Camino Tales: The Kindness of Strangers and The Perils of Sweaty Feet

Originally written on June 22nd 2013, day 18 of walking.

I left my last post with the hope that I would regain feeling in my toes. This hope has been greatly undermined by the blisters forming and bursting on my feet, and producing many tears. The "hilly" hike of day 11 resulted in a chance meeting of a French couple to whom I will always be grateful for. After the first 15km of that day, we decided to stop at some picnic tables at the top of the first big hill. I took my shoes and socks off to dry out my feet. There was a French couple at a picnic table nearby, and the woman asked me in French if I had bad feet (two words which were similar enough to two Spanish words that were in my limited Spanish vocabulary). When I replied in the affirmative, she came right over to our table to take a look. The gasps of concern were humorous and really quite touching. With Adilene translating, she asked for my needle and thread and used her own gauze, tape, and betadine to clean up my feet. Blister after blister, with gasps and swears coming from her husband standing behind her, she cleaned my feet, unfazed. The blister underneath my big toenail even squirted out onto her at one point. "She wants to know if you have any more," Adilene kept telling me. Two days later we saw her again in Burgos and she immediately asked to see my feet. Unfortunately for me, some blisters were infected. Marielle, whose name we asked later that day, said that if it were her daughter, she would tell her to go to the hospital to get cleaned up and advice.

The hospital incident was unfortunate to put it lightly, but the kindness of Marielle is something I will never forget. She gave us her information and invited us to visit her in France. And with a big hug we said goodbye. The nurse advised I take one to three rest days - so we stayed one extra day in Burgos.
It's interesting how we can be dealing with something so painful and Christ shows up to comfort us through the love of other human beings. It's easy to miss his presence when we are in such pain. On the way into Burgos, before the hospital, after our first meeting with Marielle, we decided to leave at 5:30 am. We knew Burgos was supposed to be a cool city so we wanted to get there before noon. The first 5km consisted of an extremely rocky terrain - big white rocks sticking out of the ground with no relief in sight. As we climbed a hill of these rocks I kept thinking "Why is it so rocky? This is so painful; God, why is this path so rocky?" At the top of the hill Adilene and Jael stood waiting for me. Seeing my face, Adilene asked if I was ok - I burst into sobs and cried in Adilene's arms for about thirty seconds, barely able to get out that it was the rocky path and my blisters that were causing the tears.
At the top of that hill there was a big cross, and I vaguely thought about the fact that it was not comforting at all as I cried in Adilene's arms. And as I whimpered down the hill and for the next 5km, I barely noticed the beauty of the sun rising and the reflecting lights of Burgos in the distance. C.S. Lewis wrote, "It's hard to see clearly when your eyes are blurred with tears" in his book A Grief Observed. I resented that comment when I first read it. I felt like he was sying that I needed to stop crying or that if I could see the situation clearly, I wouldn't be crying. I still think that it is alright to cry, but I've come to realize that it is the reflection and acknowledgment of Christ's presence that begins to bring healing. If we are only focusing on our pain, we cannot do that. Sometimes there is a huge cross right behind you, representing all the pain and suffering Christ endured, and you're too busy crying about the wounds you've gotten along the way to acknowledge it. But then Marielle shows up again and points you in the right direction, which might be the hospital - sometimes we need a little more direct kind of healing.

