Well, dear reader, today finds me standing on the shores of the mighty and beautiful Lake Huron. Ostensibly, I am here for a round of golf with friends, but truth be told, the golf is almost incidental. (And depending on how my swing goes today, it may be just as well that it remains incidental.) This land, this stretch of Ontario, has a beauty of its own that sneaks up on me—rather like a golf ball that hooks left when you were sure it was going straight.

This is not very far from where I grew up, in Tilbury East Township, where the land is so flat that the mere sight of a highway overpass can cause spontaneous mountain-climbing expeditions. As a boy, I scarcely noticed it. Flatness was simply the natural state of things, and one did not remark upon it any more than one remarks that the sun rises in the east. But now, at my age, I look at it differently. The wide, sweeping fields of grain are no longer just crops; they are golden seas, shimmering in the light. They remind me of my father’s work and of the countless meals that came from soil like this.

And then there is the lake — immense, powerful, mysterious. When I was young, it was “just the lake.” Today, standing on its shore, it strikes me with an awe I never felt before. The immensity of it feels like a parable of God Godsself: vast, unfathomable, life-giving, and not to be trifled with.

So I pause today — not just to line up a putt, but to give thanks. Thanks for having grown up on that farm, for the privilege of helping to grow the food that fed so many, for the blessing of being surrounded by three Great Lakes within a short drive. It is one of those moments when the ordinary becomes extraordinary, when what seemed commonplace reveals itself to be holy ground.

Perhaps that’s the real round I came to play today — not just golf, but a round of gratitude. For in the end, everything we have and everything we are begins and ends in the gracious love of God. Or, as the psalmist put it so well: “The earth is the Lord’s, and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it” (Psalm 24:1)

Dear reader, my mind still often drifts back to the Camino, as though my boots are determined to keep walking even while I sit at my desk. Along that pilgrim’s road I stepped into more churches, chapels, and cathedrals than I can rightly count. Now, before you accuse me of excessive piety, I should admit that there was often a very practical reason for these holy visits: nearly every church along the way offered a stamp for the Pilgrim Credential. And without those stamps, there would be no certificate at journey’s end, no proof that one’s sore feet had indeed earned their blisters honestly. So, in I went, with my little booklet, hoping for the blessing of ink as well as grace.

Some of those stops were as simple as a stone bowl—plain walls, unadorned altar, a silence that almost echoed. One such was the pilgrim chapel near Redondela: stone upon stone, with nothing to distract the eye except, perhaps, one’s own thoughts.

Others were quite different—filled with paintings, bright colours, carved wooden reredoses pulling your gaze toward the altar and the holy sacrifice offered there. And then, of course, there were the cathedrals. Ah, the cathedrals! They seemed determined to prove that if heaven could fit under one roof, this would be the place. They were filled to overflowing with art, colour, statues, and carvings. To some eyes, they were inspiring. To others, perhaps, a bit gaudy—like a well-meaning aunt who insists on wearing all her jewelry at once.

But here’s what struck me most: all of these great spaces were built centuries ago, in a world without cranes, power tools, or laser levels. The immense stone angels in Santiago’s cathedral, towering over the chancel, each one carved by hand, must have cost some craftsman years of his life. And then, the sheer feat of raising them into place—well, I can hardly manage to put up curtains without catastrophe, so you can imagine my awe.

Regardless of whether you prefer the plainness of bare stone or the splendour of gilded wood, what mattered most to me was the dedication they all represented. Each brushstroke of paint, each carved feather of an angel’s wing, was someone’s offering to God. They were the work of hands and hearts, given in devotion to the One whose presence was known at the altar, where Christ’s Body and Blood were shared day by day in the pilgrim’s Mass.

It left me thinking, dear reader, about what our own offerings look like today. Perhaps we don’t carve stone angels or paint ceilings (and truth be told, I’d be a danger to myself if I tried). But in our care for one another, in our quiet acts of devotion, even in the way we share food and conversation, we too offer something to God. And though our gifts may look plain or simple, they are no less holy when given with love.

Well, dear reader, today I have resolved to do something I almost never manage to do as a parish priest: absolutely nothing.

You see, Sundays are rarely Sabbaths for clergy. They are days of sermons, sacraments, and a fair bit of holy scurrying about, all of which is blessed but none of which is restful. But today—today I laid out no plan, drafted no to-do list, and made no noble resolutions. I intend to follow the ancient and venerable discipline of doing nothing beyond sitting, breathing, and, if God so wills, napping. One of my professors in Seminary used to refer to such days as “having a bathrobe Saturday.”

