A Prayer with a blessing for the Ashes that were once a Home

in front of their home destroyed by the Eaton Fire

on the occasion of their first visit to the ashes

A reading from the book of Jeremiah (30:18)

This is what the LORD says: “’I will restore the fortunes of Jacob’s tents and have compassion on his dwellings; the city will be rebuilt on her ruins, and the palace will stand in its proper place.”

——

O God of mercy and restoration,
God of compassion
who blesses the broken in spirit,
we stand before the ruins and ashes
of what was once a home—
a place of shelter,
of love,
of family,
of friends,
of laughter,
of memories.

The flames have taken so much,
and our hearts are heavy with loss.

Yet even in the midst of destruction,
in the midst of our despair,
we turn to You,
for You are our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.

You have walked with Your people
through fire and flood,
through wilderness and storm,
and You are with us now.

Hold us, Lord.
Hold us all in Your tender care.
Comfort those who grieve what has been lost.
Give strength to rebuild,
to renew,
to reimagine.
Give courage to take the next steps.
Grant us faith to trust that new beginnings are always possible in You.

🙏🏽 (sprinkling holy water on the ashes)

Bless this ground, this holy fertile soil.
Bless the plants and animals
that spring from this garden.
Bless all who have called it home.

🙏🏽 

Let love rise once again from these ashes.
Make the bonds of family and community
stronger than ever.
Though the fire has consumed
businesses, worship spaces, parks, and homes,
the fire has not taken away hope.
The fire has not taken away kindness.
The fire has not taken away Your presence among us.
For we know you are here
beside us
on this Camino.

We entrust our future into Your hands,
knowing that You make all things new.

In Christ's name, we pray.
Amen. 

by The Rev. Mel Soriano

The Key to the Door that No Longer Exists

I hold a key in my hand. It is worn, familiar, shaped by years of turning in a lock to a big wooden door that we picked ourselves.

A door that no longer exists. 

This was the key to our home — one of thousands of homes that burned down in the Altadena fire. A home that held love, laughter, the quiet and serenity that comes with the predictable rhythm of daily life. A home that welcomed neighbors, gathered family, bore witness to my faith journey.

Now, it is a key without a door.

There is something sacred about a home. Not just the walls and the roof, but the space it holds for calm, for safety, for memories. This key once opened more than just a door; for 17 years, it opened a deeply personal world. A world where meals were shared, where many joined in prayer, where friends knew they were welcome.

Gone now. Reduced to ashes and twisted metal. And yet, something remains.

A house can burn down, but love does not. Walls can fall, but the stories continue on. The loss is real, the grief is heavy, but even in the ashes, I find myself searching for embers of hope.

In many ways, this key reminds me of my journey on the Camino de Santiago. I have walked that sacred path six times and Stephen did twice, carrying only what I needed, letting go of what I did not. On the Camino, you learn quickly that everything is temporary — your aching feet, the changing landscapes, the people who walk beside you for a time and then move on.

And yet, you also learn that God is present in every step. That what you carry is less important than what carries you. That the journey itself — more than the destination — is what transforms. 

Now, we find ourselves on another kind of Camino. Not one of our choosing, but one we must walk nonetheless. The road of pain, of loss, of rebuilding, of making a house a home again. We will take this journey of healing and restoration. We know that the path may be wet with tears, AND we will also bask in the warmth and joy that come from relationships with our family, with friends, with our church, with ourselves. 

This key once turned, once clicked, once opened
The sound of welcome, the weight of home.
Now it rests in my hand, cold and still,
A ghost of a threshold, a memory of stone.

But love is not locked, nor bound, nor lost,
It lingers in laughter, in voices that call.
A door may be gone, but the home it held
Still rises like dawn, unbroken, tall.

So what now? Where does one go when the door no longer stands?

I go to the table, where bread is broken and hands are held. I go to my community, where grace is lived out in kindness and generosity. I go to my faith, which tells me that even in loss, God is near.

Maybe this key is no longer meant to open a door. Maybe it is meant to remind me that home is never just a place—it is the people we love, the stories we tell, the faith we carry forward.

And maybe, just maybe, this key—this small, weighty thing—still unlocks something. Not a house, but a deeper truth:

That love endures. That hope rises. That we are never truly without home, as long as we journey together. This is the key to the door that no longer exists.  

Ashes to Ashes

We are alive. We are safe. We are grateful that we are surrounded by so many loving people. God has been kind to fill our lives with love. We are staying at my brother’s ADU (accessory dwelling unit, i.e., a bonus apartment built from part of the garage) in Arcadia for the foreseeable future.

