Tomorrow, I go.

After months of preparing, praying, packing, and walking in spirit—
now it’s time to walk with my feet.

The journey to Spain begins tomorrow,
and with it, the unfolding of something that’s been quietly growing in my heart for a long time.

But before I take that first official step on the Camino, I need to pause for one more thing:

Gratitude.

I give thanks for all of you who have prepared with me.

For those who’ve walked with me — digitally, prayerfully, and personally — through these reflections.
For your comments, encouragement, and quiet companionship.

I give thanks for those who’ve prayed for me as I prepared.
Your intercessions have been a steady wind at my back.

And I give thanks for those who will pray for me — and with me — as I make this pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

I go not alone.
I go carrying your blessings, your hopes, your stories.
I go with Christ before me, behind me, beside me.
I go as a pilgrim — not just in geography, but in heart.

This is no longer preparation.
This is pilgrimage.

And now, it begins.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: On the Eve of Departure

Gracious and loving God,

Thank you for the gift of this journey—
for the time of preparation,
for the strength to begin,
and for those who have held me in prayer.

As I go, go with me.
Walk beside me in every step,
meet me in every stranger,
and speak through every silence.

May the road rise to meet me—
and may the prayers of your people carry me
all the way to Santiago.

Bless those who walk with me in spirit.
Bless those I will meet on the Way.
And bless what is still unfolding within me.

For it is all grace.
And it is all Yours.

Amen.

Buen Camino, friends.
And thank you — for walking this preparation journey with me.
Now, let’s begin.

Sooner or later, it happens.

You’ve prepped for months.
You’ve packed smart.
You’ve broken in your boots and worn the good socks.
But still — you get a blister.

It’s one of those realities of the Camino that every pilgrim shares at some point.
And when it happens, something shifts.
You stop pushing so hard.
You walk more tenderly.
You listen to your body.

And — maybe for the first time — you begin to realize:
Pilgrimage isn’t about perfection.
It’s about presence.

We all want the journey to feel strong, smooth, and seamless.
But sometimes the places that ache the most are the ones that open us up—to grace, to help, to healing.

When you’re hurting, you’re more likely to:

• Accept help you’d usually decline.
• Rest when you’d rather push on.
• Ask for care instead of offering it.

And that, too, is holy.

Like the psalmist says:
“You have been my refuge, a strong tower against the enemy.” —Psalm 61:3
And sometimes, that enemy isn’t outside of us.
It’s our own pride.
Our impatience.
Our drive to do it all on our own.

So here’s today’s invitation:

Let your blisters bless you.
Let the discomfort deepen your attention.
Let your vulnerability open you to grace.

Because pain, when it’s held with care,
can become sacred ground.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For the Places That Hurt

God of the road and the resting place,

When pain slows me down,
teach me not to resist —
but to listen.

In the ache,
show me how to receive.

When I feel weak,
remind me I am still on the way — still loved,
still part of this holy journey.

Let my wounds teach wisdom.
Let my blisters become blessings.

And let every tender step
bring me closer to Your gentle heart.

Amen.

In the early days of walking the Camino, it’s easy to think the goal is distance.

Get to the next town.
Reach the next landmark.
Make good time.

But then something shifts.

Your legs grow tired. Your feet start to ache.
And suddenly, the focus changes — from arriving to being.

One of the most surprising lessons of pilgrimage is this:
You need to slow down — not just for your body, but for your soul.

There’s a kind of rush we carry even into sacred spaces. A pressure to keep moving, to prove we’re “doing it right.” But the Camino teaches another way.

It says: Breathe.
Listen.
Be present.

The crunch of gravel underfoot.
The glance of a fellow pilgrim.
The quiet sound of your own thoughts, finally heard.

Psalm 71 says, “You have taught me from my youth… and to this day I declare your wondrous works.”
But those works don’t only appear in the finish line or the mountain-top moment.
They’re found in the small, quiet places — when we slow down enough to see them.

We don’t need to rush to meet God.
We need to recognize that God is already here — along the path, in the pause, in the pace of grace.

So here’s today’s invitation, as the journey unfolds:
Learn to walk slower.
Let your rhythm be set by grace, not pressure.
Let your walk be a practice of presence.

Because the point of pilgrimage isn’t just to get somewhere.
It’s to be here — heart open, eyes lifted, soul awake.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For a Slower Walk

Holy One,

Teach me to walk with intention,
not with hurry.

When I rush ahead,
slow my steps.
When I strive to prove something,
remind me that I’m already loved.

Let the road be more than a route—
let it be a teacher.

May I find You
not just in the destination,
but in every step that leads me there.

Amen.

When we think of beauty on the Camino, we often imagine grand vistas — rolling hills, Gothic cathedrals, and golden light falling on ancient stones.

And yes, those moments exist.
But more often, beauty comes in small, almost invisible ways.

It’s a flower growing in a crack on the path.
It’s a pilgrim handing you water before you even realize you’re thirsty.
It’s a bowl of soup served without a word, just when you’ve run out of energy.

We begin our pilgrimages — both literal and spiritual — thinking we know what we’re looking for.

Clarity.
Healing.
Peace.

But the Camino has its own lessons.
And one of the first is this:
Grace doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.
It shows up anyway.

Psalm 72 gives us this vision:
“May righteousness flourish, and peace abound, until the moon is no more.”

That’s not a prayer for the spectacular.
It’s a prayer for sustained beauty.
For justice and peace to quietly take root in the everyday moments of our lives.

And maybe that’s the truest miracle of all:
Not that something big and flashy happens…
But that the Spirit keeps showing up in the small things.

So here’s today’s Camino invitation:

Slow down.
Notice.
Let yourself be surprised.

Because the beauty you weren’t looking for?
That might be the grace you actually came for.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For the Beauty I Didn’t Expect

Holy One,

I came seeking answers,
but you met me with beauty.

In a smile,
in a gesture,
in the silence between steps —

You were there.

Teach me to walk slowly enough
to see the grace that grows in small places.

Open my heart to the unexpected,
and let peace take root in me
until the moon is no more.

Amen.

There’s a rhythm that only reveals itself after you’ve been walking for a while.
At first, it’s all planning and pacing, calculating kilometers, counting steps.
But then something shifts. You stop obsessing over distance.
You stop asking how far you’ve come or how much farther you need to go.

You just… walk.

And when the rhythm settles into your bones, something deeper starts to stir.

Not because the road gets easier—often, it doesn’t.
There are still blisters. There are still steep climbs and hot afternoons.
There are still days when your heart feels heavier than your pack.

But that’s when the Camino begins its real work.
Not by removing the difficulty, but by walking you through it.

We live in a world that chases peace as if it’s a prize to be earned.
We crave the quick fix, the instant resolution.
But on the Camino—and in life—peace doesn’t come because things are smooth.
It comes because you keep walking.

You show up, blistered and unsure, and take the next step anyway.
You stay open. You stay present.
And somewhere along the way—peace finds you.

The invitation for today is simple:
Keep going until the peace comes.
Not because you force it. Not because you earn it.
But because grace has a way of meeting those who stay on the path.

So walk.
Through the pain.
Through the silence.
Through the days that don’t make sense.

And trust:
Peace may not arrive when you expect it.
But it will.

For the Peace That Comes Slowly

God of the long road,

When the path feels heavy beneath my feet,
and peace feels far off—

Teach me to walk anyway.

Let the rhythm of each step
become a prayer.
Let silence open the door to Your presence.
Let perseverance prepare the way for peace.

Meet me, not with quick answers,
but with the quiet strength to keep going.

Until the peace comes.

Amen.

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.