The summer I did a pilgrimage
I sat down on the cheap mattress in the hostel and unpacked my few belongings. Though I had been back in the States for over two years, all my World Race memories danced in my mind. In some ways, preparing for this pilgrimage–the Camino de Santiago, or, the Way to St. James–had made it seem as though no time passed at all since I last lived out of a pack.
Curling into my sleeping bag liner and hitting shuffle on my sleep playlist, I thought about how much more at home I felt there. Granted, I missed my normal comfortable bed, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled about rotating between two dry-fit shirts for the next few weeks. But the anticipation for the journey ahead, the curious adventurer I became when abroad–I missed those parts of myself in the day to day mundane.
The word pilgrimage is one I’ve clung to. Truthfully, I’ve struggled with God lately. Well, really, since being back from the Race. And since I’ve longed to do a pilgrimage of some sort, I thought perhaps this was the sort of jolt I needed in my spiritual life. Deny thyself. Which, in Sarah speak, is: live on bread and water, wearing only dry-fit clothing, and walk a near impossible amount each day.
What an odd motivation to sign up for something, but I’ve done stranger things before.
What would our pilgrimage look like?
I wondered in the months leading up to the trip, and especially that first night in Spain. Earlier, for dinner, we had eaten Burger King. If I’d known that’d be the last meal before the ever repetitive potatoes, chicken, eggs, and bread on our trek to Santiago, I would have savored it more. At least we found ice cream along our journey.
How would God show up? Would my doubt wear off enough for me to even want to look for him?
If, before signing up for the Camino and purchasing a flight from Washington State to Spain, I had known that traveling halfway around the world wouldn’t fix anything much less my skepticism toward God, then–well, who I am kidding? I still would’ve gone. But maybe my expectations would have been more realistic. Maybe I would have accepted the Camino as being an extremely rigorous physical journey and not any more spiritual than my regular routine at home. Because in order to see God show up, you need to be willing to take your blindfold off. And a trip abroad isn’t going to do that for you.
Would this trip help me return home motivated to live more intentionally and adventurously?
Like I did spiritually, I also hoped this pilgrimage would transform my “real life” back home. Did it? In some ways. I came home more distraught than before I left, for I had again tasted that familiar wanderlust, that thrill of always moving on to the next place. Coming back home to what felt like nothing–slow growing relationships and commitments–was excruciating. I left Spain relieved to say goodbye to well worn shoes and 5 am wake up calls, but with dread for the re-entry process I’d yet again experience when I returned home. It doesn’t seem to get easier, but I do hope it continues to remind me of the beauty of both lifestyles.
I almost laugh now when I think about that first night before our Camino began, how I prepared myself and anticipated in the most unrealistic of ways. An earthly path created by thousands of other pairs of feet won’t make you more spiritual. You may not find answers in another country, or at home either. Maybe, regardless of surroundings and people, you’ll be reminded that you have nothing to earn in your relationship with God. That maybe you’re too hard on yourself and need to accept the grace you seem to be talking about (I have a New Zealand dwelling American woman to thank for that reminder. Day one of our journey, and God was already humored by my efforts).
Did the Camino change my life?
Not in the ways I thought. My feet are permanently callused from days spent hobbling on blisters and all kinds of terrain. I had one of the most eye-opening conversations with a fellow twenty-something from Russia who asked question after question about God. I ate ice cream every single day and slept in a different bed, different city every night. It surely was an adventure not to be forgotten, but I look back and see that God loved me just as much as he did before I left for Spain as when I came back. Thankfully, our relationship with Jesus is just that: a relationship because of what Jesus has done, not at all based on a couple hundred miles we chose to walk. He may smile when we hand him our passport full of stamps from hostels and restaurants and churches, but it won’t change his view of us.
Three months ago, I walked 200 miles in two weeks in northern Spain. I am at awe of the fact; it seems so long ago, like it never existed. Travels usually do that, disappear to somewhere unknown. But the lessons they teach us, the God they remind us to run back to? Those are permanently tied to me. And I’m so glad they are.