Jesus reminds us that the Sabbath was given as a gift, not a burden. It was never meant to be a spiritual marathon of rules and regulations, but a weekly reminder that God delights not in our exhaustion but in our rest. Somewhere along the line, our modern world seems to have mistaken busyness for holiness, as though rushing about were one of the Beatitudes. It isn’t. And yet, how often do we find ourselves at day’s end so tired that our prayers sound less like the psalms and more like groans?

Since returning from the Camino, my body—which still carries the ingrained discipline of a farm boy rising before dawn—has been staging a quiet rebellion. Instead of leaping from bed at six, it has conspired with the alarm clock to let me sleep a little longer. And perhaps that, too, is God’s way of nudging me to admit how often I’ve ignored His call to rest. It may also be my body’s way of saying, “You’ve walked across Spain, old boy. Sit down for once.”

The summer days are slipping quickly past us now, like children running downhill far faster than seems safe. Perhaps that’s the invitation of Sabbath—to slow, to breathe, to remember that we are not machines to be constantly wound up, but beloved children of God, given permission—even commanded—to rest.

So, dear friends, my prayer for you this week is simple: take the gift. Enjoy the long afternoon light, the quiet moment with a book, or even the gentle holiness of a nap. The Sabbath is not one more burden; it is grace wrapped in rest.

A Sabbath Prayer

Gracious God,
You created us not only for work but for rest,
not only for duty but for delight.
Teach us to receive the gift of Sabbath with joy.
Grant us peace in our bodies, quiet in our minds,
and renewal in our spirits.
May our resting remind us that we are Yours—
beloved, blessed, and held in Your care.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Well, dear friends, as I glance ahead on the calendar, I see that I have but one week of vacation left. It has been magnificent so far — full of family, rest, golf, and, of course, the Camino adventures I’ve shared with you. But one unavoidable reality now looms on the horizon: the “stuff” that must be done before I return to parish life.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I still intend to squeeze in at least three more rounds of golf. I’m not a saint yet, and if you believe in the communion of saints, you’ll know there’s always room for one more birdie. But alongside that noble ambition sits the somewhat less inspiring list: laundry from my various trips still waiting patiently in corners, dust in the house which is beginning to exhibit signs of independent life, and neglected chores that will not vanish by prayer alone.

So today is to be a “clearing the slate” sort of day. A day for vacuuming, washing, folding, and generally restoring order. It’s not glamorous, but there’s something quietly holy about it. Scripture reminds us that “whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus.” (Colossians 3:17). That includes preaching, praying, and yes… even scrubbing the bathroom sink.

The truth is, it is often in these ordinary tasks that we rediscover God’s presence. The sweeping and folding become their own small parables of grace — God is forever sweeping away what is broken, making clean what is soiled, and setting things in their proper place. If nothing else, I take comfort that heaven’s laundry, at least, will always come back perfectly folded.

So today I putter, polish, and perhaps mutter a little under my breath. And as I do, I remember: holiness is found not only in the soaring cathedral but also in the broom closet, not only in the hymns of Sunday but in the hum of the washing machine on a Tuesday.

And when the work is done? Well, then it’s off to the golf course, to sanctify the fairways with my slice.

Welcome again, dear reader, to this humble chronicle of my day-to-day walk of faith. Now, you might think that a priest on vacation has little of theological merit to say—after all, there are no sermons to write, no pastoral calls to make, no altar to set. But in truth, that is perhaps one of the most important lessons any of us can learn: God is present not only in the soaring sanctuaries and sacred liturgies but also in the ordinary, sometimes absurd, moments of daily life.

Vacation has reminded me of this in spades—or perhaps I should say, in nine-irons. The week began with a family reunion, where food and laughter flowed more abundantly than the iced tea (and that is saying something). Then it carried on with four rounds of golf with friends. Now, one might suppose that a golf course is a strange place to find spiritual insight. But I assure you, there are few places that teach humility, patience, and the need for divine grace quite as efficiently as the eighteenth hole—especially if you, like me, tend to visit the sand traps as often as the fairways.

In fact, I am convinced that golf may be the perfect metaphor for the spiritual life. Every shot is a chance to start again. Every lost ball (and I have contributed generously to the golf course economy in this regard) is a reminder of the parable of the lost sheep—only in this case, the shepherd rarely finds the missing one. And every unexpected putt that actually drops is a quiet miracle, proof that grace abounds even when our skill does not.

So, whether in church or on the course, around the reunion table or in the silence of prayer, God is there. The truth is simple but profound: the sacred and the ordinary are never far apart. For those with eyes to see, the whole of life shimmers with the presence of Christ—even on vacation, and yes, even on the back nine.

