Category: hope

And One to Keep Going

Christmas with the littles has come and gone, and the new year now lies latent and watchful with all the things that are meant to be.

We actually had two Christmases this year, as the adult children planned their own plans while the grands relied on their parents’ calendar to observe our dear Savior’s birth.

Finding a day or two when the whole family could be together was tricky, but once we did, it meant that the littlest ones would have to wait days past the 25th to see their uncles (and their uncles’ presents).

In the meantime, I joined them for the bulk of the gifting on Christmas proper and tried to find a day or two to sneak in my final hikes for December.

Waiting continues to challenge me.

December was a rough month for gridding, as weather and schedule conspired at every turn to prevent even the smallest of windows to get out there. I managed to sneak in a Wednesday Washington/Monroe in the waning weeks, though a terrifying slide down the icy slope of Monroe had me spooked.

I can’t explain how I finally came to a stop, yards away from some nasty rocks, but I did. A miracle.

Was I getting careless? I didn’t think so, but where the ever unpredictability of these mountains confronts my desire to finish, there will always be strain.

It seems that the closer I get to the end (only 15/576 left!), the more that anxiety breaks my crust of calm with its insistent nettling. What are the winds? Is the Hillary Step clear of ice? How high is the water? Will my feet survive the cold?

All of these worries came to a head the day after Christmas when I head out for the longest hike of the month, the Bonds, a 22.6 mile round trip. Even toe warmers can’t keep my feet warm, so I shove extra hand warmers down my boots to keep the frostbite away.

I’m zipping along the first three miles of the well-trodden Lincoln death march, optimistic for the day, when I cross the bridge into the Pemigewasset Wilderness and all tracks end: virgin powder as far ahead as I can see. It’s another 8.5 miles to the turnaround on West Bond, and every step will have to be broken out, alone, by me. Sigh.

Hours pass as I blow through podcasts, water crossings, and hidden holes beneath the snow. I lose another water bottle – when will I learn to secure them?! – and gamble that I’ll have enough left in my dwindling supply, or find the dropped one on the way back.

On top of Bondcliff, the drifts hit thigh height in places, each step a quagmire. I seriously consider quitting, waiting another year, saying the heck with it ALL and turning around. I’m too angry to pray, too stubborn to stop. Eight hours after leaving the parking lot, I finally summit West Bond, 1:30 in the afternoon, and snap the only picture of the day, a false smile belying the exhaustion I feel at having to follow my footsteps back to the car.

Back in the woods, more miracles: a woman approaching, tromping down the trail with her snowshoes. We stop to chat and I ask if she’s seen my bottle. No, but she offers me enough of her own water, and I can’t believe her kindness. Later, after crossing one of the streams, I look down and see the top of my errant Nalgene sticking out of the snow. Hurray! I guzzle most of what’s left.

Darkness drops, hours pass. I’m soaked and shivering when I finally reach the car, and not even a hot bath at home can chase away the lingering chill.

I’d love to celebrate, but all day long, I’ve had to force myself to not think of the next day, what looks like the only safe opening left in December, when I’ll need to do Jefferson to Grid out the month.

Jefferson: exposed, wind-whipped, 5, 712′ spiteful spire.

Nothing I can do but give myself a fighting chance. I drape wet gear over radiators, turn up the heat. Open my computer to submit a trip report. I consider writing: Broke out the Bonds. That’s all I have to say about that.

But I feel a duty to this community. I drink in these reports like my first waking hit of joe, and details are critical to someone trying to make an informed decision. It’s after 11 when I collapse into bed.

This wasn’t how I pictured things going when I started Gridding, years ago. I honestly need something to change my perspective, to look ahead with hope and not dread.

I think of the littles as they waited for their presents. Early opening was not allowed, and they returned again and again to the pile beneath the tree to look and long. When the morning finally comes, there are tears as each one jostles to be the next. Some gifts exceed expectations, others most decidedly do not (in their defense, socks).

Are the mountains like that? This crazy Grid? I look and look at the list left, imagine what each peak will be, and am crushed when it turns into torture instead of glee.

One of my favorite Psalms is 126. Perhaps it’s because its subtitle reads ” A Song of Ascent” – what better name for a girl who climbs?

I love Psalm 126 because it attempts to explain that tension between elation and despair:

Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them (Psalm 126:5-6).

