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As I continue preparing for the Camino, I’ve been thinking a lot about pace.

Not speed.
Not performance.
But something deeper.

Because I’m learning that when you walk slowly — on purpose — something sacred begins to happen.

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Letting the Walk Become Prayer

We often think of prayer as something we do with words.
A posture. A time of day. A certain kind of quiet.

But walking — especially walking slowly — can become prayer too.

With each step, the rhythm of the body begins to still the mind.
The noise quiets.
The heart opens.
You begin to notice again — what’s around you, what’s within you, and what God might be whispering.

It’s not about arriving.
It’s about being present.

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Slowness is Not a Flaw—It’s a Gift

In a world that moves at breakneck speed, slowness can feel like failure.
But on the Camino, slowness is how we listen.
It’s how we learn to pray with our feet.
And it’s often how we discover we’re not walking alone.

The road becomes a companion.
The silence becomes a conversation.
And the Spirit? She’s never far.

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Walking with Intention, Not Urgency

As I prepare for the Camino, I’m resisting the urge to treat it like a race or a checklist.
I want to walk slowly enough to:

• Greet those I pass with kindness
• Pause to notice birdsong or bell towers
• Say a prayer for someone I’m carrying in my heart
• And perhaps most importantly—let God catch up with me

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The Invitation

Wherever you are — whether it’s a forest trail, a city sidewalk, or a kitchen floor — try walking slowly for a few minutes today.

Let it be a prayer.
No agenda. No hurry.
Just presence.

Because God walks slowly, too.
And sometimes the holiest thing we can do is… just slow down enough to notice.

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Thank you for sharing the journey with me.

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+

A Prayer for Walking Slowly

God of still places and gentle paths,
teach me to walk slowly today.

Not to fall behind,
but to fall in step
with the rhythm of your grace.

Help me notice what I would rush past.
Let me hear the quiet things —
the bird call, the breath, the voice within.

In my walking,
make space for gratitude.
In each step,
make room for prayer.
And in every pause,
let me meet you again.

You never hurry, Lord.
So help me not to miss you
in my own haste.

Amen.

“The Slow Walk”

Set aside 10–15 minutes for a short, deliberate walk — whether in your neighbourhood, a park, or even indoors.

• Before you begin, take a deep breath and invite God into the walk.
• As you walk, slow your pace intentionally. Walk just a bit slower than feels “normal.”
• Don’t try to think about anything. Just notice:
  • What do you hear?
  • What do you see that you might otherwise miss?
  • What sensations arise in your body?
• If a person or prayer comes to mind, offer it quietly.
• At the end, pause. Take one more breath. And offer thanks—for the path, the breath, and the time.

Try this once a week or any time you feel the urge to rush through your day.

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One of the gifts of preparing to walk the Camino de Santiago has been learning to walk slowly—on purpose. Not just to build endurance or break in boots, but to actually notice where I am.

And here’s what I’ve been finding:
There’s so much beauty around us that we usually miss.

A wildflower growing between two cracks in the pavement.
The way the river catches morning light.
A tree that’s been there longer than I’ve been alive, patiently holding its place in the world.

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I’ve walked these local trails many times. But when I slow down — when I walk like a pilgrim instead of a commuter—everything changes.

There’s a different kind of seeing that opens up.
Not just with the eyes, but with the heart.

It’s as if God has been leaving gentle breadcrumbs of beauty all around, whispering:
“You’re not alone. I’m here too.”

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The Gift of Noticing

One of the things I’m learning—even before I set foot in Spain — is that noticing is a spiritual discipline.

It takes intention.
It takes stillness.
And sometimes, it takes stepping off the trail just to sit and be amazed for a minute.

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When I finally begin walking the Camino next month, I know there will be breathtaking views—cathedrals, mountaintops, sunrises in ancient villages.

But I’m just as committed to noticing the small things:
A smile from a stranger.
A bird in a fountain.
The quiet presence of God in the dust and stones.

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The Invitation

So as I prepare for the Camino, I’m practicing the art of holy noticing.
And I invite you to join me.

Today — wherever you are — take a moment to stop.
Look at something you’d usually rush past.
Let it speak. Let it still you. Let it bless you.

Because beauty is everywhere.
And God is in the details.

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Thanks for journeying with me in spirit. I’ll keep walking slowly—and noticing.

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+

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As the days grow shorter before departure, my prayers grow longer.
They stretch across names and needs. They linger in the silence of early morning.
They rise up with each footstep on the Humber Trail.

