Carry and Roll

Lent is upon us. Many of those who follow this blog will likely know that I'm rather enthusiastic about this liturgical season, this time of pilgrimage to Easter. It's an opportunity for deeper reflection about Jesus and His ministry, His humanity, His cross, His death, His resurrection, His holiness.  Like many of you, I do more reading, more walking, more thinking, more praying.

I'm sometimes asked what I usually do as Lenten disciplines. Many give up things. My husband still likes to give up sweets and chocolates. In addition to taking things on, I do tend to do these two things:

• I don't exceed the speed limit. Weird huh? Speeding is a given in Southern California; when there's no traffic, you zoom ahead. I do this because often times I do so because I'm in a hurry. Except, in truth, I'm not. If I were more considerate to myself and others, I would make enough time to get some place without speeding. And, I do think that my need for speed makes me focus on me and my desires more than on others and their needs. They've got busy schedules as well. So, I stay within the speed limit and work on loving those that pass me by.
• We eat out a few times a week. I try to limit my purchases during Lent. I usually spend around $15-20 including tax and tip when I eat out. So I try to limit myself to eating just appetizers and drinking water so with any money I can save, I can donate to the local homeless services.If I spend only $8, I can donate $12. Donating the cumulative amount during Easter brings this Lenten exercise to life.

So here's something I'll be trying this year. For those of you who recall my posts regarding the Cruz de Ferro, it's a custom to carry a stone along the Camino de Santiago (via the Camino Frances) to carry a stone. (Check out a prior Lenten meditation.) The stone represents anything and everything in your life that weighs you down, that holds you back, that hurts you as it rubs against you. And yet you carry it. Maybe you don't realize how much it's hurting you. Maybe you are afraid to set it down. Maybe you think you cannot live without it. Then, at this enormous iron cross just past Foncebadon Spain, you leave the stone at the foot of the cross. You may have carried it hundreds of miles on your Camino walk, and you finally put it down for Christ to carry.

So I invite you to join me on this practice.

Starting Wednesday, I'll carry a stone with me. I'll carry it everywhere I go. The only time I will put the stone down is during our Taize services, when I will place the stone on the cross. And after the service, I'll pick up the stone and continue to carry it. Whenever I feel it in my pocket, I can reflect on all the things in my life that weigh me down, that hold me back, that hurt me, and pray for the strength to let go of that stone, to leave that stone with Christ, to look forward to the day I can let it go.

And on Easter, like those who visited the tomb on the third day, I'll roll the stone away. I'll put the stone down at the foot of the cross and pray that I do so for all the things I thought about during Lent. And in doing so, I pray that I'll find new life.

So go outside, look for a small stone about an inch long. On Ash Wednesday, pick it up and begin carrying it every moment you're up and about, thinking about all the things that you carry every day of your life. 

If you see me, I'll have extra stones that I can give to you, so ask me.

And we can walk together, knowing that we have our stones, looking forward to the day we can be freed of the stones in our lives.

Sacred spaces

There are moments where many people from very different lives suddenly find themselves in emotional unity, in harmony, with hearts beating together. The distances between them can be short or they can span around the world. This week many experienced one of these moments as we saw a well-known Roman Catholic cathedral, the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, burn in flames.

It is entirely predictable that the French Roman Catholics were moved. It's part of the national identity. It's also very understandable that Roman Catholics around the world were touched by the unfolding tragedy. There are the many Francophiles around the world who are deeply saddened. Architect lovers. Historians. Many different peoples who would have been shocked by the fire.

It feels like a wide range of people were emotionally touched by this fire. It makes me appreciate the human need for beautiful places, quiet spots, sacred spaces. To some, such a space might be a cathedral. To others, a small chapel. To many I know, it could be in the wild country, the mountains, their garden. And to some, it could be a yoga mat, or window where the sunlight warms you as you sit quietly.

We all can be inspired by art or by music, by simple walls or by silence. These places and visions, scents and touches have a way of reaching deep into ourselves, giving us grace to think, to connect, to process. They also are highly personal. What works for me may not work for people close to me, even my own spouse. And that's ok. What resonates within us is part of our unique being.

To each of us, these places are special; they are sacred. They are sacred not because of a label or certificate, but because we consecrate them with our love and our intimacy with Creation and our Creator when we are there.

They are where we are invited to discover ourselves, see ourselves, be ourselves. They are where our core being floats to the surface, able to breathe in the air of life. We all need these places because our longing, our life energy, depends on a fertile ground to grow. Sacred spaces make space in our hearts and minds to discover the sacred within.

What if those places become destroyed, burned, and hidden? What if we move away? Are these places any less sacred? Are we bereft of the sacred when this happens?

All things return to dust. We certainly do. And special places cannot escape this truth of this world. It doesn't mean that we who remain behind cannot find meaning in the ashes. We can build ourselves a new space. We can give new life to a new place that in return gives life to us. We ourselves make a place sacred by discovering how that spot, that room, that wild open countryside changes us, reshaping us, reminding us of who we are.

Some places, like the Cathedral of Our Lady of Paris, were not on my radar as a sacred place to me. I didn't understand my emotional response. But when I looked inside, I had subconsciously found in those aged stones a foundation for my journeys. I began my backpacking journey through Europe, my first visit, as a college student. I attended daily mass there on various trips, by myself, with my parents, my ex, my husband, my nephews. I started my Taize pilgrimage from that Cathedral. I started my Camino from Lourdes to Santiago de Compostela by first visiting this Cathedral. I listened to the bells all night long -- every night -- on my last visit to the cathedral, as my AirBnB was a block away. I didn't intend to do so, but I had consecrated the cathedral because she invited me to share these special journeys with her.