The Distance Is What You Make It

I've been traveling around Europe since May 10th and have settled in Büsingen, Germany until I meet up with a group from San Diego First Church of the Nazarene to go to a monastery in Taize, France on Sunday.
I wasn't planning to blog my whole trip, but I did want to write about a certain large piece of it. Starting on June 5th, along with two other friends, I started El Camino de Santiago. We started from St. Jean Pied de Port, France and walked 790km to Santiago, Spain. I thought with all that reflection time I would write a lot in my journal and come up with multiple blog posts to write when I finished. It turns out after walking 20 to 30km, you don't always feel like writing down what you thought about or experienced - sometimes because it was almost exactly the same as the day before, sometimes because you were too tired, and sometimes because you would rather go hang out with new friends. After walking the first week, I decided I would write something to post every ten days. I wrote two things meant to be posted; the trip took us 33 days. Nevertheless, here is the first one, and after I post the second one I'll still write more about the walk - it just won't be as in the moment.
A Ten Day Reflection. Friday June 14th, 2013 3:57 pm
After walking for ten days straight I've realized that my nonspecific expectation that the walk was going to be hard has been specified. The first day is said to be the most difficult because we hiked the Pyrenees mountains. And after we finished the first day I agreed, thinking "yeah, that's the hardest thing I've ever done." But it was also new and beautiful and exciting. The second, third and fourth day were painful. The fifth day was looking up, and by the sixth and seventh day I thought we were getting the hang of this thing. Though don't get my wrong, as of right now my blister count is around nine. Honestly, it's impressive how tore up my feet are. Day 8 brought misery. Thirty kilometers - the longest we have had to walk so far - and thirty degrees Celsius - the hottest it has been so far. By 12:30 we had 10km left, making good time, going into the hottest part of the day. And then we took a wrong turn with some Irish girls. To get a sense of how hot it was at this time: a small blister between my toes on my right foot soon became not so small and burst as I was walking. This was a first time experience. We ended up being lost for about two hours - walking at least an extra 6-8km. By the time we got to Najera (the town we were stopping in) it was 6pm. It was this day that my big toes lost most feeling and have yet to regain it.
During the painful, hot or just miserable days I find myself asking "Why am I doing this?" "Why am I getting up every day and walking at least 13 miles?" I tend to forget that I agreed to this in the fall, and blame it on the event(s) that occurred this last January in my home town and church. "You made me do this," I curse my former you pastor. "It's because of you that I need to walk 500 miles and figure out my life." But it's not - really, it's pretty perfect the timing of this trip. Like I said, I agreed to this last fall, before my world and faith were shaken.
Obviously this walk is a metaphor for life's journey. Getting lost in the heat the eighth day felt a lot like getting lost this last semester. I vividly remember a day in late January/early February, after a phone call from a friend from home, keeping me updated on what new information was coming out about the event. I walked into my empty apartment, set my Brothers Karamozov on the kitchen counter and cried. As I cried, I imagined myself slamming the book on the floor in anger. I didn't. I never actually throw things when I'm upset. But it was a similar feeling that came to me as we realized how far we had to back track to get on the right pat to Najera that day. Tears welled up in my eyes and as I heard Adilene tell me it was ok to cry, I saw myself breaking my stick against the hot ground in anger and frustration. But we made it to Najera - thirsty, sunburned, blistered, and sore. But we made it. I don't know if I've made it out of the lost feeling of the last semester yet, but I think I will.
More than the difficulty and pain of walking, it's been the kindness of the people you meet along the way that effects you. In our frustration on Day 2 of not being able to find room in a hostel, we were able to get a phone number of a hostel in the town before. The young woman who ran it drove the 5km to pick us up so we didn't have to walk back. She also happened to be a physical therapist and was able to tell me that my right lower back/hip hurt so badly because I had been unconsciously walking weird to take pressure off my knee after having surgery last August. She gave me a stretch to do multiple times a day and it has helped enormously. Whether it's been a group of people to talk with, eat with, laugh with, share your pain with, or feel encouraged with - all are found along the way. Days 9 and 10 have been shorter days, but day 11 is coming with a 27 km "hilly" hike. With any luck I'll regain some feeling in my big toes, but probably not.

THE GREAT ICONOCLAST

I am the Great Iconoclast.
Beware of what you hold dear.
I am the Great Iconoclast.
You have every reason to fear
- me.

What you thought was true,
What you thought was right,
Oh how I'll make you wish
You didn't hold such thing so tight
- ly.

When you least expect it
Truths so embedded you've never questioned
People you held so high-
never thought were destined
- to be

The Great Iconoclast.
Beware wife.
I am the Great Iconoclast.
I'll ruin your life.

The Definition of HOPE

The word hope in the English language has become kind of like the word love: it has the capacity to mean so much more than the way we use it.

Example: I hope the caf has bacon today.
Translation: I really want the caf to have bacon today. I wish the caf would have bacon today. Fingers crossed!

Now, that example is a very real desire of mine every time I eat breakfast in the caf. But as I've been pondering the word hope, I've come to realize that we've been misusing it.

Ron Benefiel, my Life of Holiness (Christian general ed class) professor, speaks of Christian hope as being focused on the end result - the return of Christ. We are not wishing for things to get better in our lives when we say that we have hope. We are focusing on the end result. We are focusing on the belief that one day, whether it be in our lifetime or not, Christ will reign on earth and restore this horrible place to a place of His kingdom.

I claim that one of my favorite verses is Hebrews 11:1 "Faith is being sure of what we hope for and believing in what we cannot see." Taking in the Christian's definition of hope then, this verse is not saying faith is being sure of what we wish for. It is saying faith is being sure of Christ's return and the Kingdom of Heaven coming to earth to restore all things.

And here is where Ivan Karamazov comes in. Currently, I'm reading The Brothers Karamazov in my continental lit class. In the novel Ivan asks his brother Alyosha how he can accept a God that allows the torture and abuse of children. The bad outweighs the good for Ivan, and so he tells God that he respectfully returns his ticket. He believes in God and recognizes that God gives humanity life, but Ivan cannot accept God because of the horrors of humanity.

