As I do the final checks on my pack—tucking in socks, tightening straps, weighing each choice—I keep hearing the same question in my heart:

“Do I really need this?”

Not just the second pair of pants or that just-in-case book.

But everything I’m carrying into this journey.
The unspoken burdens. The invisible weight.

We all carry more than what’s on our backs.

There’s so much we bring with us on pilgrimage:

• Habits we’re used to.
• Stories we tell ourselves.
• Expectations—about the journey, about ourselves.

Some of it is helpful.
Some of it is heavy.
And some of it… we’ve been carrying for far too long.

Fear.
Regret.
The pressure to prove something.
Old griefs or roles we’ve outgrown.

These aren’t things we pack consciously. But they travel with us, don’t they?

And then the Camino comes—not asking for perfection, but for presence.
It doesn’t care what you’ve done or left undone.
It only asks you to be here. Fully. Honestly.

So here’s the invitation I’m carrying today:
What are you holding onto that you no longer need?
And what might happen if you set it down?
Even for a little while?

Letting go isn’t failure.
It’s faith.

And sometimes—letting go is what makes room for grace.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For Letting Go

Gracious God,

You see what I carry—
the burdens I name, and the ones I don’t.

Help me release what no longer serves.
Fear, regret, pressure, pride—
I place them in your hands.

Make space in me
for lightness,
for peace,
for presence.

And as I walk,
may I discover again
that your grace meets me
not in what I bring,
but in what I’m willing to leave behind.

Amen.

---

There’s something curious that happens the closer we get to setting out on pilgrimage.

The logistics become clearer—flights are booked, backpacks packed, prayers said.

But the soul questions?
They get quieter… and deeper.
Harder to name.

When I first dreamed of the Camino, I thought I knew what I was hoping for.

Clarity.
Healing.
Direction.
Some holy “aha moment” to crystallize things that have long felt unresolved.

And maybe those longings are still somewhere in me.
But lately, I find I can’t name them as easily. I walk, and I wonder. And I realize—I don’t always know what I need.

And that’s okay.

The work of pilgrimage is not to engineer the outcome.
It’s to show up to the mystery.

To walk with an open heart.
To let the dust of the road settle where it will.
To believe that the Spirit already knows—knows your grief, your hunger, your questions, your hope.

And that grace… will find its way in.

So as I continue to prepare, I’m holding the space between certainty and surrender.

I don’t need to name it all.
I don’t need to explain why I’m going.
I just need to walk.
To let the road speak.
To trust the journey to do what it’s meant to do.

For When We Don’t Know What We Need

Holy One,

I come with more questions than answers,
with longings I cannot always name.

Meet me in the quiet.
Speak through the path, the people, the pauses.

I release the need to control or define.

Teach me to trust
that the Spirit knows what I cannot yet say—
and that grace will find me along the way.

Amen.

There’s a moment that happens—quietly, almost without you noticing—when the rhythm of walking takes over.

The road stretches ahead. The voices of fellow pilgrims fade into the distance. And all you hear is the steady crunch of your own footsteps.

At first, it can feel lonely. But then… it becomes something else.
Something deeper.
Something sacred.

In a world that’s constantly noisy, filled with conversations, notifications, and distraction, the Camino offers something radical: the sound of your own life.

No music in your ears. No emails to check. Just the beat of your walking, your breath, and your thoughts —finally given space to speak.

It can be humbling. You might hear your worries more clearly.
But you might also hear grace.

You might remember an old prayer.
You might find yourself speaking to God aloud, not even realizing it at first.
You might simply begin to feel your self again

Pilgrimage isn’t about escaping the world. It’s about returning to the centre—where God waits in stillness.

And so, walking with only the sound of your own footsteps can be an act of faith.
You’re trusting that you don’t need to fill the silence.
You’re learning that your presence is enough.
And you’re rediscovering that God speaks in the quiet

So, here’s your reflection as you prepare:
What do your footsteps sound like when you’re not rushing?
And what might happen if you gave yourself permission to hear them?

Prayer: For the Quiet Road

Gracious God,

In a world filled with noise,
help me to listen to the silence.

Let the sound of my footsteps
become a song of prayer.