A podcast I listen to about this Psalm posits that it’s actually the tears that water the seeds. No sorrow, no sheaves. And this is exactly what happens, that next day, when I wake up and head out with the soreness and suffering of the Bonds behind me.

Jefferson is brilliant. There are people everywhere, a well trod trail, sunshine. It is the best gift of the season, to have conditions as perfect and energy left to spare, to summit with a smile sincere.

Another miracle.

It’s one to keep going, despite those I have left.

Does He not see all my ways, count all my steps? (Job 31:4)

You never know what miracle might lay behind the next turn. A heap of presents, maybe socks. Either way, it’s much too early to quit.

What does 2025 hold? I’m not sure, but it’s likely I haven’t seen the last of tears.

But I’m grateful, confident, that the One who knows will, if I let Him, turn all of them to grain.

Only Scaries Left

I’ve been waiting months for this month.

Stalled since last March in trying to finish off a New Hampshire Grid – all 48 4,000′ peaks in every calendar month – I couldn’t wait for December to come, to start checking off the last 22 of 576 summits.

The list has hung on my fridge for the last nine months, alternately inspiring and scaring me right down to my core. Having finished April, May, June, July, August, September, October, and November – months when weather is fairer and hikes are more agreeable than not – I was eager to be out the door on December 1 to tackle Isolation.

A query I posted on a hiking forum looking for company elicited only laughing emojis – recent snowfall and single digit predicted windchill on a Sunday was not as alluring as I had hoped, even for fellow “Gridiots.”

Isolation is one of those peaks people either love or hate: remote (as its name suggests) with either multiple water crossings or off-trail bushwhacks, depending on how you approach it. Long stretches of the established trail run over active water flow, making for soggy feet no matter how you slice it.

The problem with the mountains I have left is that they are ALL, in some way, as tricky as Iso. The Bond traverse is a 22-mile out-back. Due to winter forest road closures, Carrigain requires a 3-mile road walk just to get to the trail head. Even following herd paths, one can’t avoid three major water crossings on Owls Head, and the Madison/Adams combo is steep and often ridiculously icy. As for Monroe, Jefferson, and Washington – who in New England doesn’t know about the “worst weather in the world,” which pummels these three presidents with triple-digit wind gusts and frequent avalanche warnings?

As much as I want to finish, I also don’t want to die. Or worse, call SAR.

So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that my Iso bid the first day back Gridding took me 10.5 hours to cover 11.5 miles. Six inches of new powder covered the established trail, every other tree was a blow-down (okay, I’m exaggerating – let’s just agree there were a lot), and it was COLD. So cold.

Other things happened.

Two water bottles were lost navigating downed trees in-over-and-through, and when I finished the dregs of #3, I was forced to choose between dry hours of hiking or taking a chance on a swift-running stream. The stream won, but so did giardia, which hit like a vengeance some days later. Let’s just say this parasite is not user friendly.

Help. Me.

There was bruising. My phone drops in the snow as I lose the trail and try to find my way back. I go through two sets of mittens, hats, and down hoodies. I don’t want to expose my hands for too long, so I barely eat, which makes me, fuel-less, even slower to finish the last miles in the dark.

All to check off one peak.

Where was the wonder, the joy I felt, in the months previous, walking where and when I wanted? Turning around before a summit if the conditions were not to my liking?

The problem with lists is that, well, they’re a list. Restrictive. Confining. Vexatious.

December has me spooked, and it’s not even officially “winter” yet.

I am writing this now having decided not to hike today.

I had packed for the Bonds and was watching the weather, but new snow and 70 mph winds had me cancelling the early alarm. I want to be prepared, to minimize the risk, to always carry more than I need, but even all that was not enough. And it seems the more I sit, the more fitness I lose, and the less I want to go out there again.

Two good days. That’s all I need to Grid out December.

One word. It’s been everywhere, every morning, as I sit at my desk and watch the clouds pink over the school that I love, reading and journaling and praying needs.

Trust.

I cannot control the weather or my schedule or even how I will feel on any given day. This week, I will turn 62, and that is a long time for legs to live. I’m grateful for every single one (years, not legs, though I am grateful for those, as well).

At his last meal, Jesus told His disciples that in this world they would have trouble, but to be of good cheer (John 16:33).

Be of good cheer, child.

You may finish Gridding December – and January, February, March – you may not.