What places have you 

intentionally or unintentionally 

made sacred with your love and presence?

May we always remember those places which invite us to feel alive, and may we be privileged to return to those places as often as we need.  In these sacred spaces, we are blessed by merely being present and we become one with the blessing that unites us all.

Sermon: Changing Directions

On March 24, 2019 I offered my first homily, at Westminster Gardens Retirement community’s Vespers service in Duarte, California. Below, you can find the scripture reading, the text of the homily, and an amateur video recording of the service.

I am awed by the way the Holy Spirit put words in my heart to share. The congregation was delightful and once the service began, I felt so... at peace. It felt like I had been doing this my whole life. I'll be forever grateful for Virginia and Edie's invitation to preach there.

Now there were some present at that time who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mixed with their sacrifices. Jesus answered, “Do you think that these Galileans were worse sinners than all the other Galileans because they suffered this way? I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish. Or those eighteen who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them—do you think they were more guilty than all the others living in Jerusalem? I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish.”  Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any. So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’ “ ‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.’ ” Luke‬ ‭13:1-9‬ ‭NIV

Good evening. My name is Melvin Soriano. Thank you so much the invitation to join you tonight. I’m a member of All Saints Episcopal in Pasadena and I bring communion to some of the residents here where we meet at Edie Hovey's home for fellowship every month. I’m grateful that I can share my heart and my thoughts with you, especially during this season of Lent as we journey towards Easter.

Lent is modeled on the 40 days that Jesus spent in the desert. It’s a time when we can look at ourselves, our spirituality, and the temptations in our lives that can lead us astray. For many people, it is a time to give up something, like chocolate or candy. I tend to give up things that act like chocolate or candy in my life, things that might feel good superficially but aren’t really nutritious. Sometimes instead of being sweet, the candy in our lives can be like stones; they’re don’t really bring you joy. You carry around what you think is sweet but you are actually carrying a stone: a stone in our shoe, in our pocket, in our hearts.

Like all stones, they weigh us down, they give us blisters. Lent gives us a chance to pause, stop, look inside our shoes, inside our pockets, inside our hearts and see if we’re carrying any of these stones with us. And we’re invited to downsize our lives, to put those stones down.

Let me share a story with you. I have walked the Camino de Santiago in Spain several times. That's a 1000 year old pilgrimage where people walk hundreds of miles from their homes to Santiago de Compostela Spain. Even St Francis of Assisi did it 800 years ago. You carry a backpack and follow arrows on the road, on the sides of buildings, and on signs to guide you through villages, forests, farms, and cities.

One of the customs of the pilgrimage is to carry a small stone with you across all those miles. When you’re trying to keep the weight of your backpack down, even a small pebble starts to feel like a boulder. I wrote my sorrows, regrets, broken relationships, and tearful memories on that stone and carried it hundreds of miles. Finally, at the foot of a large cross along the trail, I lay that stone down and asked that all the regrets and sorrows that I carried with me with every step be put down as well. In truth, we don’t do this just once because our lives go on, and we eventually find new stones in our shoes. So, we have to regularly look into our shoes and pockets to empty them out. We can do this every day, or every Sunday. We can also do a major spring cleaning during Lent.

Today’s scripture is all about putting down the stones in our lives. We are told to repent or we will all perish. Most people don’t like to talk about repentance. Most often, I see the word repent when I go to a sporting event or to the Rose parade and I see people holding up home-made signs that demand that we repent or burn. It's a shame that many react negatively to these signs, because the idea behind repentance isn't about shaming or accusing.

Jesus is pointing out at the very beginning of this reading that bad things can happen to anyone at any time. Accidents happen; death happens. But he’s not saying that it happens to people because we sin. He says twice, “I tell you No.” Bad things happen all the time, but Jesus zeros in on whether we repent. You can get sick, break a hip, have towers fall on top of you. Jesus says no, victims are not worse sinners.

Now we sometimes judge. When we see bad things happen to someone, we’re pretty quick to judge that maybe they did something bad. Maybe someone got into an accident because they like to go out late at night. Or maybe someone got sick because they smoked and drank for years. And you know who we judge the harshest sometimes? Ourselves. Our bodies. Our looks. Our families. Our lives. But Jesus here says “No.” We should not judge anyone, much less for things that can’t be controlled. In this passage he’s saying that what matters is that we repent.

I think that too many people fear the word repent. It’s been turned in its meaning to control our behavior, to make us feel shame, to make us do what other humans – not God, not Jesus – what other people want us to do.

The original scripture doesn’t use our modern word repent. Instead, the original Greek uses the word metanoia. Metanoia means something more like change of mind, re-orientation, reformation. It’s not at all filled with judgment but a simple reality check. You just need to change directions. It's like the mobile phone apps that give directions. It’s not judging you because you’re lost. It’s just saying, “You’ve wandered off course.” When Jesus talks about us repenting, he's not trying to make a threat. He’s making an observation.

Jesus is just pointing out, in a spirit of compassion and love, that we may be lost, whether we recognize it or not. I’m sure you’ve sat in a car wondering where am I? You could be lost but you’re not sure. In our pride, we often just keep going on, unwilling to pull over. God forbid we stop and ask for directions.

We’re told by Jesus that the consequence of not changing directions is perishing. We tend to think of perishing as a synonym for death. But the original Greek scripture has another definition, which English also has. Perishing can also mean lost, as in a hundred lives were lost. This definition is about being missing, missing from us, missing from God. It's actually the same word that's used when Jesus talks about the lost sheep. He is the shepherd to the lost. This scripture reading is saying that we don't have to be like lost sheep. We can recognize that we’re lost, and let the shepherd guide us home.