Quiet my heart,
so that I may hear Your voice
in the rhythm of the road,
the hush of the wind,
and the stillness of my soul.

Walk with me in the silence.
And speak, if You will—
or simply walk beside me.

Amen.

There’s a particular kind of grace that only seems to emerge when we slow down long enough to notice it.

It’s not flashy.
It doesn’t come with fanfare.
It often arrives as a glance. A nod. A simple “Buen Camino.”

But in those tiny, ordinary moments, something sacred happens:
We are seen.

Not as tourists.
Not as strangers.
But as fellow pilgrims — walking the same dusty road, holding similar questions, hoping to find something deeper along the way.

I’ve started paying attention to these moments.
The fellow walker who slows their pace just enough to match mine.
The shared silence at a trail marker.
The quiet offering of water or encouragement when you didn’t even ask.

These aren’t grand gestures. They’re human ones.
And in their simplicity, they carry a weight of meaning that words rarely reach.

In the rest of life, we spend so much time trying to be recognized for what we do — how hard we work, how competent we are, how well we’re performing. But the Camino reminds me that there’s a deeper hunger in us all:
To be seen just as we are.
Not for our effort, but for our presence.

That’s what makes these small gestures so powerful.
They speak to the dignity in each of us.
They say, “You matter — because you’re here.”

This is the ministry of simple kindness.
And I hope to carry it home with me — not just in my pack, but in my way of being.

Today’s Reflection:

• When was the last time you felt truly seen — not for what you did, but for who you are?
• Who around you today might be carrying something invisible, hoping someone will notice?
• What simple act — eye contact, a gentle word, a moment of stillness — might become your ministry of presence?

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+

For the One Who Walks Beside

May you see and be seen today.
Not for what you’ve done,
but for the quiet grace you carry just by being here.

May your glance lift another.
May your presence speak peace.
May your steps create a gentle path where others feel welcome.

And when your own spirit grows tired,
may kindness find you too —
unexpected, unearned, and deeply healing.

In every moment of shared silence,
in every gesture of quiet love,
may Christ walk beside you.

Amen.

There’s a quiet shift happening in me as the Camino draws near.

I’ve noticed how easy it is — even in preparing for something sacred — to begin building expectations. Expectations about the route, the scenery, the weather. But even more so, expectations about the experience:
What insights I’ll gain.
How I’ll feel.
What spiritual revelations might unfold.

But the closer I get, the more I realize:
Expectations can harden into demands.
And demands leave very little room for surprise.

I’m reminded that pilgrimage isn’t about scripting the sacred.
It’s about making space — space to be surprised by grace, to be met in the quiet, to be transformed by something I didn’t plan.

The Spirit doesn’t follow an itinerary.
The holiest moments often come softly, humbly — through a smile from a fellow pilgrim, the stillness of a morning fog, or the ache in your feet that makes you pay attention.

So I’m learning to expect less… and receive more.

I want to walk into this pilgrimage with open hands.
To notice what’s freely given.
To welcome the quiet gifts of the road.
Because often, it’s the unscripted moments that change us most.

Today’s Reflection:

• Where in your life are expectations quietly turning into demands?
• Can you let go of some of those expectations and make space for surprise?
• What would it look like to receive this season—this day, this walk—as a gift?

A Blessing for Letting Go

God of the unexpected,
I release my grip on how things should be—
on the moments I thought I needed,
on the outcomes I tried to plan.

Teach me to walk with open hands.
To trust that grace will find me
not in the grand or the perfect,
but in the ordinary steps
and unscripted pauses of the day.

May I be surprised by joy.
Softened by mercy.
And available to wonder.

And when the path shifts or slows,
let me receive it—not with resistance—
but with holy curiosity.

Amen.

There’s a quiet shift happening.

The kind you don’t always notice at first—not dramatic, not loud.
But it’s there.
In the stillness.
In the pause before the next step.
In the way your breath settles just a little deeper.

And I think the Camino is already beginning to do its work:
It’s recalibrating my compass.

For so long, life has been busy.
Not necessarily bad — just full.
Full of commitments. Deadlines. Expectations.
Even in good ministry, the pace can become disorienting.