AND, we lost our house to the Eaton Fire, as did so many people we know in Altadena. We found out on the first morning of the fire, January 8, while bringing food to and helping the evacuees at All Saints Pasadena. We were shocked and devastated, and we could not have found out in a better way. We could have found out while we were alone. Instead, we were surrounded by others who were experiencing similar tragedies and going through similar traumas. We were walking this Camino with them, and we were not alone. We were enfolded in love immediately - by All Saints, by St John’s Cathedral, by our families. And in the ensuing days, Stephen's school, Sierra Madre Elementary, has supported and loved us, as well as the wider community, social network, and church.

We will miss our house of 17 years. Stephen and I loved that house and all the memories of family and holiday parties. We have so many memories of the bears and peacocks and parrots and hawks and coyotes and deer and raccoons and squirrels that would hang out in our yard. To me personally, I will miss most the casual walks and dinners and dog walks and summer concerts-in-the-park with our neighbors, at least for now. Altadena is a remarkable place. It is diverse, quirky, working class all the way to affluent. Altadena is home to priests and artists and horses and goats and chickens and teachers. The retired and children live side by side and in the same households. A number of residences shared driveways. And, thankfully, most of us survived and were not harmed. To me, it's the people and their delightful way of enjoying being alive that makes Altadena so special. It's the people. It's the relationships. It's the smiles. That's what made our house a home.

So, we may have lost the house, but our home will be wherever we are.

Join us in prayer. Lord, offer compassion and unimaginable grace to those displaced or challenged by these fires, and bring calm to those who need your merciful peace.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

This was posted on the Facebook account of the Episcopal AsiaAmerica Ministry page. I was asked to offer a few words on National Coming Out Day.

---

In honor of National Coming Out Day,
we are proud to feature an article written
by The Rev. Melvin Soriano, Priest Associate at St. John's Cathedral
and Associate Chaplain of Canterbury USC. 
He is also a convener of
"The Gathering: A Space for Asian-American Spirituality" in the Diocese of Los Angeles.

On this National Coming Out Day, what does it mean to stand at the intersection of multiple identities: as a Filipino immigrant, a gay man, and a priest in the Episcopal Church? Each of these identities shapes who I am, but the beauty of intersectionality is that these facets are not separate—they intertwine to tell a fuller, richer story.

As a Filipino immigrant, my identity is shaped by a culture that values family, community, and spirituality. I carry with me the history, the struggles, and the beauty of my homeland. But being an immigrant means that I also carry the experience of dislocation, as my parents brought us to establish a new home in a foreign land. The journey of migration often involves navigating feelings of loss and searching for belonging in a new culture. But, as immigrants, we also encounter challenges of racism, exclusion, and misunderstanding. Even within faith communities, there can be a tension between holding on to our cultural heritage and integrating into a predominantly Western environment. The Episcopal Church, with its inclusive theology, offers a space that invites diversity, yet I, and others like me, must still navigate what it means to be fully seen as both an immigrant and a child of God in a predominantly white church.

For many of us who are LGBTQIA, coming out depends on whether we ever feel safe and supported enough to actually come out. The choice to come out is met with fear of rejection, or shame, especially when it comes at the potential cost of rejection both from your original culture and the new one. The Episcopal Church should be a space that is radically inclusive, embracing the dignity of LGBTQIA+ people. And yet, the journey here was not simple. There are still places within the wider Church and throughout this country where our love and identity are questioned. Coming out as gay in a world that often marginalizes us takes courage. The action says: “I am here, I am worthy, and I am beloved.” It’s also a testimony of faith. We claim our faith by stepping into the light, finally letting our authentic selves be seen. We claim the truth that God loves us as we are and that the gospel speaks to all people.

But the challenges of the intersection between culture and sexuality pose multiple problems. The most obvious problem is invisibility and silence. For many queer people of color, particularly in immigrant communities, being LGBTQIA+ is never discussed. Heteronormative standards are upheld to maintain the image of the model family, to avoid shame, and to reduce the potential for any more bigotry. This can lead to a sense of invisibility and loneliness as if parts of us must be erased to be accepted.

Moreover, we contend with cultural tensions. For Asian immigrants, the strong sense of duty to family and cultural expectations often clashes with the journey of coming out. In many Asian cultures, there is deep respect for elders and tradition, and being gay can sometimes be seen as challenging those norms. Coming out can feel like an attack on this identity. 