Let me share another story from the Camino. I met another pilgrim, a woman in a small village. We began to walk together and learn about each other. Susan was from Georgia, in her 40s, had lost her job, and decided to walk this pilgrimage to find meaning in her life. We were having a great walk together when silence fell upon us. We realized that we hadn't seen a sign in quite a while. We were in a field somewhere in Spain, lost. We began to search. We had to backtrack. About 45 minutes later, we got to a fork in the road and realized we followed the main path but that the arrows pointed in a different direction, towards a smaller, less obvious trail. We were able to right ourselves and continue walking with the other pilgrims.

Susan and I got along so well. We were happily chatting away and didn't feel lost at all. But we had lost sight of the signs that were guiding us. We got so caught up in making a new friend on the pilgrimage that we had followed a popular, well-used path, but that path that wasn't meant for us. This wasn’t the first time I’ve had to change paths; it certainly wasn’t the last. I’m trying to change paths every day when I can remember.

The scripture reading ends with a short parable that Jesus told to give us hope. We have a tree that seemed destined to be taken down. The owner wants to remove it but instead, the tree is given a second chance to bear fruit.

It's a parable of compassion, of mercy. It says that even though things can go wrong that doesn't condemn us to being chopped down. There's still time. We don’t have an unlimited time, because accidents can happen. We all can die at any moment. But there is time to nurture, to fertilize. There’s time to feed the tree with live-giving water.

We can change directions in our lives. And moreover, we can change the direction of life for someone else too. That tree could not change its directions on its own. But the Good Gardener could. The gardener could work with the tree and help the tree become fruitful. We too can help hopeless, fruitless situations all around us, helping others by feeding, nurturing, and watering those that hunger for the chance to be fruitful.

We don't have to be lost. Not if we can pay attention to what we're doing, where we're heading, what signs we're missing. We can look at our steps and see if there's another way forward. We can put down the stones that burden us and turn our attention to what really matters. And like the Good Gardener, we can feed the trees in our lives – including our own - that hunger to be fruitful.

Recording of the service

Angels By Our Side

I'm often asked about what I discover while walking along Spain's Camino de Santiago. I say that it's the people I meet that show me what I seek. It's not about me, my thoughts, the flowers, or sights. I learn and grow because of the relationships, short or long-lasting. The universe calms you on the walk and in the wild, quiets you down so that you can really meet people and listen to them, be present with them. And in doing so, well, in doing so that's really how I feel like I'm in touch with God.

In the 600 mile walk in 2016, besides my husband Stephen who joined me on the final 200 miles, I can say that I found three people who most influenced me. Three people who I view as messengers in my life. Angels really.

The first came to me during my most fearful moments in decades. I held back tears and panic because I was afraid that I would die of exposure while crossing the Pyrenees. I thought I had such good fortune because just when I thought, with the hot temperatures, my hyperextended hip could not get me over the mountains, I saw a luggage transport van which took my backpack to my destination. Unfortunately, in my haste, I grabbed almost everything I needed for the daypack I retained, everything except my jacket. As the clouds came, the temperature plunged, the rains attacked, and painful hail poured down for two hours, shredding my poncho and leaving me basically with just my daypack and quick-dry T-shirt. I could barely see past the fog and my steam-covered eyeglasses, where the trail twisted and where the cliffs threatened.

A figure came from behind me. I only saw his chin peeking out from his hat, a chin where my immediate reaction was "Oh, looks like the guy who starred in Jesus Christ Superstar". He asked me in an accent how I was and I responded with "cold, frightened." This young man just smiled, saying "You'll be fine. Where are you going?" I answered "To Roncesvalles (on the other side of the Pyrenees Mountains 15km away)". Calmly smiling, he said, "I'll see you on the other side" and continued walking into the foggy hail. For some reason, this was weirdly re-assuring. Better yet, he wore a fluorescent red poncho, a colour so bright that I could actually see it through the fog and follow him along the unseen trail. I followed the young man into the swirling fog and hail, somehow comforted, somehow feeling safe, somehow confident. I wept as the hail stopped and I made it to the monastery which would house me, skipped dinner, and just slept.

I was back on the trail the next morning when someone placed a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see him once again, and he said that he knew I would make it. We smiled and he walked with me the whole day. We broke bread together on a mountain top. When I found out that his name was Thore, after the Norse God of storms and protection, my jaw dropped.

The next person who deeply touched me appeared after Pamplona. I had been upset and fearful that my blisters, earned from wet feet and the struggle over the Pyrenees, would impair me. For now, I was doing better. And I came across a person who simply radiated love. In fact, almost every person who ever met Daniel from Oxford described his intensely caring eyes and his beautiful affection for everyone he met. He was astonishingly humble, touching almost everyone he met. We talked and walked all day, breaking bread at dinner and the next day at breakfast. He was thrilled that I started in Lourdes and had some of the water that some say is filled with miraculous healing power. I brought the water to share with those on the Camino. He took a sip and I rubbed some into his hands.

And he did this while walking on crutches. You didn't notice them after you talked with him; you stopped seeing his bruised hands and feet. The reality was that his life-long condition slowed him down to just over 1-2 mph and it would take him three months to reach Santiago, three times longer than most. I can't imagine how he navigated the muddy, rocky slopes of the various mountains we crossed. When asked why he was on the Camino, he would respond "so that every day I can learn to walk." But he inspired such care in others, as we all cared for him. After evening church services, I lost track of him even though he had been beside me. I found him: he was giving alms to a needy man and asking if he had a place to sleep.