But a pilgrimage isn’t just a pause.
It’s a reorientation.
A return to something truer.
Simpler.
More aligned with God.

The trail is helping me ask different questions.

Not “What do I need to get done today?”
But “What is God forming in me today?”

Not “Am I productive?”
But “Am I present?”

Not “Where am I going?”
But “Am I going with grace?”

This recalibration is slow.
It doesn’t come all at once.
But each day, each quiet walk, each act of letting go—
it’s gently tuning the inner compass again.

Less noise.
More clarity.
Less proving.
More peace.

This Week’s Camino Question:

What’s guiding your steps lately — urgency, or grace?
And what might need to shift to walk more aligned with God?

A Pilgrim’s Reorientation

Gracious God,
In the stillness of this path,
reset my heart.
Quiet the noise of expectation
and tune me again to Your gentle voice.

When I am pulled in many directions,
turn me back to the way of peace.
When I feel lost in purpose,
remind me that presence is enough.

Walk with me, step by step —
not only to guide my feet,
but to steady my spirit.

Help me let go of urgency,
and walk by grace.

Amen.

Buen Camino, friends.
Thank you for walking this journey with me.

Buen Camino

Fr. Don+

As the days draw closer to departure, my pack is nearly ready.
It’s lightweight. Layered. Thoughtfully considered.
I’ve tested the gear. Adjusted the fit. Swapped out the unnecessary.
I’ve done my best to prepare.

And yet, this past week, I’ve been struck by a different kind of readiness—
the kind that has nothing to do with equipment.

Some of the most important things I’m bringing with me… don’t weigh anything at all.

You can’t zip up forgiveness beside your raincoat.
You can’t roll gratitude into your compression bag.
You can’t tuck humility into a dry sack or clip prayer to your shoulder strap.

But these are the things that will shape the journey.
These are the things that will make the Camino more than a long walk—
they will make it a pilgrimage.

Letting Go to Walk Clear

Traveling light isn’t just about shedding physical weight.
It’s about clarity.
Clarity of intention.
Clarity of soul.
Clarity that makes space to notice the beauty you might otherwise miss.

And so I’ve been asking myself:

What do I need to leave behind—not just in my luggage, but in my spirit?
What do I need to forgive, to release, to surrender?

The Camino doesn’t ask for perfection.
But it does ask for honesty.
It asks us to show up with a willingness to be changed.

What I’m Really Packing

So alongside my trail snacks and blister tape, I’m packing things like:

• Patience—for the slow days, the sore muscles, the unpredictable path.
• Prayer—to hold the silence, to carry the stories I’m walking with.
• An open heart—to be reshaped by conversations, by discomfort, by beauty.

These invisible things won’t take up space in my pack.
But I suspect they’ll carry me farther than I know.

This Week’s Camino Question:

What are you carrying into your next season that doesn’t need to come with you?
And what quiet, holy things are you being invited to “pack” instead?

Thanks for walking with me.

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+

With the days ticking down before I begin the Camino, my packing list is mostly complete.
Gear has been tested.
Layers chosen.
Weight reduced.
Logistics double-checked.

But in these final moments of preparation, I’ve realized something deeper:

Some of the most important things I’m bringing don’t fit in my backpack at all.

What Can’t Be Packed — But Must Be Carried

No checklist or packing cube can contain them.
But they’re every bit as necessary — maybe even more so.

• Gratitude for those who’ve supported this journey.
• Forgiveness for what’s still lingering on my soul.
• Openness to the unknown blessings — and challenges — ahead.
• Presence to each step, each moment, each holy interruption.

These are the intangible things.

Pilgrimage Is Interior Work, Too

Yes, the Camino is physical.
You walk. You sweat. You ache.
But it’s also deeply spiritual.

And if I want to walk this road well, I can’t be carrying resentment.
I can’t be consumed by anxiety or distracted by cluttered thoughts.

So I’ve started asking myself:

• What do I need to lay down before I go?
• Who do I need to bless or forgive?
• What gratitude have I not yet named?

It’s not just about traveling light — it’s about traveling free.