These problems are not just our own here in the USA. Supported by Episcopal AsiaAmerica Ministry (EAM),  I attended a conference in Bangkok whose participants were Asian LGBTQIA+ Christian clergy coming from churches of Asia and the USA earlier this year. Some attendees came from places where their LGBTQIA identities would be disapproved, and they had to refrain from social media lest they be involuntarily outed. We shared stories, struggles, and joys. Our experiences and stories were universal as well as unique to our particular context. One young man felt so comfortable being out while studying theology at university in another country and feared returning home because it could force him to be silent once more. 

Coming out is not just about declaring sexual orientation or gender identity; it’s about embracing the fullness of who we are. When I stand in the pulpit as a Filipino immigrant and a gay man, I am not just telling a personal story; I am telling the story of many who have struggled to be seen, to be heard, and to be loved. When we can come out safely, we do so knowing that we live in a beloved community of love, trust, and support. Because the power of this day is that it is a show of love and community around us. Truly, coming out is an act of love. It’s about loving ourselves enough to claim our identity. It’s about loving others enough to invite them into our truth. it is about letting others love us for exactly who we are. And, for us in the Episcopal Church, it is also an act of faith. By coming out, we trust that God has created all of us in divine love, that there is nothing about us that needs to be hidden or fixed. God’s grace shines within, from, and through our unique and diverse identities.

Psalm 139:14 reminds us to shout out “I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” This is the truth for all of us. Our immigrant stories, our queer identities, our spiritual journeys—they all bear witness to the wondrous creativity of God. So, today, I come out once again, not only as a gay man, not only as an immigrant, not only as a person of faith, but as all of these, all at once. I claim them all. And if you're able, if you're ready, I invite you to claim your own identities, knowing that each part of you is a blessing, a different facet, a unique reflection of God’s image, and a testimony to the beautiful diversity that we see as God's bountiful creation.

So whoever you are and wherever you are on your journey, come out and join us. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. There is room in God's kingdom for all of us.

End of Camino of Shalom

I did not know what to expect from this Camino for myself. There was one expectation from the very beginning. I decided to return for this sixth Camino because my first one confirmed to me that I had a call to a vocation of ministry. This Camino began one month after graduation from seminary and one day after ordination to the diaconate. By January, I will be ordained a priest. It seemed so appropriate that during these six months while I serve as a deacon, a minister who serves those out in the community, I would be on the Camino walking beside other pilgrims.

One of the things I found most surprising was that people's tone or conversation shifted slightly when they learned you were ordained. I don't know if it's intentional, but most people reacted in ways unique to their own personal histories. Some shared more, some grew reserved, and some stopped using swear words. My mentors in this process had told me that life would be different after ordination, but I did not expect it to happen while I was still on Camino.

But the people, oh the people. So many deeply moving stories and thoughts were shared, both within the group and outside the group. Each personal experience is divine and unique and they grace us when pilgrims share them with each other. So though the arc of this Camino may resemble that of prior Caminos, the people we meet on the way shape the journey. I am the type to think "we were meant to meet this day, this moment." 

Will there be a seventh Camino? I don't know yet. I truly thought I might be done after five. If anything, I am somewhat drawn to the possibility of walking on the Le Puy / Chemin de Saint Jacques in France. But much will depend on where my ministry takes me. I just hope and expect that pilgrimage will be a part of wherever I am sent.

The yoke is on us - July 20

Today’s Mass reading seems so appropriate for our last night on the Camino.

Come to me, all you who labour and are overburdened, and I will give you rest. Shoulder my yoke and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. Yes, my yoke is easy and my burden light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

We walk this Camino carrying so much. We literally shoulder the weight of our packs. But we have been offered a way to ease our pain, and share it with the One who always walks beside us. The yoke is on us, if we let it. And we can ease our burden and, after all these weeks of walking, find our rest.

We end our Camino tomorrow. May we find the rest we seek.

Footbath - July 19

My feet are in 10 inches of water, a foot bath for pilgrims in the form of a pool / fountain. I am overlooking a beautiful valley growing all sorts of trees and some agriculture. And the restaurant lets us eat and drink at this spot.

Are pilgrims supposed to enjoying themselves like this? Should we be staying at simpler facilities, avoiding seeming luxuries? Some feel it’s wrong to stay at hotels when on Camino, and even though this is still an albergue (dorm), it’s still a bit fancy. Do we give this up in a penitential way?

I’m of the mindset that though we could, it’s not the point of Camino. We are trying to orient ourselves, move ourselves, understand ourselves. Maybe it means giving up anything that means luxury. But what if it’s not luxury that’s holding you back. As I mentioned yesterday, sometimes pilgrims are hungry on their pilgrimage. Hunger is not luxurious.