Sort out the scaries one by one.

You trust Him, don’t you?

Living Forward

Last Wednesday night, I may have skated my last.

It had been over nine months since I played in one of our weekly faculty pick-up games, and I was looking forward to a new season of friendly competition, gentle trash-talking, and good sweats. Last February, a collision mid-ice with a large man did something weird to my hip, and I left that game and season early to heal.

I had thought enough time had passed to try again this year, and with stubborn hope I aired out the gear, taped the sticks, and headed over to the rink. Things seemed to be holding together, though my leg did feel like the only thing attaching it to my hip socket was a wet noodle. Favoring that side helped for a while, but a sudden stop in front of the net exploded the area even worse than the year before, and I limped off once again, depressed and defeated.

I don’t know if one can fix a hip.

Although I thought the rest and rehab I had been doing since the original injury was working, the truth is that joint has ached and hitched ever since, sometimes catching me off guard with alarming ferocity. Time with my beloved chiro takes the edge off, but absent some invasive surgery, it appears I am stuck with what I’ve got: the death of hockey.

I suppose trying to deny aging is at fault, as in my mind’s eye I picture myself doing the same things at 62 that I did at 16.

It’s just no longer possible, and I’m looking for a way to make it okay.

Hockey has been a part of my life for forever. Growing up, my father regaled us with stories of being part of the first PeeWee hockey team in the US. Though frequently prone to hyperbole, I’d like to think this claim of his is true.

Hockey defined me through high school, college, and beyond; in an age where Title IV was just starting to level the playing field for female athletes, I joyed in being part of the revolution in a sport few women had yet to discover.

I taught and coached my kids, watched them compete all the way up to the beer leagues (I know, I know. But trust me – I wasn’t the only parent in the stands).

When our oldest son died, a yearly Christmas skate in his honor helped us to grieve and remember.

Hockey was the constant, a steady diet of contests and training, travel and fraternity, victories and defeats.

So what now?

Eugene Peterson writes in The Message that the way we conceive the future sculpts the present. If our sense of the future is weak, we tend to live listlessly.

So what is the breaking down of one’s body in the light of eternity? Or the loss of hockey, this beautiful game I love? I think the only answer is to live forward.

I cannot change what has already been. 50 years is a long time, and I feel blessed to have played as long as I have.

There is so much life left to live here, and beyond: my hope remains stubborn.

I know there are other losses ahead, but victory, the ultimate win, is as sure as the promise: And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am” (John 14:3).

Waiting

While visiting my daughter’s family “farm” in Vermont recently, I noticed they had isolated one of their hens in a chicken tractor in the middle of the yard. The poor girl jumped and paced to try to get out of her little prison, obviously highly agitated and unable to calm.

It was heartbreaking.

However, this girl was caged because she was “broody.” Instead of laying an egg and heading off to do other chicken-y things, a broody hen is fiercely devoted to hatching chicks and no good to a family who simply wants eggs to eat. She obviously didn’t understand that she needed to be separated from her other friends, to wait until her maternal instinct passed, before she could rejoin the brood.

In many ways, I’ve recently felt a bit caged myself, waiting, unable to move freely, either forward or back.

Having spent the last five or six years chasing an audacious hiking list called The Grid – New Hampshire’s 48 peaks over 4,000 feet, in every calendar month – I’m finally within reach of the finish.

The problem is, although I only have 22 more mountains to climb, they are all in the winter months. I must wait for December to come before I can begin to end what I began.

This is also the first summer in decades that I am alone in my tiny house, the youngest having moved out last August to pursue his own audacious dreams.

At times, I find myself pacing the vacant rooms, trying to escape the feelings that come with having raised my own brood to adulthood, where they need me less, and for vastly different reasons than when they were littles.

I’m trying to be content with where I am and who I am, in this season. To wait well, even though all I can think of is I want to be somewhere, to be doing something.

The other day, the youngest grand had an epic tantrum when it was time to leave the beach where we had been playing that afternoon.

She cried and kicked, not knowing that there was something equally awesome that Dada had planned next. A fire. S’mores.

She wasn’t willing to exchange a known good for the unknown ahead.

I admired her ferocity, even as I lamented her limited perspective. I suppose, however, that in many ways, I am like her.

I prayerfully protest, going boneless, when I cannot get my way, questioning God’s goodness and wondering why, O, why, is it taking so long?