He embodied so comfortably, so easily, the unconditional love of the universe. Despite his challenges, he feared not. Yes, I shared the healing waters with him, and in his presence, I myself felt healed. Like St Francis' prayer, I saw us both receiving when we were giving... And every day, I learned to walk.

A third person who touched me was a deeply spiritual professor from Hungary. She was a talker and lit up every conversation. Annamarie speaks 7 languages fluently and showed deep caring about all she met. Soon after she checked into any albergue, she'd be leading yoga with anyone interested. At every stream she found, off came her shoes and socks, and up came her trouser legs. Wading into the rather cold waters, she'd laugh and thank nature, God, the universe and invite others to wade in with her. Despite my blisters, I would accept her invitation and wade in - albeit briefly - just to share in the invigorating joy of waters full of life.

To me, she was a messenger that said life isn't just for just walking the camino, but for living and being part of the camino. Annamerie reminded me that we don't just talk the talk, or even just walk the walk, but that we also live the life. Walking with her filled my days with joy and gratitude.

All three taught me lessons along the Camino. And like the dense person that I can be, I didn't realize it can work the other way too. I now realize that I too could sometimes act as a messenger, an angel, to others, if I let myself be present in the journey.

I took a rest day in Burgos because my blisters were so painful. After that rest day, I continued onward, feeling much less pain. And for some reason, on a day I was feeling healthy, I saw a grove of trees next to a sign that said "Fuente" (water fountain). I had lots of water, wasn't tired, and was only an hour away from my destination. But for some reason, I felt called to stop. To sit. To soak be a part of this rural setting under these trees. I had no reason to stop, but I turned down that path to stop. So I walked into the grove and sat at the tables. I chatted with other pilgrims and learned the well was empty. Soon, a woman from Italy stopped by looking for water at the well. She became concerned when she learned that the well was dry.

I offered her my water since I had plenty and was near my final stop. She filled her bottle and drank most of it so I topped it off for her. In talking, she found out I started in Lourdes and she expressed her interest in visiting it one day. I offered her some of the Lourdes water. And that's when she did the unexpected. She burst into tears, hugging me for a couple minutes, sobbing. Silvia drank the Lourdes water and asked to be anointed by it. In the next week, I would come across her several more times, including walking with her for a whole day surrounded by glorious, bountiful flowers. Stephen got to meet her in Leon on his first day of his Camino, as she translated the pilgrim's blessing from Spanish to English for the basilica priest.

That day I met her, that evening, I pondered why she cried. I didn't have a clue at the time. It took several more encounters with her to understand that she was exhausted, thirsty, and spiritually challenged. She had come onto the Camino looking for a spiritual experience but she was coming away tired and longing for inspiration, for the mystical. It took me a while to figure out what was really happening. In fact, I needed my spiritual advisor to help me figure out why I was confused. Here I was, thinking I was merely offering her water, but when I got called to that well, I was guided to the well, prodded to be present. I was sent to help her, share the water, share some rest and a smile. With the woman at the well, thirsting for water and something deeper than a well, I offered her a gift and a message that she needed to hear. To be her angel.

So I walked with three angels. And with a woman at the well, I eventually realized that I was the voice and flesh by which angels had come to her. Life can be that way in so many ways. We walk with people who we may immediately recognize as important messengers to us, telling us to wake up and smell the roses, to find ourselves, to be inspired. And maybe without us knowing it, we too may be that angel messenger to others.

Most often, we're too close to our own stories to realize what's happening. We forget that we should walk intentionally, always awake, always open to the new. Sometimes it takes a prolonged journey to realize that you're always on a pilgrimage and should be ever present to those who may be there to help you and guide you. May your heart be always open to so that you can hear and see and touch the angels walking by your side.

Estamos Caminando por la Ciudad de los Ángeles

We are walking through the city of angels. Yes, you can take that to mean that I'm a resident of Los Angeles, and I walk through it. I walk between great buildings, through children-packed parks, among camps of homeless, and beside an untamed ocean. This city is crisscrossed with fault lines: not just geological ones, but political and economic as well.

But when I say that we are walking through the city of angels, I'm also talking about the angels in our midst. I might not be referring to actual angels as recognized by formal theology, but to angels in effect, in spirit, in love.

I've really enjoyed my new participation in a couple of ministries this past year. Perhaps they're not new in general - as I've done stuff with other programs since high school - but new specifically. And I realize that angels had something to do with me finding these places of love.

First I started attending Laundry Love in East Hollywood. The Laundry Love initiative consists of regular opportunities to come alongside people who are struggling financially by assisting them with their laundry. Laundry Love partners with local laundromats in cleaning clothes and linens of low-income or no-income families and individuals. During select days and times, laundry is free. Just bring your clothes. Quarters, soap, and dryer sheets are provided. There are no income requirements, and everyone is welcome.

I've also started to participate with The Gathering, a community of Asian-American congregants throughout the Los Angeles Episcopal Diocese, who wish to share our perspectives on our faith and practices with each other. I spoke on a panel discussing "identity" earlier this spring and am now assisting in organizing a musical event on Oct 13 at St John's Cathedral and featuring musicians in the diocese.

Both have opened my eyes to the multitude of angels that live and breathe and walk around me. You may have noticed that I in prior blog postings have talked about the being awakened periodically to discovering that someone in front of me is acting as a messenger of God. They're opening my eyes, unstopping my ears, and clearing my throat. I become aware of God's grace. I am reminded of God's love. And I feel connected to God ever more closely.

That's what an angel does. The angels that people think of in classical paintings - the cherubims - are chubby pink babies for the most part. But in those places in Scripture where angels are mentioned, the angel is almost always a messenger from God or from the Archangel Michael. They don't show up to be cute.