So we should all take a look at the ways we journey through life. Maybe we are addressing or concerned about the wrong things. Maybe we are avoiding something far more difficult to define, or something much harder that we may be avoiding entirely. Maybe we need to soak our feet in the waters that heals our wounds.

Hunger - July 18

Hunger is a serious problem that affects both entire populations as well as individuals in a bind. And that happened to me once in a while while living abroad as a student or when I was traveling by bicycle or backpack as a student in other countries. It is physically painful and impairs the mind and body. But it’s also rather embarrassing. One doesn’t admit to being hungry easily. 

So I was grateful when two pilgrims admitted that their funds were running low. They admitted it, and we could help them through these final days of the walk. They could have kept the need to themselves but they admitted to it when asked.

I wish we weren’t so concerned about basic human needs but we can’t anticipate every problem. And money doesn’t grow on trees. If we can’t be honest about our need for food, how can we be honest about needing more difficult things like jobs, healthcare, or even love? At the very least, we need to take pride out of the equation and be able to say that we need to be fed when we hunger.

And while we are at it, maybe we can voice our hunger for justice and grace when we need it most.

Stop in the name of love - July 17

He said “STOP!” 

He held up his hand, while wearing a white helmet and clothed in civilian street clothes. And he looked straight at me as I approached the street corner. And he said “STOP!”

The crowd of young men stared at me, wondering what I would do. They were all wearing T-shirts and either jeans or shorts. And they waited.

So I stopped.

And I smiled.

And the young men then asked the boy with his arm stretched out at me, “¿Y que?” (And what?) The boy said nothing. He was possibly impaired in some way, so he didn’t seem sure what else to do. So I walked around him and the crowd of Campus Crusaders who were playing imaginary catch with the boy, and I entered the pilgrim’s reception of a tiny albergue. It’s a volunteer run place that offers lemonade and bathrooms for pilgrims. The missionaries or volunteers stay for a week or more. Seven years ago, Stephen and I were surprised and grateful for a blessing given to us by the older women volunteers.

I thanked them for their hospitality.

And I thanked the boy for his special invitation to stop.

White noise - July 16

Most people talk about the enormous surge of pilgrims that walk from Sarria. The walk takes less than a week from here so it’s a great and popular Camino. And it’s well known that the increased noise and crowds mentally disrupt those who started earlier.

And…

The Camino is precious, a privilege, and a process. It’s a gift to be appreciated because not everyone can find the time to do it. I’m acutely aware that I am unusual for doing it multiple times.

And…

The Camino is overwhelmingly a white person’s journey.

Most people walking are Europeans or Americans. The surge of people that appear in Sarria are mostly American and Spaniards. That surge just makes the racial disparity even larger.

The folks who come from Africa are predominantly white people from South Africa. The few from Asia are predominantly Korean Christians, yet I’ve noticed that whatever meager number shows up has been held up as an example of how Koreans are flooding the Camino. 

I’m not saying what should change here. I’m merely observing something that often makes me feel uncomfortable. I am a rare pilgrim here, one that is rarer after Sarria. Nothing in my theology around pilgrimage supports this outcome. So why must it be so?

Why aren’t there scholarships to those who cannot afford to do this pilgrimage? Why isn’t there more desire to find God in everyone? Or am I just a clanging cymbal loudly?

Missing content - July 15

For only the second time on this Camino, we had to break out the rain ponchos. It rained almost the whole way up out to San Xil. Then thankfully it was lovely the rest of the day. 

But what I recall most was seeing Felix journaling as he sat at the edge of a pasture, watching the cows. The mist was getting heavy but it hadn’t quite started to rain. And he just seemed so content.

Not dismayed by the rain getting him or his book wet. Not seemingly interrupted. Not even really cognizant of the weather. He just seemed content.

One of my favorite cartoonists is Gary Larson who drew “The Far Side.” A wonderful pane that he published once was of a cow looking out the window somewhat forlornly, adorned in her pearls while her bull husband sat in a recliner, watching tv with a beer in hoof. And she turned to him saying “Wendell, I’m not content.”

Sort of a twist to the bucolic scene I saw.

I work at centering myself to be at that point. It’s very intentional. But I realized that he and many in the Camino find contentment very easily when out here. Things that bother us don’t throw us off the big picture. We aren’t just staring out the window. We are in the view, in the moment, in the now.

Contentment isn’t comfort. It’s often finding peace and beauty where others somehow miss it. And it’s not a static place, one where you park and stay. It’s a place to rest and move on. 

