We entered Santiago de Compostela at 2:11 p.m. On foot. We’d been hiking since sunup. Our pace was slow. Our clothes, threadbare. I was muttering the 23rd Psalm—a kind of private meditation on the trail.
Two tired pilgrims. Thirty-six days on the trail. Five hundred miles. Thousands of public toilets, none of which have been properly cleaned since the installation of the previous pope.
We looked bad. Smelled bad. Felt good. Splintered rubber, flaking from our soles. Mud-frosted backpacks. Athletic tape, wrapped tightly around my shin-splinted legs.
For a brief moment, hobbling into Santiago, I wasn’t sure which century we were in. Were we modernized American tourists, trudging across 21st-century Spain, with smartphones in our pockets? Or were we 9th-century pilgrims, desperate and tattered, clad in sandals, clambering to see the remains of history’s first martyred apostle?
I really couldn’t tell you.
The cobblestone streets beneath us were ancient, polished smooth from centuries of Reeboks. The crowded sidewalk cafès were serving lunch. Café customers were applauding us pilgrims as we marched slowly past.
“Vaya!” people were shouting with glee. Shouting and cheering. “Ya estás casi ahí!”
At once I saw the ornate campana towers, high in the distance. Taller than everything else. Reaching into the clouds.
“I can see it!” Jamie shouted. “I see the cathedral tower!”
I started crying. I don’t know why.
“There it is!” said a few pilgrims.
Everyone’s pace increased.
Obradoiro Square was crowded with pilgrims. Thousands. Everywhere. Some lying on the pavement, smoking cigarettes, or taking naps with heads resting on their packs.
Most were new pilgrims, who just started the trail a few days ago. Young. Cheerful. Still fresh. FaceTiming loved ones. Taking mass selfies. Slapping each other on the backs. Howling loudly, as though their newly declared academic major was laughter.
But there were also long-term pilgrims among the crowd. You could spot us by the bags beneath our eyes, mud on our packs, the hangdog looks on our faces, and the gentle glow of awe that surrounded us.
We stood still before the medieval structure in a kind of shellshock reverence.
Due to my lower-leg injuries, my remaining stretch of my Camino had taken much longer than it takes most pilgrims. Within the last five days I spent 70 hours walking, whereas many might have done it in 25 hours. I leaned on a cane for most of the way while other pilgrims flew past me. I recited the 23rd Psalm just to keep my mind occupied.
Pilgrims would see me aside the trail, struggling, and say, “You can do it!” Each in his is her own language.
The cathedral stood high into an impossibly blue sky. I nearly fell to my knees. Not out of exhaustion. But because I was overcome. My wife was beside me. She, too, had her cross to bear. She was sick with a cold. She had been hacking and coughing along the trail for the last three days. She was sweating from a mild fever.
But we were here now.
And then came the people. All the familiar faces from the trail. The cohort of fellow pilgrims we loved along the way. We were all embracing.
There was Martin, from Switzerland, who became my trail brother. We pressed our foreheads together and cried.
Francisco and Monique, who attacked my wife and I with a four-person hug.
Julia, Germany, who wept into my shoulder because she saw tears falling from my eyes.
Coline, Belgium, whose blisters were the size of nickels. Who helped me navigate Ponferrada when I was limping badly.
Stefanie, mid-50s, Holland, who I met the very first day of our walk, back in France, some 200 years earlier.
Suzanne, a middle-aged environmentalist, Toronto, who used homeopathic remedies to treat my swollen calves; who doctored my wounded legs each morning; who prayed aloud for me while massaging my burning muscles with her gentle hands.
Jean, from France. The old man who found me hobbling on the trail when I was at my lowest. That day he stopped hiking to pray for me in his own tongue, gesturing for me to keep breathing deeply. He hugged me beneath the shadow of the great cathedral as we both laugh-cried.
And then there was Jamie. The woman I married 22 years ago. The woman with whom I have been with for more years than I’ve been without her. The star of my life. The center of my world. We, too, embraced and said not a word. No words were needed. You don’t need words when you just know.
And at this moment, I expected to feel proud. Triumphant, maybe. Like a runner who just passed the finish line. Or a guy who won a game show. I thought I’d be overjoyed with a major sense of completion.
But I felt none of these things. I felt, instead, like a beggar. A small and ragged old tramp, standing before the gates of the grandest palace in all history. Tired, a little humiliated, injured, ugly, filthy, and destitute.
But just when I couldn’t feel any less important, or any more ridiculous, or foul smelling, I see the gates to a Santiago are wide open. Open to me. A pilgrim who has been humbled greatly by his journey.
The gates are welcoming me into the most unbelievable city. A city reminiscent of another yonder city. Where there will be joy on every face. Where I will receive new clothes, new shoes for my battered feet, and my heavy pack will finally be removed.
Where the Great Shepherd will prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies. And anoint my head with oil. My cup runneth over. A place where surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. And ever.
And ever.
Share this post