No, they usually are there to say "Wake up" and "God is here".

These two ministries, like the others that I participate in, poke me, prod me, blare a trumpet at me - anything to catch my distracted attention. In today's world, it's more than a little easy to be distracted after all. I'm undoubtedly as guilty of that as anyone else, if not more so given my job in technology.

Instead, I'm reminded how much we depend on each other to help each other. I'm reminded that regardless of what we look like, we are all welcome to Christ's table. I'm reminded that whether we talk with other, sing with each other, or sit in silence with each other, we are in community together and that we're in this thing as one.

I feel lucky that the wonderful members of Holy Spirit in Silver Lake reminded me of their Laundry Love ministry. I came for prayer and I walked out with my eyes opened. And when I started to attend, I so appreciate it when I can recognize people at the laundromat; I'm not great with names but I'm good with faces and that's a useful place to start. And I'm surprised and happy when they recognize me, too. It means that irrespective of where we are on our journeys, we know we've crossed paths here and that we share something together.

These times at Laundry Love complement all the time Stephen and I have spent with Union Station Homeless Services. We appreciate that society has to both help the emergency nutritional and safety needs of those who lack basic resources but also to help them move past the crisis and into sustainable employment and programs. It's hard to get a job or keep a job if your soiled laundry discourages employers from hiring you. But the reality is too many people have to choose between feeding their families and washing their clothes.

And, I feel so very connected when I'm interacting with The Gathering. I don't often participate in Asian ethnic events. I used to do that as a child and it wasn't something that I enjoyed. Mind you, Filipino families are quite large and, with almost 5 dozen first cousins and 17 nieces and nephews, there's more than enough cultural interaction just hanging out with each other. As I grew older, I enjoyed discovering other cultures. I didn't spend as much time exploring my actual roots, which are Filipino, which is sort of Asian, sort of Pacific Islander, and in some ways sort of Latino. And oh so very Roman Catholic.

So Rev. Peter Huang and the Gathering, by reaching out to me, have opened my eyes to ways I can connect with others in the church who want to experience their faith while acknowledging and celebrating our cultural heritage. It's something I've been wanting and it surprised me that it somehow appeared to happen.

I had heard of both Laundry Love and Episcopal Asian Ministries before, but I think angels are insistent. They're there to make sure you're awake and hearing the message sent to you. We each have our journeys and we'll always have times alone and times in community on the path. But the angels. The angels will tap you on the shoulder and say "If you would just listen, I think there's something you want to hear."

And I think back to the first of three angels that I met on my 600 mile Camino de Santiago pilgrimage in 2016. (http://letallwhoarethirstycome.blogspot.com/2016/05/camino-2016-0522-angel-messenger-and.html). He told me "You'll be fine". He told me I was safe. And I felt safe. And that's what I needed to hear so that I wouldn't feel alone, so that I wouldn't be afraid.

So keep an open heart to those you encounter on the road. You may not recognize the angels in our midst, but they've got something you need to hear.

Four More Years

I saw in the news that President George H. W. Bush was hospitalized for a blood infection, a serious situation given his age of 93. This comes a day after the funeral of his wife of 73 years, Barbara Bush.

Many acknowledge that the first year after the loss of a long-time spouse or partner is laden with risk, as the surviving person faces an existence without someone that they stood with for so long. Many become depressed, confused, sickly, and even die. These risks are greatest within the first three months after death. A study from the University of Michigan says that the increased risk of death is as high as 66%. This increase is irrespective of whether the surviving partner is male or female.

Anecdotally, many of us may know stories of people who have died in pairs like this. It's distressing and it makes some of us rather concerned and cautious with the widow or widower. Since the mechanisms and causes for this increased mortality rate are unknown, we just have to be more attentive and caring.

Though the emotions are painful, I think most of us can understand deeply how the loss of our partner can make us prone to illness. At the very least, there's one less person in the home who tells us to watch our step or put on a sweater or get some rest. But I think we have strong suspicions that our health and will to face the future are somehow related. We can understand that someone who loses their spouse may no longer be interested in living a life alone.

In some ways, I feel this is analogous to the depression experienced by some like me after a marriage breakup. I for one was in an 18 year relationship, and when it ended, despite efforts to sustain it, I didn't know how to live. Why to live. Heck, I didn't even really know where to live. I felt empty and it's a feeling I don't want to experience again.

After a month apart, Stephen joins me
on my 600 mile pilgrimage along the Camino de Santiago
in Leon, Spain in June 2016.
We walk the final 200 miles together.

But, I know...
I might have to one day.

I married my husband 4 years ago this week, at All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena. And it was a time of joy and wonder. Joy of committing ourselves with solemn vows to each other publicly. And complete wonder that an institution that I once thought would never bless such a union would change and indeed acknowledge and invite God's presence into our voiced promises.

And in making such promises, we said "in sickness and in health, until death do us part". We promised to be there for each other. And it meant that we might have to say goodbye, as we must all one day leave our bodies behind. At that moment we utter our marriage vows, we don't think about what happens after death, but we do think about our commitments until one of us dies.

So this week, as I enjoy thinking about the shifts in my life that my husband brought me, shifts that make me more complete every day, not just in the four years since we got married but in the 16 years we have been friends, I am grateful for the time we've spent together and the wonder of our love. And if I can have four more years, I'll be overjoyed. And if I can have yet another four more years after that, well, it's grace poured upon grace, and I can only be ever grateful.

We may not know the hour of our passing, but until then, I simply say thank you for what we do have, in sickness, in health. I don't know if my final words will be "I love you" or "Thank you", but in prayer and in love, I mean the same thing.