Felix moved on, as I saw him later that morning. And I was content.

Twice as good - July 14

 I have been to the mountain top. And once again, on this trip and on my first Camino, I have been to the mountain top twice.

Both times I left behind something I needed. Last time was my wallet and credentials (you are supposed to show that you walked the Camino by getting stamps everyday along the way). This time I left my phone. The last time I needed to walk back up a couple kilometers. Not fun. This time I had to grab a cab in Triacastela to go back.

Mountaintops are astonishing. MLK uses it in his most famous speech because it implies that he could see far and wide. Mountain tops are where God is revealed. Or Christ is transfigured. They’re the pinnacle. The ultimate.

It seems weird to go twice.

But when you return, is it the same? Do you experience the mountaintop the same way? See the same things? Hear, feel, taste the same things? 

I think each time is a new moment, a new chance to experience the divine, a gift of a new epiphany. I was frustrated when these things happened to me. But in retrospect, maybe seeing things from the heavens twice wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Seeing is believing - July 13

I have gone up O Cebreiro multiple times, but I’ve never seen The Valley in its glorious splendor. That’s because I’ve always slogged my way up in the rain, mud on my face, sharing the trails with horses and their droppings. The best view I had was a misty one at the very top, with just maybe a kilometer of visibility. 

Yet friends shared glorious images in full sun. I’ve never had that. I often heard cow bells on the difficult walk up, but could never see the beautiful animals. I wondered if I ever would get to see this gorgeous land.

But today was sunny. And I saw it all. And it was beautiful. And once again I felt like it was a lesson. Not that patience or persistence will bear fruit. Many don’t have a chance to return after all. Not that I will be rewarded at the right time or when I was ready. 

My lesson is that the beauty was always there. I wanted it. I knew it. I was frustrated because I couldn’t see God’s handiwork. But that didn’t mean it didn’t exist. Through the mist, through the rain, through the fog, the beauty was, is, and always will be there.

I don’t need to see the beauty to appreciate it. I just need to believe that God creates beautiful things. I don’t need to see it to believe it. I can just know God created it, and it is good.

Optional route - July 12

There are multiple options on the Camino. Maybe you want to take a direct route next to a highway. Maybe you want the hilly quieter route. Both lead to the same destination but the distances and hills and food options may vary. Which way do you go?

There’s no right answer. Everyone has different priorities and values. The best route for one might be the worst for another. Choosing wisely for yourself means possibly choosing a different way than others.

We chose a route through vineyards today. It was beautiful. I’ve done both routes over the years and now prefer the agricultural route. It speaks of life, of beauty, of abundance. It’s not the fastest but it is more rich in life.

Choose wisely and choose that which fills you, even if it takes more time.

Setting it down - July 11

We set stones down at the Cruz de Fero. We spread ashes too. And, as prayers were being said, tears fell freely from our cheeks.

The ashes joined ashes I had previously spread. They joined ashes of countless others who did the same. We were alone and we were part of the community of the world. The breath of life brought us together in holy stillness and unity. 

Did the weight of carrying stones and ashes end? Yes. Did the weight of our grief end? Maybe yes, maybe no. Grief doesn’t magically disappear, not suddenly, perhaps not ever. But maybe, with prayer, spreading the ashes at the foot of the cross might just allow us to leave those heart aches and burdens to the One who heals, the One who reconciles, the One who carries us when we feel most left behind.

And maybe the drops from our tears can bring flowers in the spring, so that they may bring life and color in the grayest of days. May we set those tears down with the ashes and know that from these comes new life, a new way of being.

Struggle to get up - July 10

 It was a struggle to go up the mountain to the tiny village of Foncebadón. It usually is. The rocks on this mountain are pretty extensive and can cause the ankles and knees some stress. You really gotta drink a lot of water and go slow.

It also helps if we can help each other. One of us had overpacked her backpack and struggled to get up the mountain. Vanni from Italy saw this and offered to carry up a bag of items in a day pack. She filled his small pack and he carried it on his chest while carrying his own backpack. Together they were able to get her up the mountain.

Sometimes we don’t know how heavy our load is. We think we have it, we think we should be able to do it alone, we think there’s no alternative. But there’s always help. Our struggles don’t have to be alone. We can share the load and slowly, steadily find our way up.

Walk in it - July 9

On the way to Astorga, there was a donativo in the middle of the forest today. We have had them before but this one was especially comfortable and satisfying. In addition to the abundant food and beverages, there were sofa beds and even a labyrinth. A labyrinth! On Camino. A symbol of pilgrimage on an ancient pilgrimage. 

