The Last Day

Whatever happened to stages two and three?

Our last day. We couldn’t believe it. Ann and I awoke somewhere between excitement and sadness. She had been walking for 38 days, with a few off for recuperation, and I for 31, because of my Covid induced late start. But here we were—only 30 km from where we would pass under the arch, march to the bagpiper’s notes, and step on those final cobblestones and into the plaza of the Cathedral de Santiago de Compostela (the very cathedral where the bones of Saint James lie, or at least some of them, encased in a silver ark in the sepulchre.)

It only seemed appropriate to take special note of all those familiar surroundings we would no longer be passing each day: mountains beyond mountains, valleys filled with morning clouds, cornfields recently planted or already three feet high, an assortment of blossoms and scents, both foreign and domestic, and a cast of our favorite farm animals: goats, sheep, cows, hens, roosters, the occasional pig, kittens, and stealthy felines out searching for mice. And then, of course, there were the dogs—all flavors and temperaments, but only one I would call truly ferocious. It would have, minimally, relieved me of my leg had it not been chained. It leapt up with bared teeth when I put one foot, accidentally, on his/her driveway—another occasion when I might have said a word that I had no intention of saying.

And then there were the last horrios, or horreos, depending on the province, providing storage for grains, and the unfathomable stone walls that had endured centuries, wars, generations of families, and the never-ending invasion of nature, determined to reclaim its territory. I will miss them all.

But the last day also seemed to be an appropriate time to reflect—and at first glance, I had to acknowledge that I had not experienced, as I had imagined, the three stages of the Camino. The Physical? Check. The Emotional? Not too much. The Spiritual? Hmmm. I confessed to Ann. Incredibly, she concurred. How could we be so shallow?

But then we began to review some of the highlights and “insights” of our Way. Having five weeks to wake up each day, fumble around in the dark, eat bread, drink coffee, load up your pack, and put one foot in front of another for four to seven hours condenses life and removes many distractions. For me, even things I had “known” for years were suddenly “lived.” I have written before of all the people: shopkeepers, bicyclists, railway workers, the police, fit athletes, late-risers in bathrobes in their upstairs windows, some in cars, and many on foot, who have shown us the way as we stood clueless in an intersection or marched confidently down the wrong trail. They were our guides, our caretakers, our encouragers. They took responsibility for these unknown foreigners who marched or stumbled through fields, towns, and villages with their annoying, clicking poles, even though they could have rolled their eyes or run us down or just ignored us. We felt cared for at every turn. I had to ask myself: How can I do this better when I return home? How could we as a community or society or world do this better? Each one encouraging vs. criticizing or mocking or ignoring the other? What would that look like in Bend, OR, USA? Seems naive, but I have experienced it daily for the past seven weeks, even before I began walking, and now I believe it can be lived, simply, each day.

I also wrote about a quote I saw on a wall somewhere having to do with walking “alongside vs. ahead.” Before we left home, Ann and I talked about how we would do our walk. I suggested that some days we might prefer to walk alone, and many pilgrims do, or even stay behind while the other went ahead if one of us suffered some relatively minor injury or illness. Of course, this is what Ann did while I recovered from Covid (although she didn’t much like it and even wondered if she could continue), and again when my leg did not want to bear any weight and I intended to take the bus the next day.

That intention turned out differently. She did go ahead, but so did the bus, passing me right by, so I unwillingly walked—and had no pain whatsoever. I wondered if this outcome was a lesson in humility; I had wanted to walk every step, to show myself how strong I was, but then realized this was unwise and taking a bus for the day was perhaps a way to assure that I could walk at all to Santiago. Once I gave Ann a hug and stayed behind, my strength returned. It was one of my best days to wonder and ponder and admire the world around me.

In any case, Ann and I walked together almost every day. I tended to go in front and she claims she preferred it that way, but almost as often as possible we walked side-by-side, sharing many stories, often more than once, laughing lots, crying a little, “bearing one another’s burdens.” I have always admired Ann. She is the person I have often gone to in my life for wisdom, for guidance, for prayer. I have called her my friend for many years as our children grew up together in Roseburg, OR, and beyond, but I always sensed that I was getting way more out of the relationship than she was. I felt dependent on her, but thought I had little to offer. I am sure we have all experienced those relationships where we are either the giver or the receiver, but seldom, or never, both. I am not sure that is true friendship. But after these many weeks of walking, Ann and I are friends in the best sense. We have helped one another. We have encouraged one another. Ann has forgiven me my many losses along the trail and instead of calling me a “loser,” as I am inclined to call myself, she calls me “human.” I am very happy and moved to be called human. We have listened to one another as mothers, wives, teachers, travelers, and of course, friends.

Jesus called his disciples his friends, which I believe means he loved them, he confided in them, he even needed them, though we rarely think of Jesus needing anything. They were often lousy friends, but he still chose them. I can be a lousy friend, but I will try to be better. And Ann and I will be friends forever.