Overpacking, Stones, and Strangers - The Camino to Easter

I walk out of the monastery in Sahagun, Spain in Sep 2014
and am awed by the sunset

As we enter Holy Week, after a season of loss, I realize that there are lessons from the Camino which are helping me walk the journey to the cross, with others, with Christ.

Travel lightly

So many of us are encumbered with things that hold us back, hold us down. We want to move easily, with comfort, and in peace. We know that we can save our backs and feet - and especially stay focused - when we don't have luggage that weighs us down.

And yet, we are our own worst enemies. We overpack in our lives. On the Camino de Santiago, this is most often because we want to bring everything in our backpacks. This instinct is almost always grounded in one thing: fear.

Fear of want.

Fear of not having something we feel is necessary.

Fear of hunger, of danger, of darkness.

And yet, a most important saying along the Camino is "The Camino Provides". Most travelers don't realize that there are food options everywhere you go. That we find pharmacies in every village. That we can find people who will share their water with us.

The Camino DOES provide... so long as we accept its generosity and the love. We have to forget about the uncertainty of fear in order to gain the certainty of love.

Release the Stones

Our packs like our lives are overloaded and, within a few days, you start seeing people leave things behind in the albergues. We have to release the materials items, these stones, that weigh us down and say goodbye to them. We let go so that we can flourish on our walks.

But it's not just about releasing a physical stone. It's also about letting go of the emotional stones that hold us down. Unlike the fear that drives us to overpack, the emotion that we can't unpack and leave behind is anger.

People on the camino, myself included, get frustrated by crowded cafes, by bicyclists who don't warn you of their approach, of cars that don't see you. In our exhaustion, we get angry that we have to change plans because there's no room at the albergue, or because blisters appear, or people smoke or talk too loudly, or take selfies, or drink too much. The litany of gripes can seem endless.

We may not have packed that anger in with us, but it's coming along for the walk. And we can't seem to let it go.

So we have to treat our frustration and anger like stones. We have to recognize the weight that they bring to our journey and trust that it's possible to release it. We must set the stone down. We can't walk with Christ, in love, with open eyes, when our hearts are filled with granite.

Embrace the Stranger

We may travel the Camino alone, or we may travel with friends. But around us at all times are strangers. People from other lands, speaking other languages, with different diets and customs. They're like you and me. And they're not.

They are like the Samaritans. Yes, go back far enough, and we're related, but today we're different. And they might be overpacked, with stones, with the same troubles as ourselves.

It's easy to walk past them and not realize what's going on in their lives. But my greatest memories along the Camino are when I didn't walk past the "other", but instead invited them into my space, my life, my journey. By sharing the pilgrimage of life together, we create a larger life, a larger sense of self, and a discovery of shared values.

Often times, it's that moment when we realize that we're overpacked that we also realize that we need the stranger to help us out. Together, you can pool information, resources, food, laughs, memories. The things we yearn to find on the Camino are unknown to us. They await to be learned and discovered, but for now those insights are strangers. And, we can't embrace the insights of the Camino if we can't embrace the stranger.

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I hope that your journey through Lent brought you ever closer to Christ, to Easter, and the hope you seek to find and celebrate. And now, as we near the end of this 40 day walk, may your Holy Week remind you of the need to travel lightly, to set down your stones, and to embrace the stranger. May your Holy Week be anointed with grace.

Why? First Start with Who?

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Who are you? Who, who, who, who? Who are you? Who, who, who, who? Who are you? Who, who, who, who? Who are you? Who, who, who, who? I woke up in a Soho doorway A policeman knew my name He said "You can go sleep at home tonight If you can get up and walk away" - From Who Are You, the Who

I am asked time and again why I walk the Camino de Santiago, why I keep returning. Let's be frank, I ask it of myself almost once a week - twice a day while actually on the pilgrimage.

Often, a glib answer pours from my mouth, talking about pilgrimage and seeking. It may not seem glib to whoever is listening, but in truth, it feels inadequate to me. I say how much I enjoy meeting people from around the world, how I have time to think and process my thoughts, how getting out of my rut opens my eyes, how the art/history/culture/language observations deepen my education, and how all interactions with people along the way introduce me back to God and all Her wonderous joys.

It placates the casual questioner, and there's truth in it all. And, yet there's just so much more to me. It doesn't encompass the enormity of the effect on my soul and growth as an individual. So I've chewed on it some this week.

See, a big party was held at my house a couple days after I came home. It wasn't for me. One of my younger sisters was celebrating her 50th birthday and we were hosting it at our house for her. During the party, more than a few asked how I felt after the Camino and some asked why I did it. Soon after the party, I came down with the flu and I laid in bed pondering more than a few things during my brief moments awake.

Why. Why indeed. I don't think I can answer that question comfortably anymore. I've tried in the past and I'm no longer satisfied with my answer. In truth, it's not easy for me because I think I need to ask another question first.

Who? Who are you? Who who? Who who?

And like the lyrics from that favorite song, "You can go sleep at home tonight if you can get up and walk away", I do want to go home to rest, but can I actually get up? Can I actually walk away?

Who? Who am I? Who who? Who who?

And rooted in that question, I think, is Christ asking that question of Pilate. Who do you say I am? Part of my identity is deeply intertwined with that question.

Why? Why do I go on the Camino? I've ended up in Santiago de Compostela five times in three years. I'll have to accept that I might not answer this question until I answer "Who" better. This might mean that I may never know. I'm having to accept this. It really stings to not have an answer to the question of who I am, but I'll keep trying. And seeking.

And in the meantime, I'll stand up. And I'll walk away.