Taking so long, when all I have done is to ask for His help, for friends and family, for myself, waiting for the unknown to become known.

I know my perspective is limited. That I cannot see what He sees.

Like little John John, sitting under the Resolute Desk, I must remember that Father knows far more than I do. My only job is to trust.

In the meantime, I will try to wait well. To stop the pacing.

I will sit in the known, content that whatever unknowable is ahead will be unfurled whenever and however He thinks is best.

Home

Today, on my son’s would-be 30th birthday, I pull out the photo albums and invite in the grief.

It doesn’t sting as it once did, nearly eight years after he’s been gone, though the ache is still sharp.

Not kitchen-shears sharp, capable of precise severing, leaving edges crisp and clean; no, perhaps more like a pair of training scissors in the hand of a toddler, tearing and catching indiscriminately as it kidnaps the day.

I gaze at the years gone by and lament all the photos we will never take.

There is a limited number of pictures to sit with, and the inventory will never change.

Of course, our lives go on, as they must. Baby showers, new employment, holidays, and mountains climbed.

All the while, he’s still stuck, smiling out from the old gloss and reminding us of the power of a heart given over to love.

There’s housekeeping to be done here, stewarding those things he’s left behind.

I was reminded earlier this week, walking back from study hall under a misty moon, of the power of home. The air held little bite, but it was dark as I approached my empty house. I had been gone all day, busy with my fleet of middle school boys, and had not left on any lights. Body and mind were tired, ready to shift from duty to ease.

Home. I just wanted to get home.

And then, I remembered, again, for the thousandth time.

That’s where he is.

Privileged to live every moment in his Father’s house.

Awe-filled, beholding beauty more marvelous than here (Psalm 27: 4).

Heart held in a perfect embrace.

All the Things

I’ve been sick for what seems like – has been – weeks, so 2024 came sneaking through the door while I was asleep.

I find if I nap and rest and sleep good night sleeps, I can still hike, can still chase The Grid to its at-last conclusion.

On the first day of the year, I hit 509/576 with Carrigain, a glorious peek into what forever might look like: blue blue sky, cold clear air, clouds above and clouds below.

But I feel myself slowing down.

I look in the mirror and see my mother’s face, gone now 10 long years.

I know, I know, there could be many years left ahead for me. On the cusp of 2024, I welcome every one and all the things that each might bring.

The summits up ahead, though they look far off, are closer perhaps than they appear. I’m thankful there is a now.

Thankful for the faces of my children and grandchildren, and all the wild silly that lives within them.

So much ahead for them.

I wish to be a part of it for as long as I can.

I’m thankful, too, for the gift of tears, for the juxtapositional tug of sadness and joy. I read somewhere recently that a dead world does not suffer; much like love, we must take the possibility of its ache if we ever hope to glean all of its delight.

It feels sometimes that I will never finish The Grid. It pulls me along, one peak at a time, giving me just enough hope for the next one and the next. Sometimes it constrains me, and I wish I could just go where I wanted. I suppose that I could, but I’ve spent a lifetime in competition – against others, against myself, against the forces that seek to derail and destroy – so not-finishing was never an option.

Best to just believe the good report. To embrace the shifting seasons and live like I know I should, like I know that I can, because of the promise that we will never die forever.

Pressing on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward (Phillipians 3:14).

The Friend I Used to Know

It’s raining again, torrents of water, blazes of light and thunderbooms, making outside an impossibility.

Confined, I close all windows and stalk the floors in a prison of boredom and frustration, thinking about a friend I used to know.

My dear one still inhabits her evanescent frame, but her beautiful mind has fled; she no longer recognizes me.

This past Sunday, I sit sandwiched between her and her husband, a strong tower of a man whose sturdy presence reassures us both that somehow it’s going to be okay.

How?

Memories that once anchored her to me, to others, have slipped from the depths and motored away.

I remember the years she poured into the children of our church, my children, Sunday after Sunday, teaching the littles to love Jesus and one another. She was a brilliant light who attracted their innocent shiny souls to herself, like a cluster of stars shimmering and glowing in a galaxy of joy.

There were paper arks and popsicle stick crosses, glue and googly-eyed lambs, singing and laughing and prayer.

Though she sits beside me still, I miss the her she used to be, and I’m not sure what to do with this new layer of sad.