Hello again, dear reader.

As the days stretch out after my walk along the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, I find myself reflecting more and more on the whole adventure. One truth stands as clear now as it did with every step on that dusty road: I was walking that path in the company of Christ. From the first step out of Tui, to the last aching stride into Santiago, the whole experience was begun, continued, and ended in Jesus.

But—because the Lord is never content with giving us only one lesson at a time—another reality slowly came into focus. It is the one the Collect for All Saints’ Day puts so well: that God has “knit together His elect in one communion and fellowship,” surrounding us “with so great a cloud of witnesses.”

Now, because I am a musician (and have spent most of my life surrounded by other musicians and those who at least tolerate us), this “cloud of witnesses” often came to me through music. As I walked, suddenly a hymn would lodge itself in my mind—sometimes gently, sometimes with all the force of a brass band that had been waiting for the downbeat. And with every hymn came the memory of some saint of my own life, now in God’s nearer presence.

Take, for example, the Pilgrimage Hymn from Hymns Ancient and Modern, “He who would valiant be.” At various points along the Camino, my feet dragging and my blisters protesting like union workers on strike, the words would suddenly ring out in my head:

He who would valiant be ‘gainst all disaster,
Let him in constancy follow the Master…

It buoyed me more than once, reminding me that hobbling along the Camino was, after all, a valiant thing to do. And then, inevitably, the second verse would pipe up—the one about “hobgoblins and foul fiends.” I could almost hear my old friend George Turcotte chuckling beside me. That was his favourite verse, and George, being something of a character himself, always maintained that the church doesn’t sing nearly enough about hobgoblins.

On other days, different hymns surfaced—ones dear to my parents, or to beloved parishioners from years past. Each melody carried a face, a memory, a blessing. And with each one came the gentle assurance: you are not walking alone. This was not merely my pilgrimage; it was an act of faith that stretched from the church terrestrial into the church celestial.

Perhaps that is why, when we sang the words “Santo, Santo, Santo eres el Señor” at the pilgrim’s Mass, I felt so undone. It was not just that Christ was truly present in the sacrament (though He was, gloriously so). It was that I was also surrounded by the community of saints—those who had walked with me in life, and who now walked with me still, though from a place I cannot yet see.

One night, David and I even raised a small glass of Scotch in honour of our dads, who—if I know anything at all—were definitely keeping step with us. It seemed only right. After all, the Sanctus reminds us every Sunday that heaven and earth, church militant and church triumphant, raise their voices together: “Holy, Holy, Holy.”

How incredible it was, then, to walk with Christ, and to know with every blister, every hymn, and every hobgoblin, that I was also walking in the fellowship of the saints.

Although I am still, at least in theory, on vacation from my parish duties, dear reader, I found myself wandering back to church the other evening. Not to lead worship, not to sit in a vestry meeting (thanks be to God), but to join in on our monthly Community Dinner.

Now, some might say that if you are on vacation, you ought to stay away from the parish entirely. But really, how could I? The dinner regularly gathers nearly a hundred souls from across Bolton—young and old, well-heeled and struggling, lifelong locals and newcomers — drawn together around folding tables in the church hall for hot dogs, hamburgers, summer salads, and, of course, the high sacrament of Canadian summer cuisine: the ice cream sandwich.

Alice and Owen had come to stay with me overnight, so naturally they were swept along as my guests. I am not sure they were prepared for the profound liturgy of ketchup bottles, the offertory of mustard jars, and the benediction of pickles, but they managed admirably.

Being in the company of two young teens, my table naturally became the “kids’ table.” Elo and little Evi joined us almost as soon as they arrived. Evi, being all of three years old and in her full chatterbox glory, supplied a running commentary on life, supper, and anything else that crossed her mind. Surrounded by this lively company, the five of us laughed our way through burgers, chips, and stories. And honestly, dear reader, I wouldn’t have traded it for the most dignified “adult” table in the hall. Sometimes the kids’ table is exactly where grace chooses to sit down.

As for me, the evening became a kind of homecoming. Mike and his friend had a host of questions about my Camino pilgrimage. Isabel had questions too—though hers were sharper, more pointed, the sort that keep a priest honest. And as I answered, it dawned on me that what makes this dinner so holy is not the menu (though the coleslaw was outstanding), but the unmistakable sense of being at home.

I looked across the hall and saw Gerri, who has been a faithful member of Christ Church for over sixty years. Poor health had forced her to move to live with her son, but friends had gone out of their way to bring her back for dinner. As she left, she held my hand and said, “I’m so glad you did your pilgrimage. I know you wanted that for years. And you know, this place will always be home for me, no matter where I live.”