Because the Camino — at its heart — is not a holiday.
It is a prayer on foot.

And that has me asking:
Who shall I carry with me in prayer?
What will I pray for as I walk?

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A Pilgrimage of Intercession

Since announcing that I would be walking the Camino de Santiago, people have quietly, and sometimes tearfully, asked:
“Would you pray for me?”

Yes.
Yes, I will.

I will carry their names — your names — in my heart and in my pack.
I will walk not alone, but as part of the great company of saints and seekers whose burdens I now help shoulder in prayer.

I will pray for:

• The weary
• The grieving
• The hopeful and the heartbroken
• The Church—at its best and at its most bewildered
• This fragile world
• Those who walk with heavy steps and those who long to walk again

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Prayer That Moves With You

Not all prayers will be formal.
Some will be whispered in the rustle of eucalyptus leaves.
Some will rise with the sound of boots on gravel.
Some will take the shape of gratitude, or tears, or laughter shared at a table.

And some prayers, I trust, will be prayed for me, by others — friends, family, parishioners — back home. That, too, is the body of Christ at work.

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A Quiet Invitation

If you would like to be remembered in prayer along the Camino, please know this:

You already are.

But if there is something or someone you’d like me to pray for specifically, you are welcome to send me a note, quietly and confidentially.

Your name — or theirs — may be written on a slip of paper and placed in my pocket. Or in my journal. Or simply carried in memory and love with each step I take.

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The Prayer of the Pilgrim

I will not have all the right words.
But I will have presence.
I will have silence.
I will have the rhythm of walking to shape my intercessions, and the open road to remind me that grace is always ahead of us.

And so, I go.
Praying as I walk.
Walking as I pray.
Trusting that every name I carry is known already to the One who walks beside us all.

Buen Camino.
Fr. Don+

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There’s something almost comic about the idea of being fully prepared for the Camino.

I’ve read the guides. Broken in the boots. Weighed the pack (again). Practiced with poles.
And still—there’s this quiet truth whispering underneath it all:

You’re never really ready. Not completely.

And maybe that’s the point.

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Readiness is Not Perfection

There’s a part of me — perhaps the part that loves a good checklist — that wants everything to be polished before I go:

• No lingering questions
• No unspoken doubts
• No spiritual cobwebs in the corners

But what I’m discovering as August 3rd approaches is that pilgrimage doesn’t wait for perfection.
It only asks for willingness.

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The God of the Not-Yet-Packed

The Hebrew Scriptures tell us that the Israelites wandered for forty years — carrying only what they could, trusting manna would come.

Jesus sent the disciples out two by two with hardly anything at all — no purse, no bag, no sandals. Just trust.

And still, I find myself fussing over what kind of soap to bring.

But God is not the God of the perfectly packed.
God is the God of the pilgrim. The walker. The one who dares to say, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.”

Even if my socks are mismatched and my heart is a little cluttered.

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A Spiritual Work-in-Progress

Part of my preparation now is letting go of the illusion that I need to arrive in Spain as some kind of polished priest with a soul ready to receive great revelations.

Instead, I’m choosing to arrive as I am:
A bit tired.
A bit hopeful.
A bit unready—and okay with that.

Because the road itself will do the work.
The Spirit will speak on the trail.
And grace… well, grace always meets us on the move.

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Come Along the Way

So if you’re reading this and feeling like your own journey — spiritual or otherwise — is messy or uncertain, take heart.

God walks with unfinished people.

And so do I.

I’ll be blogging along the Camino starting August 3rd. You can walk with me, pray with me, and maybe find your own invitation to step into the unknown at:

👉 ddavidson.ca/blog_anglican_priest

Until then, know this:
The first step is always the same.
You don’t need to be ready.
You just need to begin.

Buen Camino, friends.
Fr. Don+

As the date of my Camino departure draws near, I’ve been doing a different kind of preparation.
Not for my feet. Not for my packing list.
But for the part of the journey that’s harder to quantify:
my soul.

Because the Camino is more than a walking holiday.
It’s more than a challenge or an adventure.

It’s a walk along “the Way.”

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The Way Before There Were Christians

Long before believers were called Christians… they were simply known as followers of the Way.
You’ll find it in the Book of Acts:

“Saul was still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord… so that if he found any who belonged to the Way, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem.”
(Acts 9:1–2)

What a name.
Not a doctrine.
Not a denomination.
Not even a building.

Just… the Way.