I wonder about my own mind, whether it might one day also go, and what that might mean, as there is no strong tower next to me. My kids, of course, have promised that they will honor my only request, should circumstance require, of a room with a view of anything besides another wall. A place where they don’t pretend decaf is coffee.

My friend suspected what what coming for her; her own mother slowly faded into dementia, and the prayers we prayed, that she would have a different fate, have not been answered in the way we had hoped.

Both of my own parents had a similar end.

It’s too soon to be afraid.

We must not lose heart.

If this Jesus is real, the One who tells us over and over and over again fear not, little flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom, then I know that one day, some day, I will sit with her once again, surrounded by the children she loved so well, and she will be wholly, beautifully, joyfully there.

After The End

I miss pilgrim meals.

I’ve been back from the Camino de Santiago for a few weeks now, and although I re-familiarizing myself with my own kitchen, I am unable to replicate the feeling of sitting down after a long day’s walk to bowls of savory soup, baskets of bread, plates of rice and seafood, pollo and patatas, a bottle of wine and a glass.

The first time this happened, as I sat at a table alone, I wondered if there had been some mistake – did the waitress think I was expecting someone else?

So. Much. Food.

But I soon came to appreciate the rejuvenative nature of these hearty meals for the next day’s miles.

I’m still processing all of the things-I-miss from my time in Spain.

There are actually whole books written about the post-Camino experience. Author Karin Kaiser writes in After the Camino: Your Pocket Guide to Integrating the Camino de Santiago into Your Daily Life, “The Camino isn’t something you do to check off a bucket list and return to your life as if nothing happened. Something did happen. The person who started the Camino is no longer the same person who finished it.”

Given that this Camino, my first, had been an unexpected gift, it was not unusual that when I arrived in Santiago, I did not, like so many before me, want it to end.

Luckily, many pilgrims choose to head to the coast after reaching Santiago, to Finisterre, which translates to “The End of the World.”

So early morning, on the day after I arrived in Santiago, I headed back out to cross the Cathedral plaza and walk the three days to the coast.

It was lovely to have the plaza almost all to myself after the chaos of the day before. I joined a party still in progress as bridesmaids celebrated with the soon-to-be-bride; invited to sign her shirt, we laughed together as she hugged her momma in joy.

They insisted on taking my picture in front of the Cathedral, and their energy carried me the rest of the way out of town.

One thing I wanted to do before I left Spain was swim in the ocean; having lived much of my life close to the Atlantic, it seemed fit to try to find a place where, if I looked out across the swells, I could imagine seeing home.

I walked long that first day, 47K, hoping to set myself up to reach the port town of Cee. Unfortunately, their beach turned out to be a shallow, seaweed-laden, plastic trash soup, so I needed another plan. The beach on the approach to Finisterre would have worked, but the chilly air and my eagerness to reach the iconic lighthouse kept me moving.

I decided not to stay overnight in Finisterre, as most pilgrims do, as it was a bit too people-y; despite brief encounters with others from around the world, I remained a most solitary pilgrim.

I did spend a few hours on the rocky cliffs at The End of the World, taking pictures and watching mists shape shift across the sea.

But there was one place left to visit, and my feet just wanted to keep walking, 27K north of Finisterre, to the tiny town of Muxia. It seemed much more my type of end, quieter, and the last place listed in my guidebook.

The trail hugged the coast through forest and farm, giving glimpses of water and wave. At last it popped out onto the road into Muxia, and I couldn’t believe my luck.

A vast expanse of deserted sand, cobalt blue surf, a path leading down. Time to swim.

Matthew writes that Jesus’s disciples were “amazed” when he calmed the storm, but not a peep about when he healed a leper. Was this smaller on the miraculous scale? Do we ignore minor miracles in our earnest expectation of the one for which we wait? After asking for the how-many-ith-time, do our hearts turn hard at the not-yet?

O, if we could only wait! Un-stone our hearts, watch with assurance, rejoice when it arrives.

“My” beach was perfect, all the more for the wait, and I didn’t even mind when I had to share.

One tradition many pilgrims participate in is bringing a small cross or stone to Spain, symbolically leaving them at one of the many shrines along The Way in remembrance of a loved one or a burden they would like to shed.

I decided, since my oldest son could no longer walk an earthly path, to bring a stone back to him; climbing back off the beach, I spied one, lovely in shape and heft, and carryied it with me to the end. When I got home, it was a beautiful complement to the granite of his gravestone.

