It’s the day before day one of my pilgrimage on el Camino de Santiago. I’m lying in a bunkbed in an old church—our first “albergue” or pilgrim’s hostel. I’ve spent the last hour praying for the journey I’m about to undertake. Despite napping on the bus and it’ being only around 7 PM, I’m exhausted.
I look up at the vaulted ceiling of the church and the icon directly above me catches my attention.
I have no idea what the symbol means, but to me, the heart looked flaming. I feel like all year I’ve learned what it’s like to kindle a flaming heart for God and now I’m here at the end of it all about to walk 130 miles—nearly the distance from Denton, Texas to Waco, Texas— on an ancient Christian pilgrimage route, not because I need to achieve penance, but because I love, I love, I love my God and his people.
And as I close my eyes, an angel whispers to my soul, and I know these next ten days will be anything but ordinary.
Day One
Around hour two of my hike, I’ve found myself alone on the path, struggling up the steepest hill I’ve yet to encounter. I’m wondering if everything in my backpack is entirely essential as gravity tries to drag me back down to the earth. My feet slip and slide their way up the gravel hill, my eyes wholly focused on the ground beneath me.
Finally, the ridge. The earth levels beneath me and my eyes look up.
A gift.
A huge sunflower field greets me with four wind turbines whirring behind it. Up here, the wind blows steady and chilly, cooling me off from the heat of the hike. The early morning mist hasn’t burned off yet, shrouding the turbines in mists that move up and down, revealing and hiding.
I breathe deep, enjoying the mountain air, enjoying witnessing this with just me and my God.
I am alive.
Day Two
The path of el Camino de Santiago aligns with the band of the milky way, so I rouse myself at 3:30 AM, grab a couple of squadmates, and head out into the morning to become a star chaser once again.
As the small city of Puenta la Reina falls behind us, our headlamps remain off, and the brightness of an infinite universe lights our way.
Our feet start to slow and we soon find ourselves sitting on the ground with heads tipped back watching the heaves turn. I see a few shooting stars, and we point out constellations to one another. It’s early and we have miles and miles still to go, but stargazing feels like the most important thing in the world to us.
And in this moment, el Camino transforms from a walking tour to a journey; it’s no longer trying to get from point A to point B, but all about the experiences I encounter along the way.
Day Three
Erinn and I sit on a hilltop eagerly awaiting the sunrise. We laugh, we remember, we shed a few tears as we reflect on the last year of our lives and all the memories we’ve accumulated together. This friend is a friend of my heart.
As we sit, more of our squdmates pass us by. We wave and giggle and greet one another with the Camino greeting “buen camino!”
And as the sun is beaming through the fluffy white clouds, more dear squadmates summit the hill. They shed their packs next to us, Walker pulls out his guitar, and we greet the day with worship, on a hilltop, in the Spanish wilderness.
It’s one of the sweeter and more joyful worships I’ve had this last year.
As we sing, the sun continues rising, and the clouds start moving across the plain. “Look,” Nano says, gesturing to the clouds and the valley below, “the whole earth is moving in worship for Him.”
Day Four
Today, the pain catches up to me. As I limp into the town of Viana with twelve excruciating miles behind me, I have every intention of setting my bag down for a coffee and heading with the rest of the squad to the next city despite the pain.
I see Ally and Bliz sitting at the backdoor of the church, hoping to get a bed in the small parish albergue. I limp over to say hello and am greeted by Carmen, the albergue host. She takes one look at me, clucks her tongue, and starts telling me to sit down. I try to refuse, in broken Spanish, but she insists.
As I set down my pack, she brings a blanket out to me and insists I take my shoes off. Sure enough, my ankle is swollen double its normal size with bruising all down the side. Seeing the injury I’ve been feeling all day makes me want to cry.
I sit at the parish door trying my hardest to relax despite the pain and worry flooding my body. Soon, some of our friends from the trail, a sweet family of five from California, show up. In their numbers, they have a nurse, a doctor, and an acupuncturist. My squad did what they could, but this medical family helped assure me that I was going to be fine after a good night of rest, supplied me with medicine from their first aid kit, and made me feel loved.
And as we sit around the dinner table, after a church service our squad hosted, this family, dear Carmen, and a few other pilgrims, I feel the warmth of human connection we all share.
Day Five
We walk slow today, recovering, blessed by most of the path leading us through large cities on flat paved paths. It’s the slowest walk day we’ve had so far. We constantly remind ourselves it’s about the journey and try to ignore the incredibly slow pace of only two miles an hour. But oh, how beautiful of a day it was!
We reach the town. I shower, I nap, and I limp downstairs to join my squad for corporate worship. The songs are ones we’ve sung all year, ones that knit us all together.
And when Rebekah brings out the bread and the wine, I take the bread from her and walk around the circle of gathered squadmates serving them the elements of our salvation. I look them each in the face, deliriously happy to be serving them.
The last person gathered in our circle is Jeanine, our dear friend who has traveled with us since the beginning of el Camino in Pamplona. “You’re welcome to our table, if you’d like.” I say, not wanting her to feel pressured to participate.
“I’ve already been there for days,” she says, tearing off a piece of bread with a smile. Building family everywhere we go.
Day Six
I’m clipping along at a good pace, chatting with Erinn about something when an accented voice comes up from behind us, “You are speaking English, yet your flag on your bag is from Chile?”
I turn around to see a dad-aged man walking along with us. I laugh and tell him—as I’ve told a few others along the trail— that it’s a Texas flag not Chile.
He asks me about Texas and the next thing I know, I have a new friend for the next dozen kilometers. His name is Johann and he’s been walking all the way from his front door in the Netherlands. He’s been on el Camino for three months already.