What a great gift for us. I grabbed some watermelon and walked the labyrinth, turning this way, turning that way. So much seems to have come to us unscripted since this pilgrimage began. So much has changed and so much was unexpected. And yet we continue onwards, following our journey wherever we may be guided. This walk within a walk underlined the need to trust and follow our path. There was something comforting about this labyrinth in the middle of the forest. We were invited to this pilgrimage. And despite the twists and turns, we walk in it.

Face to face - July 8, 2023

We took our latest and last planned rest day of this Camino in León. That means that we lose contact with all those people whom we met regularly since Burgos that chose not to take a rest day. They’re a village ahead of us now. Instead of their familiar faces, their beloved stories, we will meet some new faces, of people we will likely see for the rest of our Camino.

In addition to the shift that happens when you take a rest day, León is a popular start and stop spot for pilgrims. It’s about 300km from Santiago de Compostela which is about 2 weeks for most. It’s 3 weeks from St Jean Pied-de-Port and 1 week from Burgos. So if you want a one, two, or three week Camino, you can start or stop in León.

That convenience means people come and go. We saw so many new faces today, including three new ones from our own group. We wondered about faces that disappeared. Did they go home or did they continue onward without a rest day? If they went on, is there a chance we could see them again?

It’s often unstated but some of the most meaningful time on Camino is when we have personal conversations with each other. That face to face time, brief as it might be, gives us glimpses of each other is remarkable, transparent ways. But I do think that the transient nature of these conversations is an important part of the Camino. People can and go in our lives. The Camino helps show this to us, face to face.

Painful memories - July 6

The last time I walked into León, I waited for Stephen’s train to arrive. When we met after four weeks away, the longest we had been separated since we moved in together, I greeted him and asked if, after we check in at the hotel, he could take me to urgent care. 

That walk was so painful. My blisters were not only hurting but I felt that they might had gotten infected. A check by a medical professional seemed appropriate. I was walking so slowly. And retracing the steps of that day just reminded mw over and over what pain was like on a Camino. 

Thankfully my pains on this Camino are less severe and more manageable. But the wariness remains. I am more careful with each step. I might have more confidence when not injured, but the memories persist. They don’t go away.

Pain works that way it seems. We humans are built to remember pains so that we can learn to avoid the behaviors that cause them in the future. Sort of like positive punishment (not negative reinforcement) in psychology. 

I wish I didn’t remember these pains. I wish I didn’t remember all the emotional pains in my life either. And, from the stories I hear on Camino, it sounds like others are here because of a lot of emotional or spiritual pain. Unlike other forms of behavior, we might not have caused the psychological pain. So we are stuck remembering it without any easy way to learn from it or to seek closure.

I like to think that our Camino or spiritual journey helps us grasp this problem. By letting go of our pains, we don’t have to live in a fruitless psychological trap of positive punishment. We can remember that even though we cannot completely control our lives, we can turn at least to learn to trust again. The Camino provides, we say, and trust can break the grip of pain and punishment. Trust that the Camino provides.

Still haven’t found what I’m looking for - July 5, 2023

I ran into someone at the grocery store who I’ve met previously. He will go past León and continue. He’s not taking a rest day or doing anything other than walking and being with others. And, though he’s walked this Camino before, he still is searching for something right now. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but he’s searching. I pray with and for him as a song from the 1980s comes into my head…

I have climbed highest mountains
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you
I have run
I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
These city walls
Only to be with you

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing in her fingertips
It burned like fire
This burning desire

I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

I believe in the kingdom come
Then all the colors will bleed into one
Bleed into one
But yes I'm still running

You broke the bonds
And you loosed the chains
Carried the cross
Of my shame
Oh my shame
You know I believe it

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

Unintentions- July 4, 2023

I was thinking about how we don’t realize sometimes that our actions can have effects or consequences far longer than we realize. Then last yesterday’s walk made it really obvious.

First, I was grumpily complaining that they made yet another change to the Camino route on our leg, this time out of Terradillos de Los Templarios. Now it’s by the road.  It’s a lot less picturesque for the sake of shorter distances and shade, and a whole lot noisier. You no longer walk through the sunflower fields but on the edge of them. But given the sunrise hour, we were actually able to take gorgeous photos with the sun shining on them rather than backlighting most of them. It made for much better photos. Both the change and the timing were unexpected pluses as it turns out.