That name has stayed with me. Because that’s what pilgrimage is all about.
It’s a movement. A journey. A following.
Not toward a destination on a map—but toward a deeper encounter with God.

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Walking with Jesus

The Camino has its own name: The Way of St. James.
But deeper still, it is a way of walking with Jesus.
And that means preparing—not just to walk to Santiago, but to walk more closely with Christ.

And that preparation?
It’s not just about praying more or journaling better.

It’s about surrender.
About creating space.
About letting go of expectations, old guilt, or the desire to control how “holy” the experience feels.

In a world where we’re trained to measure progress by what we can produce, walking the Way is radically countercultural.

No finish line.
No productivity metrics.
Just footsteps, silence, wonder, and grace.

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This Way, Together

So as I prepare to leave for Spain on August 3rd, I’m not just laying out trail socks and foot powder.
I’m trying to unclutter the inner rooms of the heart.
To prepare to meet God in bread, in birdsong, in the breath between the steps.

And as always, I want to invite you to walk with me—not just online, but spiritually.

Whether you’re reading this from a bustling city, a quiet village, or your own sacred stretch of trail:
You, too, are a follower of the Way.
And Christ is still calling:
“Come, follow me.”

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Follow Along the Way

I’ll be blogging from the Camino beginning August 3rd—sharing photos, stories, and spiritual reflections as they unfold (and perhaps a few sore-footed prayers along the way).

You can follow the journey here:

👉 ddavidson.ca/blog_anglican_priest

Until then, may your path be blessed with silence, surrender, and small glimpses of grace.

Buen Camino, friends.
Fr. Don+

When preparing for the Camino, there comes a moment when the packing begins. And if you’re anything like me, that’s when you realize how different this journey is from every other trip.

There’s no need for formal wear. No books the size of small bricks. No laptop, not even a backup pair of black dress shoes. It’s just you, a backpack, and the stubborn truth that every ounce matters.

---

You start to weigh things—not just literally, but spiritually.

Do I really need that third shirt?
Do I really need to carry that old regret?
Do I really need to bring that “just in case” bit of anxiety?

Packing for the Camino is unlike any other packing I’ve done. It’s not about being prepared for anything. It’s about learning to trust that what I have is enough, and that what I need will be given.

That lesson isn’t only for my backpack. It’s for my soul.

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Alongside the socks and sunscreen, I’ve been doing some spiritual packing too. Which, in truth, means spiritual unpacking.

I’ve been trying to lighten the load I don’t always see:

• Expectations about how “holy” the Camino should feel.
• The pressure to make it all “meaningful.”
• That quiet guilt I carry around like an over-packed toiletry kit.

Instead, I’m trying to leave room—for the voice of God, for the kindness of strangers, for surprise.

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The more I strip away the extras, the more I remember why I’m going:
Not to escape, but to encounter.
Not to perform, but to be present.
Not to collect souvenirs, but to let go of what no longer serves.

So if you’re reading this and wondering what kind of spiritual journey you might be packing for—ask yourself:
What am I carrying that’s weighing me down?
What might I leave behind to make space for grace?

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Follow My Camino Journey
I’ll be walking the Camino de Santiago beginning August 3rd, and blogging from the trail. If you’d like to walk with me—spiritually, virtually, or just in curiosity—you’re warmly invited to follow the journey here:

ddavidson.ca/blog_anglican_priest

There’ll be stories, photos, prayers, and the occasional reminder that God walks with us—even when our feet hurt.

Until then: pack light. Travel faithful.
And may your own path be blessed.

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+

I’ve spent a lot of time listening to the stories of my LGBTQIA2S+ friends and reading the Bible through fresh eyes. One thing has become so clear to me: God’s love is bigger and more inclusive than we can imagine.

I know that for too long, parts of the Bible have been used to wound rather than to heal, to divide rather than to bring together. That breaks my heart. As a cisgender, heterosexual ally, I want to be clear: you are loved. You are whole. You belong.

Let me share some of the Scriptures that have given me hope and the conviction that every LGBTQIA2S+ person is a beautiful reflection of God’s image.

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📖 Created in God’s Image (Genesis 1:27)

“So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them.”

This verse reminds me that every person—every orientation, every gender identity—is created with sacred worth. When people misuse this verse to uphold rigid gender roles or binaries, I see it as missing the point entirely. The beauty of God’s creation is found in its diversity, not in uniformity.

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📖 The Greatest Commandment (Matthew 22:37-40)

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart… and your neighbour as yourself.”

