The Feet of a Disciple

I was reminded tonight of the pain that I had endured and continue to experience as I peeled away dead skin where there once were blisters. My mind wandered back to the small farming towns where I often stopped due to cows crossing the path or heard the hum of tractors in fields off in the distance as took step after step along dusty cobbled path. Because my Camino brought pain, I am able to find healing. I was given and a new understanding of what it means to have the feet of Jesus.

The first day my shoes declared war on my feet. My socks chose to make allies with my shoes. Every step was a battle. Every night I spent what seemed like eternity unwrapping my bandages, peeling off blister protectors that had lost their stick, and hobbling around to find more Compeed at the nearest pharmacy only to use the whole package on one foot  (dramatic emphasis mostly accurate). Each pinky toe, big toe, and heal required my fine tuned first aids skills. I labored as I strategically bandaged the most awkward of places on the human foot. In order for these bandages to stay I had to use my trusty athletic training skills (thanks rooms) and gauze pads to ensure the safety of my feet and to give them a fighting chance against my shoes. Well by day three this all had become tiring and nothing seemed to be healing.

I was hurting. I was frustrated. I wanted to quit.

In the early hours of Friday morning, I pulled out my trusty Chaco’s and slowly pulled their straps over my sore feet only after adding a few more pieces of tape where it had peeled away over night. My feet needed a break from war. Every pilgrim I passed that day looked down and with pain in their eyes would shake their head and tell me to take care of my feet. You think I want to feel this pain with every step?! Your sympathy does not help. Thank you very much! I wanted to yell, but of course I smiled and only responded with “Buen Camino”. With all the tape, my feet looked worse then they felt and I knew that healing was coming, eventually, so I kept on. To be honest, I hid most of the pain behind a smile. But I think you do too. 

As I trekked along dirt and rocks, over cow droppings, and through the pain my feet changed. At the end of the day my sandals were covered in dust, my feet were dirty, smelly, calloused, and sun tanned. My feet literally became what I imagine a first century disciple’s feet to look (and smell) like. I have been praying to be more like Jesus, and I guess I should be more careful what I say to God.

A couple summers ago a camper asked me what it meant to 'pick up your cross and carry it' a common christianese saying. I mumbled through an answer only to conclude I really had no good explanation. As the kilometers passed, with every step I was reminded of pain, but I gained a clearer picture of what this saying means. I think picking up one's cross probably looks a whole lot like a sweaty pilgrim tightening their dusty shoes, slinging on their worn and heavy pack, strapping it tight around their waist, whispering a little prayer for strength, and taking a step knowing that the path ahead will bring pain. 

It is so easy to focus on the love and mercy Jesus talked and walked that often I forget about the pain that had to happen first for the love and mercy to be shown. In order for the bleeding woman to be healed, she first had to be unclean. In order for his sight to be restored, the man first had to be blind. The same goes for the man with leprosy, the paralytic, and those with legions of demons. Now, I am not saying that God inflicts suffering upon people. Rather, without suffering, we are unable to experience healing. In order for God to redeem His world, Jesus first had to suffer. Jesus suffered. When each person met Jesus, he never left them by just healing their physical illness. Jesus says to each of them, and to each of us, "Go in peace and be freed from all your suffering." 


My Camino was about suffering, but that also makes it about healing. With every step my prayer to become more like Jesus was being answered.

¿Buen Camino?

Home

Yes I am millions of miles and a couple of time zones away from the textbook definition of my home. However, I have found many similarities, comforts, and reminders of home while on the Camino and here in Santiago. Today, in our global community, my definition of home has expanded beyond the four walls of a house to include the people I meet, no matter where in the world, as my neighbor. While in Spain I have seen many cows and several John Deere tractors, but this might be the craziest and most mind-blowing story from my Camino. It still amazes me, and while it may not be the adventurous tale you are looking for, still prepare yourself…

I headed off the first morning down a mountain called O’Cebreiro. Being that it was my first day, my spirits were as high as the 1,270 meter mountain. Filled with schoolgirl giddiness for this amazing adventure that surly lied ahead, I set off walking. Well compared to my ending pace, it was more like flying with the goal of breaking the sound barrier. I paused once or twice for a breathtaking photo but kept my pace set to Olympian. Every time I came up behind a weary pilgrim (I passed many that first day) I would open my mouth and a cheerleader like ‘Buen Camino’ would fly out with smile. In a few days I found this type of enthusiasm thoroughly annoying, is it too late to say sorry?

About an hour and a half into my enthusiastic Camino I realized many pilgrims were stopping to enjoy some breakfast and cafés scattered in towns along the Camino. I took the hint and headed for a rather small café just of the path in a small farming community. I ordered a café con leché (the first of many to come) and took a seat at a corner table. Okay Lizzy, I thought, this is your time. Meet people, make friends, that is what the Camino is suppose to be.  I scanned the café and decided to continue to munch on my toast and coffee instead. In the midst of my thoughts, I found the English floating from the table across from me rather comforting. I continued to munch and think, unsure of how to approach anyone or even what I was really doing. I stood up, ready to get back on my way, headed to the counter and so did one of the guys from the English-speaking table. We made some small talk at the counter. Being that we were conversing in common Midwestern English, it did not take long for him to ask me where I was from.

Now being from a small town in the Midwest, I am no stranger to the “Idaho” and “Ohio” interpretation of Iowa. So whenever I am asked where I am from I always start with the States then proceed to the Midwest, and then if the other half to the conversation seems to be tracking I finally answer with Iowa. After working through this answer, all the while this stranger nodding along, he looked at me as his three other travel companions joined us and he asked, “Well where in Iowa?”