Then when we arrived in San Nicolás, pilgrim Felix started chatting with me. He explained that he was touched quite a lot by Deb, a friend of mine in our group. Moreover, he was surprised and given much hope and much to think about because he saw and heard my husband and I in the convent singalong in Carrion de Los Condes. My husband pointed out that I was his husband during introductions and I mentioned that I was walking as a celebration of ordination. I didn’t fully realize that our transparency would have such an effect on someone sitting in that room.

Later, we walked under thick shade to Bercianos. When I last walked this stretch a decade ago, the sun was mercilessly shining on my head, as the trees were still just saplings. What a joyful relief! The planters certainly were offering shade for future pilgrims, but perhaps they didn’t realize that one day their action gave me such hope.

They did something that didn’t produce results until years later.

Maybe they never saw the results of their actions.

Their actions brought not just relief but also joy.

We may not know how our actions can affect others tomorrow or one day in the future, but if we do them in love, in fellowship, and in compassion, we can unintentionally bring joy. Unintentionally give hope. Unintentionally offer a blessing.

Life on the streets - July 3, 2023

Nothing reminds me that I’m getting older than having to get up multiple times at night to use the restroom. 

Processes that seemed easy to manage have become more challenging. So what a coincidence that my birthday fell on this leg of the Camino Frances. There is no restroom after leaving Carrion de Los Condes for 17km. That’s 3.5 hours minimum. I wouldn’t have batted an eye when I was younger but now know that a potentially 4-4.5 hour walk could mean finding an infrequent tree in case of an emergency.

It’s a real issue on the Camino. And it’s an issue for all of us as we get older. This can create anxious moments. But it’s natural and we should try to show kindness to those who might have problems. 

So today was a reminder that so many people live in conditions without access to toilets. The tent cities all over the USA are not adequately served. May we remember that our struggle is the same one held by those out in the streets and we need to find ways of making their plight less painful and more dignified.

YMCA - July 2, 2023

 It’s fun to stay at the YMCA! 🎵🎶

That song was playing in the restaurant where my group had dinner last night. And hilariously, spontaneously, every single one of us put out utensils down at the same time, at the right time, and did the arm motions that spelled out Y M C A.

Even more fun was that other pilgrims in the dining room were watching us groove and move our shoulders to the music. They KNEW what was going to happen before we even did. And they smiled and laughed with us. They weren’t Americans but they saw what was apparently an American custom.

We don’t all have to come from the same place or eat the same food or sing the same songs. And we can appreciate the sheer joy of others without judgment. We can smile with them and be joyful in our shared humanity.

From Easter - July 1, 2023

Julz is from Australia (and New Zealand and ancestrally from Samoa), and she has been teaching Stephen Aussie slang. She also doesn’t speak Spanish so I’ve been helping her pronounce some of the towns and words. This day, we walked to the town Frómista, which is sort of pronounced “From Easter” with an Aussie accent. 

Language is tricky. I am always amazed at how much English people know. Here on Camino, people come from all over the world hoping to get by on Español or English. But no matter where we are from, no matter the language, we come with hope, with a sense of adventure, with a desire for something new. We want our lives made new by Camino . We yearn for it.

So maybe without many fully realizing it, we pilgrims are all pretty much an Easter people, seeking life made new. And we all want to walk “From Easter.”

Waiting for Gorgeous - June 30, 2023

I wanted this section of the Camino so bad. I remembered how gorgeous the flowers were last time I walked this way. I was hoping it wasn’t a fluke.

And the flowers, especially the amazing red poppies, were present and beautiful. And, I realized that in the abundance around me, it wasn’t enough. I knew there was potential for more beauty. I had a glimpse of it once. So what was it I really wanted?

And I realized that night, as we slept in the bottom floor of a nearly empty ancient albergue in Castrojeriz, that Heaven on earth was all I wanted. Is that too much to ask for? I wanted unparalleled beauty and peace, with the lion sitting next to the lamb. Where death has no hold on us and we don’t have to time our visits to flower fields.

I know waiting is part of our lives on earth. I’ve gotten used to it. It’s worth the work to till the soil until we get that piece of Heaven, to forever be living in the gorgeous.

That hits the spot - June 29, 2023

Yesterday was a rest day in Burgos and we resumed walking today. It was a rather easy day, perhaps the easiest so far. The temperature was cooler than normal. But most importantly, I found the spot where I had a moment at a fuente with Silvia from Italy. That story is elsewhere in my blog. I found the spot where it happened, but it was interesting that the oasis is no longer used. The fuente was dismantled. The sign was taken down.

