10/17/2025
❤️
I think of the Camino often.
Every day, actually. The Camino sort of lives inside me. Wherever I go. Whatever I do. I think about it.
I remember who I was as I walked the ancient trail. I remember those 40 days. Living out of a backpack. Hardly any possessions. Two T-shirts. One pair of boots. I had a fiddle on my back.
I remember the camaraderie along the way. I remember how we made friends with fellow pilgrims. Deep friendships. Pilgrims from every nation. We could not speak each other’s languages, but it didn’t matter. Love is its own language.
Whenever we were together—all us pilgrims—there existed no Americans, no Russians, no Jews, no Muslims, no nationalities between us. No Black, no white, no political persuasion. We were just people.
People with basic needs. Who needed water, shoes, good sleep, and a secluded place to p*e.
And, of course, we had to eat. Which wasn’t always easy.
There was the time we were all miles from the nearest village, without enough food. So we all pooled our lunches together, sitting beneath an old oak tree.
A man from Switzerland brought a bottle of wine. A woman from Brazil had a loaf of bread. A guy from Italy had anchovies. We passed around the fish and loaves, and gave thanks. We ate all we wanted. There was enough leftovers to fill 12 backpacks.
There was the blind man I met on the trail. Walking toward the nearest village. Shuffling along on a highway, and yet, pausing to give me—me, a Big Dumb American—some encouraging words.
There was the time I was injured, when my wife and I parted ways on the trail. I compelled her to leave me, to find her own Camino. To find her own truth out there. I would follow her by cab.
I cried as she walked away. Because I wished her so much joy. So much fortune.
And yet, this act of separation felt so much like an allegory. She and I walk together. We’ve walked through life together for 22 years. But someday, one of us will have to walk without the other.
Eventually, I decided to walk the trail alone. And as my injuries kept getting worse, as I felt more alone with each step, something happened. A group of Australians prayed for me. A group of Brazilian women laid hands on my legs and prayed fervently in Portuguese.
And I realized I wasn’t alone. People were everywhere. And they all seemed to care about me. And as I reached the cathedral of Santiago de Compostella, it dawned on me.
I was never alone. I hit my knees and wept. It wasn’t a spiritual experience. It was a human one.
These people on the road to Santiago. They WERE the Camino.
I embraced all these people, whom I’d met along the way. We stood beneath the church spires of Santiago, we all held each other and wept in a massive group hug.
We loved each other, somehow. Although we had once been strangers. There was love.
We couldn’t explain why we were all crying. Nor why we were looking into each other’s eyes like family members do. But we were all feeling it. Whatever “it” is.
It was the feeling that this life isn’t what you think it is. It’s not about what you thought it was about.
Neither is life about what you believe, nor about what you don’t believe. It’s not about what you gain. It’s not about what you lose.
It’s about people. It’s always been about people.
It’s about those lying in hospitals, racked in pain upon their beds. About those stuck inside Holman Correctional Facility, trying to remember what it means to be loved.
It’s about those in nursing homes, who feel isolated and unseen. About the cashier at your local gas station. About your mailman. It’s about moms and dads. Kids and babies. About pregnant teens, dog rescuers, truck drivers, and failing students. Rich people. Poor people. About you and me.
You are the gift. You are my gift. You are the Camino.
And I just wanted you to know that.
