Well, dear reader, there are few joys quite like arriving home from Spain, and even fewer that compare with collapsing at last into one’s own bed. After weeks of hostels, hotels, and beds of varying degrees of penitential hardness, mine felt positively celestial—like resting in Abraham’s bosom, only with a better pillow.
But August, as you know, is not for resting. It is prime time for family gatherings, and the Davidson clan was circling like migratory birds who know exactly when the picnic tables will be set. On Saturday, I was back on the road to my sister Jane’s house, where together we were to host the annual Davidson Family Reunion.
Now, upon seeing my poor, Camino-bruised and blistered foot, Jane gasped in horror as if I had presented her with a relic of some third-century martyr. She immediately marched me to the nearest walk-in clinic, convinced I was at death’s door (or, at the very least, at the door of amputation). The doctor examined it with all the gravitas of a priest inspecting a dubious miracle. He prescribed antibiotics, a daily ritual of salves and bandages, and then gave me a look so stern I thought perhaps he was channeling Moses on Sinai: “And do not stop taking these pills until they are finished.” I half expected him to add, “Thus saith the Lord.” For a moment, I wondered if my regular doctor had phoned ahead to ensure obedience.
With that sorted and my foot duly anointed, I returned to Jane’s for the evening. Sunday morning came early—the crack of stupid, as some call it—and my dear sister issued me my orders: “Get the children moving. Direct them. Keep them on task.” And so, armed with the Divine Right of Mom delegated to me, I ruled as a benevolent despot. Orders were barked, chores were accomplished, and morale hovered somewhere between reluctant compliance and outright rebellion. By nine o’clock, the eldest child turned on me with the weary wisdom of the oppressed: “We could have slept an extra hour and still been ready.” I must confess, her tone contained less admiration for the efficiency of my regime, and more indignation at the theft of precious sleep.
By one o’clock, the yard was full. Cousins, uncles, aunts, and every imaginable Davidson filled the space with laughter, stories, and the occasional reminder of why family reunions are best spaced twelve months apart. It was glorious, though—so much better than the usual reunions we clergy tend to preside over, where the family gathering involves casseroles and a casket. No, this was the kind of reunion I prefer: life, joy, and far too much food.
As the day wound down, I found myself plotting one last adventure: a round of golf scheduled for Monday morning. And there, I knew, would come the true test of my healing foot. If I could walk eighteen holes without divine intervention or a golf cart, then surely the Lord had been merciful.
Monday dawned bright and clear, and with it came the promised trial by golf. Now, dear reader, some might think that after walking nearly 300 kilometers across Spain, a gentle saunter around eighteen holes would be child’s play. Let me assure you: golf is no gentle saunter. It is a spiritual discipline that combines patience, humility, and the regular need for confession.
Armed with my bandaged foot, a borrowed cart, and what I like to think of as “cautious optimism,” I set out with my fellow golfers. The first tee went well enough—my drive even managed to stay on the fairway, which felt like divine affirmation. But by the second hole, it was clear that my Camino blisters and golf shoes were not in a state of holy union. Each swing was accompanied by a prayer, some of them unprintable, though God, in His mercy, understands even those sighs too deep for words.
Still, as the round went on, I found myself laughing more than limping. The companionship of family, the beauty of the course, and the sheer absurdity of trying to knock a tiny ball into a hole hundreds of yards away reminded me of the Camino itself: we don’t always walk straight, we don’t always stay on the right path, but eventually, by persistence and grace, we arrive at the goal.
At the eighteenth green, as I tapped in my final putt (and by “tapped,” I mean “took three extra strokes”), I looked heavenward and whispered: “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the course. I have kept the faith.” St. Paul might not have been thinking of golf when he wrote those words, but I’m convinced he would have understood.
And so, dear reader, the Camino continues—sometimes across Spain, sometimes through airports, and sometimes around a golf course in Ontario. But always, always, with God walking beside us, blessing our steps, and occasionally chuckling at our missteps.