Then she added something that struck me deeply: “It is good to be home. But it is better to have a spiritual home; a place where your soul can find rest in the middle of all life’s busy-ness.” Down through the years, just as my body has had many homes, so my soul has enjoyed many spiritual homes. I have been truly blessed; many places where upon entry, my soul simply says, “I’m home.”

There, dear reader, in the church basement with the smell of burgers still hanging in the air and the laughter of neighbours ringing in my ears, I realized she was exactly right. My Camino ended in Santiago. But in a very real way, the last step of my journey home was taken here—back in Bolton, in the family of Christ, around a table that felt like home.

Well, dear reader, as so often happens when families gather, there were more stories flying about than could possibly fit into one tidy post. But one in particular deserves to be shared.

My father’s cousin Darrell arrived at the reunion clutching an important-looking envelope. With all the solemnity of a man bearing sacred relics, he said, “Don, you need to see this.” I braced myself for something dramatic—a long-lost genealogy, perhaps, or a note from the Crown announcing my elevation to Lord Davidson of Bolton.

Instead, it was a letter. A letter of such preposterous creativity that it reminded me instantly of Monty Python’s Holy Grail. You’ll recall the plague scene — “Bring out your dead!” — and the poor old fellow protesting vigorously, “But I’m not dead yet!” Well, this letter was of the same genre.

It turns out that I, Donald Davidson of Canada, had apparently died. Yes, dear reader, news of my demise had spread as far as England, where an enterprising accountant was in desperate need of another Davidson to inherit the millions of U.S. dollars that I had so thoughtfully “squirrelled away” before expiring.

After reading the account of my untimely passing, I felt strongly moved to reply to the author: “Sir, I am not dead yet! Kindly keep your hands off my millions, and do not put me in the cart before my time.”

We laughed uproariously as the letter was passed around the family circle, and I must confess that laughter was a good tonic. But beneath the humour lies a sad truth: the world is filled with schemes designed to rob people of hope, trust, and money. Jesus warned us about wolves in sheep’s clothing, and here they are, alive and well, typing up nonsense in some dimly lit office.

Yet, as Christians, we are not called to live in fear of such tricks. We are called to laugh at folly, to cling to truth, and to remember that our real inheritance is neither dollars nor pounds, but the Kingdom of God itself.

So, dear reader, let me assure you — I’m not dead yet. In fact, by God’s grace, I am very much alive, and though I certainly will not dance (I’ve always had one Methodist leg), I rejoice in the One who is the Resurrection and the Life.

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.

Well, dear reader, I keep assuring you that this will be the final installment of our ill-fated journey home… but by this point I am beginning to suspect I am writing the Anglican Book of Never-Ending Travelogues.

We rose at the delightful hour of 3:30 a.m. — a time normally reserved for milk deliveries and bad decisions — to catch our Uber to JFK. It was only then that I noticed something that made me a little suspiciour of our bargain hotel. All through the day the place was empty. There was no sign of life. At 3:30 in the morning, it was a beehive of activity. There were scantily-clad young women being picked up and dropped off in the lobby every few minutes. They were all on a first-name basis with the guy on the front desk. Ive never seen a hotel lobby as busy as this at such an hour of the day. I guess some questions are perhaps better not asked. Our uber driver was cheerful and chatty, which, at that hour, is an act of heroic optimism. We arrived early, which was a good sign… until we met the check-in kiosk.

Because the online check-in had refused to cooperate during our Queens exile, we had to do the whole process there. All went smoothly — until the system demanded a fresh $35 USD “hostage fee” to accept our bags. This was particularly galling because we had already paid for them to be checked through from Santiago to Toronto days ago, before American Airlines misplaced both our itinerary and our faith in modern air travel. After two unexpected hotel nights in New York and Uber fares large enough to fund a parish pancake breakfast for a month, the $35 felt like an unnecessary poke in the ribs.

But finally — oh finally! — boarding passes in hand, we joined the security line. Now, for some mysterious reason, JFK’s security system seems to have my name on a rotating “Special Guest” list. I am, with very suspicious regularity, “randomly selected” for extra screening. David now chuckles every time a TSA officer snaps on fresh gloves, as though I am about to star in my own low-budget crime drama. I have been swabbed, patted, and prodded so often that etiquette demands at least a dinner invitation. From now on, I am returning to travelling with my Clerical collar on.