Camino 2017-10-5 The Road Home

The Road Home

Tell me, where is the road I can call my own

That I left, that I lost so long ago?

All these years I have wandered.

Oh when will I know

there's a way, there's a road that will lead me home

After wind, after rain, when the dark is done,

as I wake from a dream in the gold of day

Through the air there's a calling from far away

there's a voice I can hear that will lead me home.

Rise up, follow me, come away is the call

with the love in your heart as the only song.

There is no such beauty as where you belong.

Rise up, follow me, I will lead you home.

By Stephen Paulus 

https://youtu.be/LbwhSP3ZIq4

I don't know fully why this pilgrimage has drawn me back time and again. I'm not from Spain, though some of my ancestors are. It's not the love of walking in and of itself, because I do that at home almost daily. 

I've little interest in walking other famous trails in their entirety. The walking is, surprisingly, incidental. It's a means to an end. 

Like the song says, we are asked to rise up. To follow the singer. To be in the place we belong. Home can be anywhere we want it to be. Home to me the past few years has been to myself, where God has wanted me.

The Camino De Santiago is not the place then but the process for me. In the time on this pilgrimage, I'm marinating in nature, city, and history -- People. Strangers walk into our lives, break bread with us, share a path. And they become less the stranger when they do so. Some become friends.

And if we walk with people from home, we deepen the relationship, tighten the bonds not to each other but to love universal - which allows unity and companionship to grow stronger.

I met up with Julz outside of Padrón . We started early, out of excitement. We only took one break. The 17 or so miles flew by because we were caught up in the moment. Stretches of silent reflection were broken up by outright howls of laughter from stories of our lives. We did this until we finally reached Santiago de Compostela.

I helped Julz check in, wildly coincidentally, at a small pensione that I stayed in when I brought my parents here 2 years ago. We then went to the cathedral where we parted for dinner. But before we did, we stared at our destination. And we processed. The climax and anticlimax of such a trip takes a while to comprehend.

And most of all we realize that we've taken a road home. Our personal home of self. And despite the effort, despite the journey, despite the song, we don't stay there alone. 

We come home so that we can venture out once more. We come home so that we can invite others to join us. We come home so that we can be centered and balanced before we walk set foot again in the trail.

Camino 2017-10-4 Where There Is Despair, Hope

On this Feast Day of Saint Francis, many share the prayer attributed to him. He remains one if not the most popular Saint, given his humility, piety, and endless love of animals and humanity. And he walked the Camino 803 years ago.

My day started with reading his prayer and ended with a Rosario and mass at the Padrón Church of Santiago, with prayers especially to celebrate the feast day. In between those moments, I kept the prayer as well as Saint Patrick's blessing in my heart.

I met up with Julz in Caldas de Reis and we walked the day together all the way to Padrón. We enjoyed lazy rivers, animals of all types, and stunning agricultural lands hugging the hills. We saw the forest as well as the trees, and we talked about it.

We discussed the problems of hearing but not listening, of viewing but not seeing, of touching but not feeling. As I pondered this later on while sitting alone and staring over the river, it occurred to me that the contradictions in Francis's prayer could help address the problems. We are hearing but we aren't listening because we don't let others speak to us. We do not see because we don't let others show themselves. And we don't feel because we don't let ourselves be touched.

I tripped a wire twice with Julz with my comments and questions. The first went by and nothing happened; I felt something could be said but wasn't. The second time, we shared tears again like yesterday. In the baptism of tears, we washed away the despair, and - it felt - invited hope.

We chatted with lovely Andre and Ana from Portugal during a snack break at a coffee shop. Ellen walked past and we set a dinner date in Santiago for tomorrow night. And we smiled at familiar faces that come and go at the different places people meet. It's fleeting and yet it's meaningful. 

I wrap up this penultimate walking day with a confession and the prayer. We are so easily focused on the hatred, injury, discord, error. On the doubt, despair, darkness, sadness. I go there like everyone else, and it doesn't feed me. It's a sin I work on by accepting that I'm not brought closer to God when I dawdle there. What feeds me is to console, to understand, and to love. Because it's not about me then. It's about gratitude for having first and second and third chances, and saying thank you in the only way I know how.

Walk with the one who feeds us, and live a life set free.

Prayer Attributed to Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace;

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is discord, harmony;

Where there is error, truth;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

Grant that we may not so much seek

To be consoled as to console;

To be understood as to understand;

To be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

And it is in dying that we are brought back to eternal life.

Camino 2017-10-3 When Doves Cry

Only two more walking days! By Thursday afternoon, I should be coming into Santiago de Compostela. This fifth Camino pilgrimage will be completed, and the journey ends; this fifth Camino pilgrimage will be completed, and the real journey continues.

There's no way, as you pack your stuff every morning, that you can truly know what your day will bring. For most of us, it's planting one foot in front of the other, an instinct we've done since toddlers. For others it involves equipment or assistance. I packed up thinking I'm getting really close and in my original plans was going to do this three days in two. 

I'm glad I changed plans because I like how things turned out. Met and chatted with some interesting people at the albergue. Walked more slowly than I am inclined to do. Saw things that might not be seen.

I left Pontevedra with a quick reminder to be alert. A couple of older German guys whistled at me to notice the arrows after I crossed as I was more interested in the nice view of the Ponte de Tirantos bridge than the Camino route. It's hard to hear sometimes when you're in your own head; I remembered to not feel embarrassed but to think of them as angels telling me showing me the way, my Camino from Lourdes had messenger angels and this Camino was no different.

I walked alone for an hour before I ran into Julz from Australia. You may recall her in yesterday's blog as the one with a backpack that needed adjustment. I asked if she was doing better and she was. She's still adjusting the straps but the feel is much better. We began to walk together and, as it turns out, we walked the whole day to Caldas de Reis.

