A bar, somewhere in rural Spain.
A rooster is crowing near the open door. Distant goats are bleating. Spanish farmers gather to chew the morning fat.
There is a television in the corner of the bar, broadcasting the morning noticias. Beneath the television set is a lineup of heavy backpacks, belonging to pilgrims, loaded with the weight of the world, alongside a forest of telescopic hiking poles.
A few old farmers at the bar are speaking rapid-fire Spanish, drinking tall beers with their morning croissants and breakfast cheesecake.
These rural Europeans live too loosely, free from American evangelical rules, drinking beer with breakfast, wolfing down cheesecake at sunup, smoking cigars without remorse, napping away their precious afternoon hours. How sad to think of the multitudes in this beautiful country who have gone to their graves and never knew there was a hell.
“Dime,” the bartender says to me.
I order a cafè with milk.
I am awaiting my coffee while watching the TV. The newscaster is talking about Spain’s nationwide power outage.
Everyone in the bar is very interested in this newscast because this update affects us personally. We are pilgrims in a distant country. We are dependent on the kindness of each other. We are a family out here.
Also, we have already heard horror stories about pilgrims who were stranded in bigger cities during the recent power outage.
One young pilgrim in León slept on the street during the blackout. Other pilgrims found him, shivering against an alley wall. The high-school-age pilgrims joined him, all sleeping in a huddle to keep warm.
Another large group of pilgrims were stuck on a train for an entire day. They had no food, so they all met together in the dining car and pooled their food together for supper. They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples collected 12 baskets of leftovers.
There are other stories, too. These tales are passed from pilgrim to pilgrim along the Camino, the news travels purely by word of mouth. They call this the “Camino Telegraph.”
You grow close to people out here. You find yourself invested in their lives after your first conversation. You love them deeply.
People like Martin (39), a German carpenter from Switzerland. We have become fast friends. More than friends actually. Brothers.
We have had many conversations about our screwed up childhoods, and wept together, sharing lunch beneath a shade tree, passing a botella back and forth, resting our battered feet, discussing the infinite and incomprehensible love of Christ.
A few days ago, Martin came down with a stiff head cold. He decided to take two days’ rest in a nearby village.
And so it was, our dramatic goodbye took place in the crumbling streets of Fromista. Martin and I hugged each other and wept. As my wife and I walked away, Martin remained behind, growing smaller in the distance. I could still see him waving and smiling and still crying.
“I love you guys!” he called out.
On the Camino, as in life, you leave people behind. Although this is not the end.
There is Regina (46) and Kristoff (61). Regina is a singer, and Kristoff is her husband, Austrians who walk the Camino for religious reasons.
Kristoff had to stop walking yesterday because a blood blister has infected his entire lower leg. His wife walks without him now, walking with us. We all spend much of our daily walk singing and sending homemade music videos to Kristoff, who will meet us at our next village via taxi.
There is Tracey, from New Zealand (30). Tracey is a marathoner and faster than everyone in the northern hemisphere. She is small and wiry. She walks and talks faster than a caffeinated squirrel. We have discovered it is unwise to let someone with Tracey’s natural energy levels to eat refined sugar.
Then there is Diego and Taku. Diego (30) is from Jalisco, Mexico. Taku (33) is from Nagasaki, Japan. They met on the trail. Neither speaks a word of the other’s language. And yet they are inseparable.
“I love Diego,” says Taku. “He is best good friend I ever known.”
Diego feels the same way. Diego originally planned on walking the Camino for only three days, then he was going to return home. But after walking two days with us all, he rearranged his flight air he might finish the Camino with us.
“The Camino is right here and right now,” he said in broken English. “My life back home is not now. This is now. We are now. God is now. And so will I be.”
And with those words, we walk together. Singing. Laughing. Occasionally weeping. And day by day, poco a poco, as a ragged human family of fools and imperfect people, we will find God together