The Invitation

Whether you’re walking the Camino or simply preparing for a new season in your life, ask yourself:

What are you packing that doesn’t weigh anything — but will shape everything?
What are you choosing to carry — on your back, yes, but also in your heart?

Let it be love.
Let it be peace.
Let it be trust in the One who walks beside you.

A Pilgrim’s Prayer for Packing Light in Spirit

God of the long road and the light pack,
As I prepare to walk, help me lay down what I no longer need —
the weight of worry,
the burden of regret,
the heaviness of things I cannot control.

Instead, help me carry what cannot be packed:
Gratitude,
Mercy,
Peace,
An open heart.

Teach me to walk freely and faithfully.
Let every step be guided not by burden,
but by grace.

Amen.

Thank you for walking with me, body and spirit.

As my departure for the Camino draws near, I’ve spent a fair amount of time with maps.

I’ve traced the route.
Marked likely stops.
Read guidebooks.
And tucked away tips from those who’ve walked it before.

But in all this preparation, I know something else is true:

There will come a moment when the map won’t be enough.

The Edge of the Known

It might be a path that’s not clearly marked.
It might be a moment of fatigue or fog or uncertainty.
It might be a change of plans, a sore ankle, or just the realization that
no map can tell you what your soul will need that day.

That’s not failure.
That’s pilgrimage.

Because that’s when we begin walking not just by direction —
but by discernment

Grace Beyond the Guidebook

We like certainty.
We like knowing exactly what’s next.
But the Camino, like the life of faith, invites us into something deeper:

Trust that grace is still ahead of you —
even when the way is unclear.

That trust doesn’t eliminate the need for preparation.
But it transforms it.
Because we begin to rely not just on maps,
but on the God who walks with us.

The Invitation

So here’s what I’m praying for in this season of almost-going:

• Eyes to see what the map can’t show.
• Ears to hear what the Spirit is whispering.
• A heart steady enough to trust when the road takes a turn.

When the map runs out, God’s presence remains.

And that’s more than enough.

A Pilgrim’s Prayer for When the Map Runs Out

Faithful Guide,
There will be days when the trail is unclear,
when the signs are faint,
and when my certainty gives way to hesitation.

In those moments, walk close beside me.

Remind me that I don’t walk alone.
That the journey is not about perfection, but trust.
That grace is always ahead—even when I can’t see it.

When the map runs out,
let my spirit lean into Yours.
And lead me, step by quiet step, into the unknown.

Amen.

Thank you for walking this road of trust with me.

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+

With my pack nearly ready and my walking shoes well worn in, it would be tempting to think I’ve done all the preparation I need.

But there’s one thing I’ve come to realize in these final days before departure:
The real preparation is not in the packing —
it’s in the surrender.

Not to the itinerary,
not to the weather,
but to the transformation that pilgrimage brings.

Not Just a Journey—A Re-shaping

People talk about how the Camino changes you.

But it’s not magic.
It’s not something you force or orchestrate.

It happens in the slow, silent work of the road.
In the aching feet, the stranger’s kindness, the unexpected detour.
It happens when you stop trying to hold it all together
and let God shape you moment by moment.

A Prayer, Not a Performance

This is not about becoming someone different.
It’s about becoming more true.
More real.
More present.
More grounded in grace.

Pilgrimage peels away the unnecessary.
It quiets the noise.
And it makes room for God to do what only God can do.

I’ve begun praying not just for strength or safety, but for willingness —
willingness to be shaped by the journey.

The Invitation

Wherever you are — whether you’re walking a literal pilgrimage or simply navigating a new season — this invitation is for you too:

Let the journey change you.
Don’t resist the slow work of the Spirit.
Trust that grace knows the way.
And believe that transformation often comes one quiet step at a time.

A Pilgrim’s Prayer for Transformation

Holy and patient God,
As I walk this road,
I offer more than my footsteps —
I offer my heart.

Shape me through the silence.
Teach me through the ache.
Surprise me through grace I don’t expect.

Help me to let go of who I thought I had to be —
and become who You are quietly forming me to be.

Let this journey be a holy fire.
Let it refine me, restore me, and return me more fully to You.

Amen.

Thank you for walking this transforming road alongside me.

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+