Once cleared, we rewarded ourselves with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Now, many people swear by Dunkin’, but after the rich café con leche of Spain, this particular brew seemed less “coffee” and more “boiled shoe leather.” Still, it was warm and caffeinated, and at this stage, that was enough.

Gate 38 greeted us like an old parish hall you’ve visited too often — familiar, comfortable, and staffed by people who by now greet David like a long-lost cousin. Our flight to Charlotte was filled with fellow exiled Torontonians and a hopeful list of nineteen standbys, making the gate agent’s day less “glamorous airline career” and more “triage nurse at a church picnic brawl.”

The flight south — yes, south to get to Toronto — was smooth. I still find it theologically perplexing that one must head in the opposite direction of one’s destination, but perhaps there’s a parable in there about God’s ways not being our ways.

Charlotte airport, I will say, is beautiful — airy, bright, and filled with rocking chairs, as though to say, “Sit a spell, pilgrim. The journey’s not over yet.” Our next flight, mercifully, would leave from the same gate we had arrived at. No cross-airport trek. No security line déjà vu.

We even discovered a pub directly across from the gate. As it was late enough in the morning, we ordered a light snack and — yes — a drink. The bartender, Courtney (already in David’s growing circle of airport friends in his Christmas card list), asked for my ID. I am sure this is just North Carolina law, but I choose to receive it as a blessing. Perhaps being footsore and a little grumpy takes years off my appearance. And no, dear reader, do not ruin this happy delusion.

Courtney, our new best friend and gate-side publican, was in the thick of it. The morning rush had descended on her like the multitude at the Feeding of the Five Thousand, minus the loaves and fishes but with the same level of urgency. With admirable discernment, she officially designated David and me as her “long-sitters.” This meant we were to remain in our seats, guarding them like the Levites at the temple, thereby preventing any further flood of customers. It was a vocation we embraced with a certain holy resignation. I’m rarely a long-sitter anywhere except my desk at work, but I took to the task as though ordained for it.

Courtney kept us laughing the whole time. When I asked if I could take her photo for this very blog, she paused mid-pour and declared, “Let me fix myself up—I might meet my future husband on there.” (If that’s you, dear reader, please note she has a great sense of humour and an excellent pour.)

In the midst of our laughter, David leaned over and asked, “Check your email. Make sure there’s no alert saying we’ve been rerouted through Anchorage, Alaska.” So far, nothing—no delay, no detour. Keep those prayers rising, dear friends.

After lunch in our new “local”—where David is rapidly becoming the Norm Peterson of Charlotte Airport—we wandered back to the gate. Naturally, it was at that precise moment that the delayed-flight email arrived. A mere nine minutes, they said. Hardly worth mentioning. But moments later, the voice on the loudspeaker summoned us to learn that we’d be getting a different aircraft entirely and—joy of joys—new seats. At this point, I didn’t care if they strapped me into the luggage compartment, as long as it took me northward.

We settled in, and—being who we are—struck up a conversation with a couple nearby. David mentioned our lunch at the pub, and the woman immediately said, “Oh! Did you see the man dancing?” I bowed my head in second-hand embarrassment. Yes, dear reader, the mystery dancer was David. Our new friends, the Millers, turned out to be from a lively Episcopal parish in North Carolina. We passed the time sharing Camino tales, and I said, “Every day on the Way we met new people, and then somehow, every day after, we’d see them again.” The husband grinned and said, “I can’t imagine you two making friends.” Ah, the spiritual gift of sarcasm—best received with humility.

David made an observation worth remembering: one of the greatest joys on our final day in Santiago was welcoming fellow pilgrims and congratulating them on their arrival. We all came in different ways—at different speeds, with different stops, and yes, some of us took “creative detours” (mea culpa). Some had harder days than others. But all reached the goal. It reminded me of the Collect from the Book of Common Prayer after the Eucharist: “Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious favour, and further us with thy continual help, that in all our works begun, continued, and ended in thee…” When the goal begins, continues, and ends in God, how can we go wrong? Even the ill-fated journeys home become part of the pilgrimage.

Before we boarded, David insisted on saying farewell to Courtney. He returned, grinning, and said, “Make sure you say goodbye to my gluten-free babe.” That’s not a title I’ve ever held, but it’s apparently one I now own by association. Our friends the Millers came up behind us in Pearson Airport as we were just our usual selves. The husband, once again in sarcastic splendor said, “You two guys need to lighten up. You are too dour.”

As I write, the plane is aloft, and we are finally headed toward the True North, strong and free. This time, I believe we are truly on our way home. What a journey it has been—full of grace, laughter, and the unmistakable presence of God. Thank you for walking it with me in prayer.