Jesus didn’t say, “Love your straight neighbour” or “Love your cisgender neighbour.” He said, “Love your neighbour.” Full stop. Any interpretation that excludes LGBTQIA2S+ people isn’t just a misreading—it’s a betrayal of the heart of the gospel.

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📖 The Fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22-23)

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”

I see these fruits so clearly in the lives of my LGBTQIA2S+ friends. Their lives are marked by courage and faithfulness, even when they face rejection. That’s evidence of the Spirit at work—not sinfulness, not brokenness, but holiness and wholeness.

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📖 Peter’s Vision (Acts 10)

“God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean.”

This story is a powerful reminder that God’s welcome is always bigger than our human prejudice. When people use Scripture to shame or exclude LGBTQIA2S+ folks, they’re ignoring the very heart of God’s message: no one is unclean or unworthy in God’s sight.

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🚫 Addressing Misused Scriptures

I know some verses—like Leviticus 18:22 or Romans 1—are often thrown around to justify exclusion. But these verses are taken out of context and used to harm rather than heal. They were never meant to condemn loving, committed relationships. When I read them in light of the entire story of Scripture—of a God who loves and liberates—I see that they cannot overshadow the overwhelming message of grace and belonging.

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A Message of Belonging

To my LGBTQIA2S+ siblings:
You are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are a reflection of the God who is love. You are not an “issue” or a “debate.” You are beloved. Your love, your identity, your story—these are gifts to the church and the world.

To my fellow Christians:
Let’s be known by our love. Let’s be a church that listens, that learns, and that builds a table wide enough for everyone.

I’d love to hear how Scripture has spoken to you, or what has given you hope on this journey. Let’s keep the conversation going, in grace and in love.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be an ally. It’s easy to say “I support inclusion,” but living it out takes more than good intentions. It takes listening, learning, and opening our hearts to stories that challenge and inspire us.

These are some of the books that have helped me on this path. They’re not just theology texts or social commentaries—they’re stories of courage, faith, and hope that invite us to see God’s love more clearly.

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Books That Changed How I See the World

“UnClobber” by Colby Martin
This book opened my eyes to how the Bible’s so-called “clobber passages” have been misused to hurt LGBTQIA2S+ people. Martin writes with such care and humility, and his honesty about his own journey makes this book feel like a conversation with a wise friend.

“Transforming” by Austen Hartke
I’d never read anything that lifted up trans voices with such tenderness and scriptural faithfulness. Hartke’s words reminded me that God’s image is so much bigger and more diverse than we sometimes imagine.

“God and the Gay Christian” by Matthew Vines
Vines takes the questions that so many of us wrestle with—about scripture, sexuality, and faith—and answers them with clarity and compassion. This book gave me hope that we can find a faithful path forward together.

“Outside the Lines” by Mihee Kim-Kort
Kim-Kort invites us to see queerness not as a problem to fix, but as a gift that can deepen our faith and widen our hearts. Her writing is like a breath of fresh air.

“Walking the Bridgeless Canyon” by Kathy Baldock
This book was a revelation. It showed me the history behind so many of our assumptions about sexuality, and it helped me understand why real reconciliation requires knowing where we’ve been.

“Our Lives Matter” by Pamela R. Lightsey
Lightsey’s writing is fierce and gentle at the same time. She speaks from the intersection of race, gender, and faith in ways that are deeply moving.

“Queer Virtue” by Elizabeth M. Edman
Edman’s insights about how queerness and faith can enrich each other made me see that allyship isn’t just about welcome—it’s about transformation.

“A Bigger Table” by John Pavlovitz
Pavlovitz writes with such kindness and hope. His book reminds me that God’s table is wide enough for all of us, and that’s what makes the church beautiful.

“Rainbow Theology” by Patrick S. Cheng
This book weaves together race, sexuality, and spirituality in a way that is both challenging and comforting. Cheng’s voice is prophetic and pastoral.

“The Gospel of Inclusion” by Bishop Carlton Pearson
Pearson’s journey of faith and love is a reminder that no one is beyond God’s embrace—and neither is the church.

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Why These Books Matter to Me

Reading these books has been more than an intellectual exercise—it’s been a spiritual practice. They’ve shown me that God’s love is bigger than any of our fears or prejudices. They’ve challenged me to see inclusion not as an option, but as a core part of the gospel.

If you’ve ever wondered how to be a better ally, how to make your faith a place of refuge for others, or how to find God in the margins—these books are for you. They’re stories of hope and transformation, and they’ve been a blessing in my life.