Holy Spirit prompts me to ask him about his family and I do. He tells me about his wife of twenty-eight years and the three children they’ve raised together. We talk about them and talk about them, this man growing more and more emotional as he remembers his family.
When we part ways he tells me, tears in his eyes, “really, of all my accomplishment, all of my life, my family is the best of me. Thank you.”
I watch him walk away and wonder about this conversation, and wonder about what exactly it is about his family that Holy Spirit wanted to use me to stir up today.
Day Seven
It’s 3 PM when we get the call. Ally and Walker ended up on the wrong trail, are exhausted, and hurting badly. They’ll be in town in two hours and need a place to stay after our 16 mile day ended up being 25 miles for them.
In Granon, there are only three albergues. Exhausted body and mind, I take the time to go around to all of them, getting rejected at each by apologetic Spaniards saying there simply aren’t any more beds. But when it comes to my hurting friends, I refuse to take no for an answer.
Back at the church where the rest of the squad is staying, I go upstairs to try and ask our hosts if there is any way two more friends can stay. I explain Ally and Walker’s situation, in English, with them responding in Spanish (a language I understand but still struggle to speak), and me responding in English again. International living never fails to surprise and entertain.
They are sympathetic, but the answer is still no.
I let it lie, find Ethan, rant to him for a moment, pause and pray about it twice as long as I just ranted, and then head back downstairs.
Ally and Walker soon limp into town and I know I’ll do whatever it takes—however much Euro, however many people I need to share my spot on the ground with, however many pots and pans I need to scrub—so my friends can rest.
I explain the situation to them, and sweet Ally wants to talk to them herself. Walker stays at the bottom of the steep church steps, his knee swollen. We go upstairs and our hosts give Ally the same answer, “Sorry, no room.”
And she, appropriately, bursts into tears. The hosts look at her, look at me (I’m sure my face was full of accusation, “are you really going to turn away a crying woman?!), look at one another and one of them says, “we will find room.”
I’ve know it all Camino, but today, as I scratch Walker’s back as he drifts off to sleep and listen to Ally whisper about the struggle of their day, this journey is about many, many things, the least of which is myself.
Day Eight
I’m watching a pot of eggs boil, trying my hardest to keep my eyes open.
One year.
One year ago today, I met my squad for the first time at training camp in Gainesville, Georgia.
And now, we’re huddled around a kitchen in a six hundred year old church, laughing together over dinners of pasta and beans.
The water in the pot rolls, my breakfast for tomorrow prepared tonight.
One year. This time last year, I was heartbroken, my world collapsing, seeking any escape, desiring new horizons but also so terrified of them. If you’d told me then where I would be now…
As I watch the eggs float to the top of the pot, a new thought worms its way into my brain for the first time.
One year….
One year from now…
One year from now I…
Erinn gently takes to pot of scalding water from my tired hands and offers to wash it for me, more or less demanding I go to bed. I limp upstairs, this thought pounding at my frontal lobe, equal parts exciting and terrifying me.
One year from now I will be…
I feel my grip loosen on the World Race season and as I drift off to the sounds of my squad laughing down the hall, my heart feels ready to say goodbye to this sweet goodness for the first time.
Day Nine
We sit in a field watching the sun rise. It is cold, so we huddle under blanket taken from various airlines though the year, towels, and whatever extra clothes we have in our bags.
Another friend who’s walked with us for days, Maddie, sits with us and listens politely as we worship as the sun comes up.
The journey is sweet despite the blisters splitting my feet and the aching of my hip and knee. Now when we enter towns, we are greeted by fellow pilgrims who we’ve come to know. Now when we stop for sunrise, friends wave as they walk by.
My only regret, not spending an entire month on this path. I can only imagine the connections we would have after all that time. But for now, we sing, our song a witness. The love and service we show to one another speaking loudest of all.
Day Ten
Everyone carries something with them on this walk.
For me, I carry the weight of the last year of my life– the children I’ve held, the churches I’ve preached at, the injustice I’ve witnessed, the lives I’ve seen transformed, and the friends I’ve prayed for.
Each day, as I found moments along the path to walk along, the Lord pointed his finger on a different country and asked me to lay it down and let Him seal it. It’s a shedding process, one that hurt at times, but most often brought deep joy in the remembering.
There is one thing I’ve physically carried with me since the very, very beginning.
One year ago… my first team, Team Valor, bought matching bracelets to show our unity as a team. I wore the bracelet all while I was a member of that team and even when team changes happened, I carried it with me.
Traditionally on el Camino, pilgrims tie a large scallop shell to their backpacks. I have one and when I tied it to my pack, I tied the bracelet along with it. It’s a symbol of the Race, a physical memento from the very beginning.
And here, at our last stop on el Camino, at one of the last stops of the World Race, I lay it down.
As soon as we enter the town of Burgos, I head to the large cathedral here. I walk around the building, marveling at the kings, popes, and saints depicted here. I try to go inside to leave the bracelet at the altar, but I’m lacking the 8 euro charge to enter.
Disappointed, I hobble around the massive building again, trying to seek the proper place to leave it.
And here, I find.
Amongst all the great men carved here stand twelve—the apostles. I look at them for a long, long moment, tears streaming down my face. Of course this is where the bracelet should be left. These men carried the gospel first and I am only the most recent in a long history of Christians trying to spread love around the world.
Of course.
Next to their arched carving lies a donation box locked behind a grating. It is here I tie the bracelet, my final offering. It is here, at the end of 130 miles, I am sore and bruised and exhausted and so bone deep—soul deep—stinking grateful for every single step that brought me literally around the earth to… here.
