One defence mechanism I’ve developed over the years—besides pretending to know how to fold a fitted sheet—is the ability to laugh in the midst of discomfort. A spiritual discipline, if you will. And today, dear reader, I offer you this tale of travel, turbulence, and tailbone trauma, with the hope that you, too, might find a chuckle tucked in between the groans.
Now, those of a certain vintage may recall a cinematic pilgrimage of sorts from 1987—a delightful piece of work called Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. It starred Steve Martin and John Candy, and it chronicled the misadventures of two mismatched men simply trying to get home for Thanksgiving. As I sit here in Tui (finally), I can confidently report that David and I have now lived out a very Anglican, very real-world version of that film—except with less turkey and significantly more sitting.
Act I: The Great Canadian Launch
Our journey began in Bolton, where we departed the Rectory in the back of an Uber at the unsaintly hour of just after 7:00 a.m. (Toronto time). The car ride to Pearson was the only automotive portion of our pilgrimage, and likely the most comfortable, though even that proved a bit too plush for my condition—more on that momentarily.
Now, the airline had emailed strict instructions: arrive three hours before departure. In days gone by, such caution would have been necessary. One had to navigate crowds, queues, surly customs officers, and the occasional minor existential crisis in Duty-Free. But not this Sunday. The airport was so deserted I half-expected tumbleweeds to blow through security. There were no lines. None. Zip. Zilch. We had nearly three hours to do… absolutely nothing.
A Confession: My Cross to Bear
Before we go any further, I must share with you a private affliction. A condition passed down from my father (along with his knack for storytelling and his taste for Marmite). I call it D.A.S.—Diminutive Ass Syndrome. The Lord, in His infinite wisdom and humour, left me with a posterior tragically lacking in padding. While not usually fatal, D.A.S. becomes a serious trial when one is required to sit for long periods on hard plastic chairs.
And sit I did. For three hours. Then another hour, cramped into the coach-class micro-seat of American Eagle’s discount airline. (If those seats were any closer together, I’d have had to introduce myself to my kneecaps.) Compared to those seats, the Pearson waiting area began to look like the Ritz.
Act II: Welcome to JFK, Please Be Seated
Upon landing in New York, we discovered our next flight had been cancelled. Rebooked for a 4:45 departure. It was now 1:00. So, we waited. Again.
We ate airport food, a term I use loosely, and sat at our gate. Then, around 3:00, the screen simply blinked and erased our flight like it had never existed. A few moments later, a new one appeared. Different gate. Later flight. Another cancellation. Another three hours.
By now, I had achieved a form of spiritual levitation, whereby my backside existed on an entirely different plane of reality—namely, the one in which everything hurt.
Act III: The Patience Olympics
At 5:00, they called my name like I’d won a prize. I hadn’t. I was simply being summoned to a new gate, a new flight, a new seat-shaped form of purgatory, this time for a 7:45 p.m. departure.
Dear reader, if you’ve stayed with me this long, you’re already more patient than I was.
At 7:45 p.m., we finally boarded a plane bound for Madrid. The captain assured us the flight would take just over six hours. Six hours! A number which filled me with equal parts hope and dread. That would bring us into Madrid at around 2:00 a.m. Toronto time, whereupon we would—surprise!—wait again for a flight to Santiago.
Act IV: Lost Luggage and Gluten-Free Grace
Our bags did not make it. Of course they didn’t. They had been checked through to Santiago, and we were left circling a barren baggage carousel in Madrid. By some miracle (and the kindness of a staff member at Iberia Airlines), we were rebooked on a 7:10 p.m. flight. It was now noon. We had seven hours to… yes, sit.
David sought liquid courage in the form of a cold beer. When I requested one sin gluten, the woman behind the counter lit up and scurried off to retrieve a bottle of gluten-free goodness, as if she’d just found the Holy Grail. I could’ve wept.
Act V: But Wait—There’s More!
The final stage involved boarding a train—because of course it did—to take us 110 km backwards from Santiago to Tui, our actual starting point. We were now officially acting out the entire plot of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, with a little bit of Waiting for Godot thrown in for theological flavour.
I must confess, I hadn’t walked a single kilometre yet on this pilgrimage, but I had sat enough to qualify for sainthood.
The Moral of the Story (or Lack Thereof)
If you’re wondering what I’ve learned from all this, the answer is simple: God does not give us patience. God gives us opportunities to learn patience. And friends, in the last 30 hours, I have been offered so many of those opportunities I am practically fluent in frustration.
But now, I lie on a proper bed, in a peaceful little room in Tui. I am stiff, sore, jet-lagged, and—dare I say it—grateful. The Camino begins in earnest tomorrow. I’ll walk with purpose, pray with intention, and yes… probably complain just a little.
But this I know: God was in all of it. In the cancelled flights. In the hard seats. In the cold gluten-free beer. Even in the silent baggage carousel. Because sometimes grace is not about ease—but about endurance.
And so, with fear and trembling (and a heating pad), I dare once again to pray:
Lord of the long road and the slow unfolding,
You know how quick my spirit is to rush,
how eager I am for resolution,
and how hard it is to wait.
Teach me to breathe deeply when the way is delayed.
Give me grace in the in-between.
When plans shift, when doors close,
when I am asked to sit still—again—
remind me that You are not in a hurry.
Shape my heart to trust You,
not only in movement, but in the stillness too.
And if You are offering me one more chance
to learn the holy art of waiting,
then help me not to waste it.
Amen.