We stopped at a lovely cafe and sat under an arbor of grape vines, sipping orange juice. She cracked up when I brought out potato chips. I said normally I have to refrain from the salt because of my blood pressure but on Camino I need the electrolytes. She thought it was great that we both love potato chips and that no wonder we get along so well.

Throughout the day we enjoyed the views, uncountable chestnuts on the ground, and grapes. Some of the grapes on the vines were so juicy and beyond delicious. At another rest break, we pulled over briefly among the oaks and chestnut trees. I chatted with some older French Camino walkers who pointed out that the chestnuts were a favorite stuffing for their Christmas turkeys.

We got ever closer to Caldas de Rei, with signs showing that we were also getting oh so close to Santiago de Compostela. We almost passed a special park that Jorge told me about and she found out from a tourist office. Ellen, from Bend Oregon, had had dinner with Julz back in Arcadia (between O Porriño and Rebadela) and ran into us. She had just come from the waterfalls so Julz and I turned back and went over a few hundred meters to the falls.

They were lovely cascades, flowing even at this dry time of year. The water was cool not cold. We took off our shoes and I went right into a spa tub like hole in the rocks. The water was heavenly.

She and I enjoyed the cleansing waters. Julz found them healing and laid back into the waters. I immersed myself fully and felt like a new person. Water, by immersion or by sprinkles, can do that if you believe so.

After the hourlong detour, we continued on to the last bit. Her albergue was 45 minutes away while mine was 1/2 hour past hers in town. I mentioned in passing the stone I left behind every time at the Cruz de Fero. Since this Camino didn't pass it, I still brought a stone and will leave it at the Cathedral.

The stone represents the burdens we carry in life, the heartaches and pains, the luggage that weighs down our backs. They're so small, yet we feel their weight getting heavier with each passing step. I leave the stone during the pilgrimage to release the weight, to give myself some relief, to leave the stone at the foot of the cross so that Christ can carry the burden for me.

I explained this and realized Julz was in tears. We wept together even as other pilgrims walked past us. I reached down to the ground and offered her a small stone to carry.

Julz found her albergue and I continued on. I had a pleasant dinner of fried fish and clams in spaghetti that tasted like paella, along the river bank. Ellen walked by and I thanked her for her reminder. I then caught the Rosario and Mass at the church.

Doves are symbols of hope and peace. They bring with the rainbow a promise beyond the storm and flood. We don't expect them to hurt. And like Prince's song When Doves Cry, it jars us when they do. But no creature or person goes through life without tears. That's part of living.

And yet the dove even in tears can be full of hope. Somewhere beyond the rainbow, there's always hope.

Camino 2017-10-2 On Pain, Confusion, and Planning

I awoke to the news in the USA. I was immediately concerned because it's the type of concert that relatives like to attend. As it turned out, a cousin and her family were staying at the hotel as they like to do. And their daughter was at the concert.

As I got ready for dinner, I found out they were fine but in a hotel lockdown then out of lockdown. The pain and confusion of those hours was likely as frightening as any we ever want to experience. 

I hope they and the country respond. Because we can't keep asking for thoughts and prayers, asking God for mercy, when we don't take responsibility for our own transgressions. Yes we ourselves aren't immediately responsible but our pattern of actions and inactions facilitate transgressions to be done.

I just described on my blog for the past few days how I've had to change my plans and not be so insistent on doing it a certain way. Because I was getting pain and feeling the coming of blisters, I had to start walking differently. Have you tried to relearn walking? 

It's hard.

But I know some who suffered medical crises and auto accidents who have had to relearn to walk. And I have the luxury of doing this at my choice. That's what a sensible person does. They plan ahead. 

"For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish.’" (Luke 14:28-30)

I wanted rest days. I needed rest days. But with rising temperatures and weather change, I knew I had to plan ahead. So I walked much further while I could for a few days. Now as the weather turned hot, I can walk and be done by midday and rest during the heat.

That's laying the foundation so that we can finish.  

So on Oct 2, I walked from Redondela to Pontevedra and had a lovely time. I left later than normal. Right after 9am. And I finished without even needing a break at 1pm. In the meantime, I chatted with some wonderful people.

A father and young daughter were walking from Valença. They were from South Korea and were excited to see another Asian on the Camino. Actually there are many. In fact, in my room at this albergue, 4 of the 6 beds have Asians.

I met Alain who is a government official from Quebec near Ottawa. He's in the bunk bed with me and stretches with yoga to prevent back pain.

There's Jules from Australia. I saw her way ahead of me and was bothered because her backpack was not adjusted right for her height. Fortunately she's at my albergue and I asked if her pack felt ok and it didn't. So we are adjusted it so that she can finish her trip with less pain.

I had been asked to take a bunk bed so that older folks could be in lower bunks, even though I got there first. Not a problem.

All this was so much more fun to me than the pain and mental confusion I was experiencing the last few days. 

Maybe all these things are coincidental, but it sure seems like we are capable of adjusting and resetting our plans so that more people can be included and we ourselves can be happier.

Ok there are limits. I walked around town and saw some amazing architecture. But I didn't check to see hours of businesses. Spain usually is up really late so I didn't expect that I had to ask. But a restaurant with supposedly good Navares (razor neck clams, my favorite Spanish dish) turned out closed in the evenings. And by the time I finished dinner and walked over Smooy was closed. They're my favorite froyo chain.

I turned out ok though. I let the desire for froyo guide me to a gelataria. And instead of ice cream I had a crepe stuffed with bananas, fudge, and caramel. 

I think I did alright.