Well, dear reader, for those of us who are “of an age,” I feel a bit as though I am about to write the Search for Spock episode of the old Star Trek movies. The reason is simple: tomorrow, I know I must write The Journey Home.
Like any good Starfleet officer—or, in my case, a slightly arthritic Anglican priest—today has been filled with a mix of anticipation and reflection. I can almost hear the swelling orchestral music in the background as we near the final scene. The boots are scuffed, the walking sticks are worn smooth in the grip, and the knees (David’s) and hips (mine) are staging a quiet protest about the working conditions. And yet—here we are—on the brink of arriving at the great Cathedral in Santiago, the earthly end-point of this pilgrimage.
It’s funny how the Camino, much like an old Star Trek film, is full of unlikely friendships, strange encounters, moments of breathtaking beauty, and at least one or two episodes you would rather not repeat (the “industrial area” being our Wrath of Khan). But every step has carried with it the quiet truth that we have been walking toward something more than a building, more than a certificate, more even than Santiago itself. We have been walking toward the heart of God.
After breakfast, we set out for the Cathedral—only about a kilometre from our hotel. Now, a kilometre is not usually something worth writing home about after weeks of walking 20-plus a day, but I will admit I felt a little like a marathoner who has reached the final lap, still trying to look graceful while every joint and tendon is screaming, “Let’s just sit down on this cobblestone and call it holy ground.”
We made our way around that magnificent edifice to the Oficina de Peregrinos, where we joined the long line of dusty and beaming travellers being officially registered as having “finished the course.” St. Paul came to mind—yes, I know, dear reader, that may surprise you. I’ve never been his most devoted fan, but when he said, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith,” I suspect he may have had a blister or two himself.
After receiving our Compostela, the plenary indulgence, and our mileage certificate (proof that this was more than just a scenic pub crawl), we made our way to the Pilgrim’s Mass. The walk had been short, but the emotion was not. Since my heart attack, my capacity to master my emotions has… well, let’s just say it’s taken early retirement. Today, the tears came freely—every time the reality of this journey met the presence of my Lord.
During the Mass, I knew every response in Spanish, but each time I opened my mouth, a lump arrived uninvited in my throat. When the celebrant raised the Sacrament, if my hips had permitted, I would have fallen to my knees in awe. Instead, I made as deep a bow as my hip joints would allow, and the tears came again. Every step of this difficult road, Jesus has walked with me. And now, here in this ancient cathedral, His presence was as clear as the sunlight through the rose window. Señor, ten piedad.
After the Mass, I went to the crypt to pray at the tomb of St. James the Less—praying for my dad, who died eleven years ago, for my sister-in-law’s father, who would have been 90 today, for friends and parishioners, and for God’s guidance in the ministry I began 33 years ago on September 1st. God has been so very good to me on this road.
Throughout the day, we kept bumping into friends we’d met along the way—Julio and Stephy from Barcelona, the Irish ladies, Claudia and Laura from Sicily, the “You’re the guy!” fellow, and more. I realised most of these connections were because of David. His habit of offering encouragement to the weary, a helping hand over a tough step, or a fist bump at the end of a stage had blessed so many. I was simply reaping the friendship harvest of David’s generosity.
The rest of the afternoon was… well, let’s call it a theological lesson in perseverance. My sister had asked me to bring her back a pilgrim’s talisman—a Jacinto de Compostela stone. The shop she recommended looked at me as if I’d just asked for a live unicorn. We tried one jewellery store after another, each one politely but firmly dismissing the idea.
Finally, deciding I needed my own souvenir, we found the oldest tattoo parlour in a city where the word “old” is not thrown around lightly. There, I received the traditional pilgrim tattoo: the cross of St. James over the scallop shell. (If I meet Paul in the next life, I’ll have something to show him.)
Our search for the stone continued with a little help from Chatty Kathy—my Google Maps voice—whose sense of direction rivals only that of a drunken goose. At one point, the GPS assured us we were “just around the corner” from our hotel, while the distance on the screen kept going up. We stopped for gelato—partly for the refreshment, partly for the therapy—and wouldn’t you know, across the street was yet another jewellery shop. This time, the woman paused, thought for a moment, and said, “Ah… Chispato stone. Not far.”
One kilometre later, we had it. The elusive pilgrim’s talisman was finally in my hand. We returned to the hotel, where David bandaged my blistered feet (merciful man that he is) before we cleaned up for supper.
I think I’ll leave you here for tonight, dear reader. Supper will be the introduction to “The Journey Home.” I can promise it will be light on orcas but full of sea creatures nonetheless.
Buen Camino, friends. I prayed for you today.