A little taken back, I answered with the typical, “Des Moines area, you know central, the capitol.” With even wider, eager eyes and ears perked up like dogs all four guys leaned in and asked, “Yah, but like, where at in Des Moines?”

I thought back to all those articles I had read about women traveling alone in a foreign country and decided to ignore them and all my mother’s good teaching so I answered, “Grimes, it is a little town northwest of Des Moines.”

 

“NO WAY!” [insert gasps and random noises of disbelief as I stood rather confused]  

“Uh, yah I really do live there,” was my quizzical response. I finally took in all their enthusiasm as I took a better look at the four similar aged men who stood in front of me and recognized the high school shirt one of them sported. I joined in the astonishment.

With the widest of smiles they introduced themselves and finally answered that they all had attended Dowling Catholic and lived in surrounding towns. We even have mutual friends. I am sure our loud enthusiasm earned us some sideways glances and a few mumbled ‘Americans’, but nothing could stop the cheesy smile stretched across my face. Here I have traveled across an ocean only to meet and continue to travel along side four guys who lived just over the fence of my back yard.

Meeting and getting to know these four guys brought me more encouragement then they could ever know. The rest of the day I replayed our encounter with every step I took. As the days wore on, my enthusiasm rose and fell with every hill, but I got out of bed each morning encouraged, knowing I would see their familiar faces, and many others, around whichever foreign town we stopped in for the night. An hour and a half into my Camino and I had gained four friends; seven days later I had four brothers, a close sisters, and many others whom I will forever consider family. 

Buen Camino

First Steps

The Camino was one of the hardest things I have ever done- physically, mentally, spiritually. Before I completely dive in off the high board, we need to first get your uncalloused toes a little wet. First thing first, I still have many unprocessed thoughts in regards to my experience, so much of what I have to say will not be written well or even written here at all. Second, the Camino is unique to all who walk it, so I am in no way trying to tell you how to walk the Camino, or even the typical experience of a pilgrim. (Spoiler: no such thing exists.) 

Lastly, this post has been days, almost weeks, in the making and is not even a complete post. I wrestled with how best to invite you, my reader, into my Camino experience. I could give you the facts, the times I woke up, who I met, how far I walked, what I ate, and where I slept. While yes that sounds like a boring list, often the setting becomes another character in the story. Would it be best to post chronologically, a diary entry, merely pictures, just words, high light reel, or raw emotion. I wrote some of each but was never able to complete the... I could invite you into my daily thoughts and talks with God while walking, but words often fail at describing... 

So this is far from a complete post. It is rough, wobbly, a little awkward at times maybe, but that is how we all must start. I invited you on this walk with me long ago, so all we can do is continue step by step. Within each step is triumph and failure and a lesson to be learned. I learned about blister care, self-care, culture, community, more about who God is, and more about who I am. Although I am done walking on the Camino, I am still learning to take steps in light of the Camino. One day I may learn to run, but I am sure there will be many more stumbles in the weeks and months to come.

 

However, for now, I can tell you what I hope this space can be. I imagine there being some factual aspects and many deeper thoughts, both characteristic of the Camino. One thing I am positive of, is that there will be many café con lechés poured into these posts. Most of all I hope this will be a place to share stories of joy and struggle, a place to share pictures of beauty and ugliness, and a place to invite you into my Camino.

¡Buen Camino!

The Way

Why? Why and I walking the Camino? 
I have prepared and planned and now it is here. My bag is packed and I am on my way. Santiago is behind me but soon will become my destination. As the kilometer tick away my heart and mind race competing for control. My mind racing from concerning thoughts to encouraging words. My heart beats rising and falling in melody of worry, excitement, confidence and anticipation. 

In my two days since arriving in Santiago, I've settled into the apartment a bit. I've got a room to myself with a futon that was all set up thanks to my new Wheaton friends. They have, and continue to l, make this whole "independent" (read: alone) thing a whole lot less lonely. On the brink of becoming accustomed to a new normal I had to leave. I am prepared for this adventure, I think, but ready or not I am going. 

A flaw in my planning was failing to purchase a guide book. I understand no all pilgrims use one but having it previously would have at least made my mom a little more at ease (who wants to bet she goes and looks at one after reading this?). But I have heard a saying "The Camino provides" and already my new roommates have jumped in offering one of theirs, written by John Brierley . Now, I believe, I am prepared physically anyways. But am I spiritually? 

Last night during our dinner of homemade burgers and fries (proudly named Freedom Feast) I was asked the weighted question why are you walking the Camino? My response was a deer in the headlights look on my face. I had thought some about it but I realized I had no good answer. With a chuckle I was assured it would not be the last time I was asked such a question and was told, with great wisdom, to think and pray on it. 

So here I am, less than 24 hours later still thinking, praying and searching for an answer for me. The answers I have arrived at have left me just shy of feeling guilty. Here I am in a foreign country sent by friends, family, and my faith to work and serve others yet my reasoning for deciding this location, to walk the Camino, could be found under the definition of selfish. 

I came to Spain for a new experience, a new challenge, and for new stories. I am walking the Camino to simply get myself from point A to point B day after day. I am walking for a break from working with youth. I am walking to distance myself from the normal of my world, to find my way. I am walking to find rest. The irony is not lost on me to say I'm going on a 155 km backpacking adventure to find rest. It may sound a little backwards, but so did Jesus when He said the first shall be last and the least the greatest. I am walking to find rest, to take a break, in hopes of becoming a little bit more like Jesus. The Way for me is Jesus. I am simply must begin.