At least nobody will be misled to think water was present. But it did seem to point out how much we need water in our lives. And not just any water, but the water that is potable. Water that we need. Water that sustains us.

This planet is mostly water yet we thirst. The abundance is everywhere yet we are parched. And most of the time, as the Camino teaches all new pilgrims, we don’t realize how thirsty we are. We get dizzy from thirst.

But the Way invites us to fill up and fill others with all that quenches them, with all that brings joy. Fill yourself with life giving waters. And help fill those who thirst. Let all who are thirsty come.

Lost - June 27

I couldn’t find the labyrinths. There was one just before Ages and one just before the top of the peak out of Atapuerca. I walked them before and I couldn’t find them. I lost them.

Later, we got lost. Somehow we got on the optional route that frankly was unappealing. I wanted to walk by the river into Burgos not the industrial sections. We did get to run into the Irish grandparents and their grandson. They made the same mistake. And later I found that all of us had made that mistake. Maybe we were not lost . Maybe we were on a new route.

So maybe I wasn’t lost.

And maybe I didn’t lose the labyrinths. Maybe it was time for them to be taken apart. Or to be moved. Maybe it was time to say goodbye.

New things might leave us feeling lost. But they can also be an invitation to see things anew.

Stand in the forest - June 26

The walk from San Juan de Ortega started out cold and misty. We all were able to bump into each other and have a nice breakfast at Espinosa and again snack at Villafrancs de Oca. 

But I get a little uneasy going over the mountain here. It’s a place where hundreds of bodies were dumped during the Spanish civil war. To me, you feel raw pain as you walk through. It’s beautiful yes. But there’s a sadness that hangs in the air, and it haunts the walk. I feel frozen in place there, standing in sad awe of the history. I wonder why others don’t feel it. Maybe they do feel it, but it doesn’t weigh on them like it does me. Or maybe I’m just over sensitive. But death means more than the ending of a life to me. There’s ceremony and remembrance. Closure often comes from this. Without it, a hold is left gaping in the heart.

Thankfully, we move past this area and see the donativo woman of the forest. It now has warmed up and gotten sunny. She and her dogs welcome pilgrims year round. Most interestingly, her food stand is surrounded by wood totems. They’re alive with mirth and humor. 

What a contrast! Flesh turned to dust giving a feeling of sadness while wood painted to resemble flesh brings joy. All on the same mountain plateau. I hope that the souls rest in holy peace and that the families who visit that place find comfort at the food stand in the forest.

Let them beat as one - June 25

 I like to be in conversations with people. I enjoy the back and forth. And talking is a part of that dynamic. Sometimes in albergues, the dinners get pretty loud. It’s especially loud when people are communicating in second languages and everyone has to enunciate louder and clearer. Everyone ends up talking over the other rather than just with each other.

Which means if you are NEXT to such a table having an otherwise quiet conversation, it can get tough. This night, we enjoyed our dinner and conversation but much of our talk had to be repeated because of the loudness of the adjacent table. I’m happy that they speak with each other, but it did make it tough for me, with hearing issues, to focus. It seemed like a little quietness would have helped.

But I never want to suppress the conversation. Let it flow! If there were a choice between silence and overly loud talk, I’ll choose talk. We sit at tables with each other, some of whom we don’t know. We are at public dinners partly because we spend much of the day walking in silence. It’s nice to mix. It’s part of the Camino experience.

I have watched some members of my Camino group really getting into meaningful conversations with others. That’s a noise a celebrate. That’s no cymbal clanging loudly to no effect. It’s a sound of two heartbeats synchronizing. Let them beat as one.

Choose slow - June 24

Slowing down was not a normal strategy for me on Camino . Blisters are the only guaranteed way to make me remember to slow down. Physical pain in other words. But I also recognize and advise people to slow down. You have more time to process, more ways to see things, more time to ingest all that you see. 

In some ways, we speed through the Camino in just the same way we go through life. We have limited time, we want to maximize material events, we try to acquire more activities. It’s the temporal equivalent to hoarding things or money. 

But you cannot hoard time. You just end up sitting and waiting. Or you stop taking input sooner, possibly reducing opportunities to learn more, feel more, experience more.

I met Daniel on this stretch 7 years ago. And I wanted to be with him. But he walked very slowly with his crutches. So it meant I had to slow down if I wanted to walk with him. 

I see now that this was a complete blessing for me. He helped me find joy in slowing down. He made it my choice and my choice was for joy.

If I could only remember this every moment of every day. But that’s a work in progress. With luck, I can recognize that with each step, I can choose joy.