home, I began to understand why. I started to feel like there was another itch I needed to scratch.
I stared at the train station kiosk for quite a while, unsure of what to do next. I had reached Santiago and attended the final pilgrim's mass, and there was an extra day in between my planned departure from the starry-eyed pilgrim city, and my final destination of Madrid. I studied the map and the train schedules, and bought a €12 ticket to Vigo, on Spain's northwestern coast. There wasn't anything in particular I wanted to see there, but the idea of spending a few hours resting my feet in the eastern Atlantic was well worth the train fare – never mind the prospect of having a hotel room to myself, with clean sheets and a hot shower to boot. I ate and slept well after strolling through the historic center of Vigo that evening, and the following morning spent 3 hours walking the sugary sands of Praia de Samil. No backpack. No hiking poles. Free of the physical weight, but not fully unburdened.
Full of sun and Spanish coffee, I went back to the train station in the late afternoon, and boarded my train to Madrid. The first step home.
The Anglican Church in Spain isn't particularly large. That's not entirely surprising in a country whose very existence and influence across much of the last 1500 years has been largely co-dependent upon the fortunes of the Roman church. The diocese of Spain is in effect the entire nation, and the church's primary administrative home is at the Anglican Cathedral of the Redeemer in central Madrid. This is where I had arranged to take the stack of prayer cards I had squirreled away in my rucksack, on behalf of the good people of St. Liz in Buda, Texas.
As you walk down the narrow alleyways leading to the church entrance, there is no imposing edifice or overt sign of a religious establishment at first glance. The cathedral is recessed into a row of otherwise official diplomatic buildings, residences, and shops along a quiet street just outside of the bustling center of the capital. Finding the cathedral felt almost accidental, though it was unmistakable once you were standing directly in front of it. Just above the nameplate signaling the main entrance sat the Camino emblem, welcoming pilgrims who were passing through Madrid.
I arrived about an hour before the scheduled 10am service, and sat quietly in the back of the church where I observed choir practice, general clean-up, and many of the normal Sunday morning worship preparations we would normally perform at home. It was a comforting sense of familiarity and home, in a faraway place. I sat with the stack of index cards wrapped in my lap, and services began promptly at 10:00am. Introductory rites concluded and lessons read aloud, I settled in for the sermon when something very odd happened. The sermon was in Spanish, but it was being delivered in a very particular brand of Spanish... the kind of Spanish one might hear if you were in the South... as in the Deep South, and not of Spain.
Tangentially, South Florida is one of the few places on the map where you have to go North to get South. You learn Spanish before you learn English, and you need both in order to survive and thrive outside of very particular enclaves. It’s a place that’s culturally rich, ethnic diverse, generally infuriating, always congested, lively, and intoxicating all at the same time. You’re raised with certain cultural anachronisms that the rest of the country just can’t relate to, and you know you’re in the geographical South, but it just isn’t the same ballgame. You know Southern, you just haven’t earned the merit badge.
Standing at the lectern to deliver his sermon was the Rev. Charles DeWitt from Nashville. Not Nashville, Spain, but rather the one in Tennessee – back on the other side of the pond. He spoke wonderful Spanish, but with an unmistakably Southern accent – biscuits, grits, and gravy at the end of every sentence. I chuckled at the time I spent thinking about what I would say – in Spanish – when I asked him to accept the prayers from our congregation. Then I abandoned ship and thought I’d throw the guy a bone.
“I take it this isn’t home” I said as I approached him at the end of the service. “Home is anywhere you make it” he said as he extended his hand with a grin. I introduced myself and told him a bit about the last couple of weeks. We talked a bit about the journey and how I ended up in Madrid, and he graciously accepted the prayer cards from his extended church family in Central Texas. We spent a few minutes in prayer for our respective communities, and he offered his well wishes in return. We chatted for a few more minutes before he had to run off to lead a bible study group, which he graciously invited me to attend (I did, and made some new friends in the process). All the while, an odd sensation – equal parts elation and sadness – crept over me as I realized all the boxes had been checked. My pack would be lighter by one very important stack of cards on the ride home, and I could feel the empty space they once filled.
And so it came to be that one year later, I found myself once again sitting aboard a Pyrenees-bound airplane, thinking about the uncertain and unpredictable journey ahead. I had planned my previous Camino, almost to the minute. I was comforted by knowing what my plans were, but in the months I spent at home thinking about all that had happened, I realized that it was the unscripted and unplanned moments that were the most impactful and meaningful. And so the goal began to change – the whole idea of “it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey” began to make more sense, and I decided to start over and practice letting go.
I’d go back to the beginning, and go as far as I could go, and then I would go home. I’d be free to pick it up again when the need was there, and the moment was right. I could still do something meaningful and reflective – something good for my soul and psyche – even if it didn’t happen exactly the way I thought it should happen. Even if I didn't plan it all.
It’s a funny thing, the idea of home. “Home is anywhere you make it.” I made a temporary home for myself on the Camino, and like any good home, it’s always waiting for you to return, with open arms.