Muxia held other miracles. Sunsets, scallops. A strange monument, harkening back to the Celts. I milked Muxia of everything I could; my Camino was near to its end.

Home now, there are things I miss too numerous to count. Most of all, I miss the daily adventure, the not-knowing of where you will end up, the miracles around every turn. But we cannot live like that forever. Not here, on this plain, at least.

Though I brought with me no rock, I did manage to leave some other things behind: one traitorous sock, then another, as they rent and tore from the daily exertion. Grief and heaviness, past pains. Fears and insecurities – gone as I navigated Europe – busses, trains, post offices, menus, and maps – alone, armed with only a language and a half, my own skin now enough.

Something did happen. The person who started the Camino is no longer the same person who finished it.

It’s time to wait again, for another Camino, perhaps, or something else I know not what.

Is his perfect timing about to find us? We will never know, until it does.

After The End.

On Following The Way

A few years ago, I had planned on walking the Camino de Santiago with my cousin. At the time, all I knew about the Camino was gleaned from watching Martin Sheen in The Way and from listening to a few others at my school who had walked it.

When they spoke of The Camino, I had assumed there was only one, from the border of France across the north of Spain, and when Covid cancelled all the plans my cousin and I had made, I turned to other long walks in the hopes that one day we might find another window of time to make the pilgrimage.

Unexpectedly, this May I was invited to accompany my best friend on a brief foray to Germany and dreams of The Way came flooding back.

With a new job, my cousin would be unable to accompany me, but in the meantime, I discovered that there are scores of Caminos of varying lengths from compass points all over Europe; I could pick another and save the route from France for a future time with her. Why waste an already booked flight which was taking me only two countries away?

I decided on the Camino Primitivo, largely because it was described as one of the more mountainous routes and a lesser traveled one. I could fly into Aviles, a city which is on the Camino del Norte, walk backwards (away from Santiago de Compostelo) on the Norte, and pick up the Primitivo in Villaviciosa.

Credencial in hand, I left Aviles in the early hours of June 25 following the iconic scallop shells and yellow arrows that mark the route. For two days, until I reached the Primitivo, everyone I met would ask me if I was going the wrong way. I’d just smile and assure them that The Way I was going was the right way for me.

One wonderful thing about the Camino are the albergues and hostels pilgrims stay in every night and the small cafes and grocers spaced throughout the day. I needed only to carry some simple clothing and a few other essentials, making it the most luxurious thru-hike I have ever done.

I loved getting up early every morning, tip-toeing out of the bunkroom so as not to wake my fellow pilgrims, and walking the first few cool hours in the dark mist, moonset and sunrise engaged in a duel of beauty.

Spain tends to stay up quite late and sleep in, so I cherished these quiet moments alone on The Way waiting for the first shop to open to stop in for a cafe con leche grande and the delicious extras that always accompanied it.

Although it was harder to find markings in the dark, I found myself unbothered when I wasn’t sure which way to turn; feet at one shell, I’d inch a few tentative steps forward until the next one appeared; I reminded myself that I was a pilgrim and must do pilgrim-y things, like launching out in faith even when the road ahead was uncertain.

I forced myself to slow down. To find the sacred.

Sometimes it was revealed in ruins, evidence of the relentless taptaptap of time.

Other times it was a kitten, tiny delight with a broken tail, begging me to take her with me.

The hills of Spain felt like God’s holy temple, and every day He surprised me by His intimate care.

Like a monastery albergue, where I met Richard from Quebec and Noel from Australia, each of us speaking wildly disparate English as we shared a week or so of gentle company.

Or a town water fountain just as I was about to run out.

A sello stand in the middle of nowhere when I hadn’t found any place to stamp my credencial all day.

Fairytale forests.

A cheese-loving cat to share my lunch.

Lush flowers, Roman bridges, horses grazing a hillside, mysterious doors, and small stone churches, candles ablaze, causing me to weep.

One morning, I came across a vending station in a tiny hamlet, but no coffee dispensed after paying my euro. Noel happened by, and as we chatted, the owner of the machine walked in. Unable to fix the problem, she ran instead to her house and brewed us both fresh coffee, served on a tray with a pitcher of cream.

I could have kissed her.