If you’ve read any of these books, or have others you’d recommend, I’d love to hear about them. Let’s keep this holy conversation going.

There’s a lot of talk in ministry circles about crisis, trauma, burnout, and decline.

All of it matters.
All of it needs attention.
But if we’re not careful, we forget something essential:

Joy is part of the Gospel, too.

Not surface-level cheeriness.
Not toxic positivity.
But deep, rooted, radiant joy—the kind that bubbles up from aliveness, from connection, from Spirit.

That’s the kind of joy my dear singing teacher, Dr. David Falk, used to call me back to.

He taught from a simple but profound place:

“Always ask—‘What’s News?’”

Not “What’s broken?”
Not “What’s wrong with you?”
But—“What’s good? What’s changing? What’s unfolding in you today?”

It sounds simple, but it shifts everything.

Because in a world trained to scan for danger, a ministry that scans for joy becomes revolutionary.

When we lead from “What’s News?”—
We open space for the new thing God is doing.
We remind people that they are growing, even when it feels slow.
We tune our attention to the moments of music, beauty, clarity, kindness, courage, and care.

We become ministers of hopeful noticing.

It’s not naive.
It’s deeply spiritual.

Joy doesn’t erase the pain.
It balances it.
It keeps us from turning into walking triage units.
It reconnects us to the sacred reason we’re here in the first place.

After all—Jesus didn’t just come to bind up the brokenhearted.
He came to turn water into wine.
To gather friends around tables.
To marvel at lilies.
To laugh, to rest, to celebrate the return of the lost.

He came that our joy might be full. (John 15:11)

What would change if we asked that of ourselves and each other, every day?

• What’s news in your soul?
• What’s rising?
• What beauty are you holding?
• What tiny victory are you quietly proud of?

As leaders, we must learn to preach the joy as surely as we preach the need.
To name resilience, not just pain.
To call forward what is flourishing, not only what is fragile.

Joy is contagious.
It’s a resistance practice.
And it’s a holy one.

So today, before you brace for the next fire,
Pause.
Look someone in the eye.
And say:

“Tell me what’s news.”

Then hold it like sacrament.

There is a quiet grief many in ministry carry.
It’s not always named, but it lives in the body.
It shows up in burnout, in boundarylessness, in inherited guilt, in a subtle sense of unworthiness.

Sometimes, we think it’s ours alone.

But as I’ve sat with the work of Daniel Foor in Ancestral Medicine, I’ve come to see that not all wounds begin with us.
Some are ancestral.
Passed down silently, through gesture and culture, theology and fear.
Passed down through systems we didn’t create—but often find ourselves holding.

And those of us in leadership—spiritual, pastoral, or communal—often carry not just our own pain,
but the echo of those who came before us.

We are shaped by lineages of harm, yes.
But also by lineages of hope.

Foor writes that healing is not only individual—it is lineage work.
When we attend to our ancestors, we don’t glorify the past—we ask it to participate in transformation.
We say: “What you could not heal in your time, I will begin to heal in mine.”

This is deeply resonant with the ministry of Christ.
Jesus doesn’t erase ancestry—he redeems it.
He places himself in a genealogical line.
He honours those who came before—warts and all.
And then he invites the Spirit to make something new.

In a similar way, Lama Tsultrim Allione, in Wisdom Rising, teaches that the wounds we carry—especially collective and gendered ones—are not failures of faith.
They are doorways into deeper power.

She invites us not to silence rage, grief, or ancestral sorrow—
but to transform it through embodied presence, ritual, and sacred practice.
To feed our demons, not to worship them,
but to listen, learn, and liberate.

In many ways, that is the work of spiritual leadership in this time.
Not to rush toward light,
but to hold the darkness until it reveals its wisdom.
Not to abandon the broken line,
but to become a point of renewal within it.

What if ministry wasn’t just about visioning forward—
but also healing backward?

What if the Church understood that ancestral trauma, colonisation, generational shame, and spiritual bypassing are not peripheral concerns—
but central to the work of reconciliation and Gospel embodiment?

What if tending to our lineages was not indulgent—but responsible?
A sacred task, done not only for ourselves,
but for those who come after?

Because healing is not linear.
It is ancestral.
And resurrection is not just what happens after death.
It’s what happens when we choose to bring the bones of the past
into conversation with the Spirit of the present.

We do this work—
with prayer, with compassion, with discernment—
not to fix our families or rewrite history,
but to say:

“The harm stops here. The healing begins here.”
“This body, this ministry, this altar—will be different.”