So I have this hope. The Kingdom of God is at hand. But, as Ivan asks, what about the children? What about the horrors of humanity? What are we to do until then? How can I be so sure that the good outweighs the bad in the end?

Now, I know all the "right" answers to these questions. So please, don't try to answer them for me. I'm just still in the process of accepting those answers. I haven't yet given up my ticket.

Who Has Time For Blogs These Dayzzzz

I've been obsessed with identity these days. It's the theme I find in all the books I'm reading because if I'm searching for my identity then the characters I'm reading about are too. Obviously.
Coming into senior I said, I don't want to graduate. ever. Now I'm saying I'm so tired. I just want to be done. But I can't. I want to say DGAF like most other seniors around me, but here's the problem: I do give a F****.
My favorite professor told me the other day that I can write B+ papers in my sleep, but I need to push myself to write an A paper. I need to write something significant.
My favorite professor, in the nicest way possible, told me what I write is insignificant. Of course he was saying that I have the potential to do better, that he knows I'm busy, but he also knows I can get As. It's a good push and I'm grateful for him and for that. But at the same time, it poked a hole in my academic self esteem. So much so that when my least favorite professor gave me my like fifth straight B on a paper, I had a minor breakdown in my friend, Ian's, office. Luckily he made it out in time before the water works came.
If I'm not good at academics, what am I?

I was at a party the other weekend and a friend offered me a cigarette. When I said no, he joked and said that he wouldn't offer it to anyone else, just me. He wouldn't offer it to Erin, she's too pure. He wouldn't want to ruin her pureness. But not me, he would offer it to me.
If I'm not pure, what am I?

I have come to realize that when things that I hold true about myself begin to be questioned, I can't handle it. In this search for what the hell I'm going to do with my life when I get out of this place, a small shake in what I thought was sound, is a bigger deal than it should be.

But in all of this, I'm lucky to have people around me who love God. I meet with a woman named, Wendy Kessler, every week and she has been talking about how in situations where we can't see hope or can't see how things are going to work out, she asks God to give her a glimpse of how He is working. I'm not that good at seeing the glimpses yet, but luckily for me as I share my life with Wendy, she is able to point them out to me.

May we be a people that look for and live off glimpses of God in the world around us.

Explanatory story.

Last week we had to write a story in which a character has a thing that they are good at and we have to explain with out telling, how they became good at said thing. I got my story back today from my professor and he loved it. It was supposed to be around 250 words. I'm so happy that I have to post it. It's a pretty sad story, but I'm excited to explore this character further.
Here it is. There's no title. Forgive any offensive language. This is rated PG 13.


“Doesn’t your dad work there?”
“No.”
Thirty six thousand six hundred and eighty two. I keep track of my lies. Otherwise, I ‘d start believing them myself. The surest way to get caught in a lie is to start mixing your story with your reality. My father taught me that.
He called my mother “Stephanie” when they were fucking. Her name is Catherine.

“How do you feel about your father’s infidelity, Julie?”
“It’s a bit cliché.”

One. I would now argue that that’s true, but I didn’t know what cliché meant back then. I had heard my aunt say it to my mother in a bitter tone and I thought it sounded clever.

“Cliché? You may be the first eleven year old I’ve heard use that word.”
“I’m also the first eleven year old with a cheating father that is not going to have daddy issues.”

Two. I head heard my mother tell my aunt that was the one thing she wasn’t going to be able to handle: “Julie having daddy issues.” I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what that meant at eleven either, but I made a decision right then and there that if it were to happen, my mother would never be able to tell.

And she hasn’t. No one has. I am a straight A student, involved in student government, and the star of my JV volleyball team. I am the perfect sixteen year old daughter.
The only person that could know is my coach Mr. Aldridge. But he’s too busy molesting me in the locker room.

“How do you feel about being sexually involved with your volleyball coach, Julie?”
“It’s a bit cliché.”

Stories.

I'm in a creative writing fiction class this semester. So far, I love it. I have written some good things and some dumb things. I have decided to share the things that I'm proud of. Last week my friend published my double nickle story in the school paper. I felt pretty honored. A double nickle is a story that is 55 words. No more no less. Quite a challenge, and it definitely took me a few tries to get one that I really liked. So here it is:

One hundred dollars for groceries, for a family of four, for one month. My daughter reaches for the Lunchables. "Dad please?" But when we get to the check out, we're five dollars over. It's the Lunchables or the cigarettes. I look at my wife. She distracts our daughter while I ditch the Lunchables.



This was part of two other double nickles all of which I titled and turned in "People of Walmart." The others weren't that good. But I will post more stuff as time goes on - length and style depending on the assignment.
Hope you enjoy.