One night, we pilgrims fall asleep to the mournful moos of momma cows newly separated from their babies. Another morning, I sit eating second breakfast at a road crossing, enthralled as wafts of steam evaporate from the asphalt.

Everywhere, beauty.

In the ancient Roman town of Lugo, I walk the city walls and find an English language paperback at a market stall to replace the one I was just about to finish.

When the Primitivo finally joins the French Way in the town of Melide, a day and a half from Santiago de Compostela, I am unprepared for the hordes of pilgrims completing the final stages.

It’s disorienting to walk next to tour busses and taxis ferrying luggage, singing and cheering, music blaring over bluetooth speakers; I’m initially quite grumpy.

Who are all you people?

Perhaps the noisy crowd is why the closer we get to Santiago, we begin to see neighborhoods displaying protest signs. The mobile party coming through every day must be a lot for the residents.

But are not all these souls pilgrims? Are they not also following The Way?

I force my critical heart around and begin to give thanks for all those pilgrim feet, traveling the hot and dusty road into the city.

And just in time – peeking out between the apartments and businesses that line the street is my first glimpse of the iconic Cathedral tower.

Pilgrims buzz by me as I lose my breath, hands on knees. Wasn’t expecting that.

Straightening up, I become singularly focused – get to the plaza.

Crosswalks are torture, as are mothers with strollers, old couples arm in arm, men on corners smoking. Please let me by!

Bagpipes play as I round the final corner and the Cathedral appears.

Pilgrims are everywhere, all of us in similar states of relief, euphoria, confusion, and despair.

Over? How can it be over?

I wander around, doing the things I know I should do. Go to the Pilgrim Office to receive my Compostela. Tour the Cathedral. Get in line to hug the statue of Saint James.

Offer to take others’ pictures. Ask someone to take my own.

I know I should feel something – what? – more.

But all I really want to do is keep walking.

So that is what I do.

Why have you chosen to follow The Way? This is the question most pilgrims ask one another when they meet.

For me, it was an unexpected gift to hike The Camino this summer.

I felt God’s protective and loving presence in myriad forms, every day, and I learned to trust Him, not begrudgingly as I often have in the past, but in eager anticipation of His goodness, wisdom, artistry, and love.

Following The Way was to experience what the prophet Isaiah described hundreds of years before there even was a Way:

But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

On This Side

On the way up Old Bridle Path, leading to Mt. Lafayette, New Hampshire’s sixth tallest mountain, there is a place on the trail where the trees part.

From there, you can look up and see a series of humps, a roller coaster of lesser crests which are the gateway to the 5,260′ rocky crown of Lafayette.

It’s a daunting view.

You know you have to haul yourself up there, over those hellish hills, if you ever want to stand on top and look down, across all of Franconia Notch and beyond.

Along the way, head down, you grasp and claw, finding what beauty you can between the sweat and heavy breathing.

Until at last.

As I write this, I think of how seven years ago on this day, I went about my life as if nothing were amiss. Not knowing what was to come, two days hence. It was uncommon grace, the not-knowing.

I look under the bed and see his backpack stored there, the one he had forgotten at his friend’s house from that day. He left so little behind.

All it contained was a sock ball and a pair of worn out Chuck Taylors. It’s how he lived his earth-bound life and after, he simply didn’t need it where he was going.

He had only new ahead, a glorious death, like the life of an autumn leaf. Burnished gold or orange or red, a fall, then the waiting. For us. For me.

But unlike the leaf, his eternal self (I don’t pretend to know when, or how) will not contain even a cell of decay.

Not. One. Cell.

On this side, things continue to happen, good things and hard, heedless to the one who is gone.

I have to admit, it is sometimes a daunting view, from this side.

I cannot do it alone as I wait, but I am grateful for the One who holds my hand and listens as I haul and breathe, crest after crest, on the way to until.

Grateful, for He listens as I pray – for a sweeter disposition, for living bread that satisfies, for redemption, for friends, for peace, for plans. For my kids and the littles, for this lonely ache, for temptations, boredom, and pain.

I think of the seed that was my son. Planted here, on this side, a brief blooming, but full of the all any mother would want. Sweetness and honor, devotion and warmth.

Each of us is also a seed, each a potential to reproduce – hope, love, help. Eternal friendships, eternal family, eternal joy.

Seven years ago, two days from now, I lost my son from this side.

It’s okay.

I know he’s waiting.