The Iron Cross on the Camino

It was raining when we saw the big cross. In the distance. We’d been told about the cross. We knew it was near. Everyone on the trail had been talking about it.

It’s called the Iron Cross. Or “Cruz de Ferro.” It sits on the trail, located at the highest point of the Camino de Santiago, between Foncebadón and Manjarín. It’s tall, really tall. And surrounded by a massive mound of rocks.

We pilgrims had our rocks in our pockets, intended for leaving at the cross. It’s a tradition. The rocks represent your burdens. You’re supposed to pick out a few rocks when you start the trail, carry them for weeks on the Camino, then leave them at the cross. It’s symbolic. And, if I’m being honest, a little cheesy.

But everyone does it. So you must join them. Some people even bring rocks from home. They carry them on the plane and everything. Try explaining this to the TSA personnel.

The rain picked up tempo. My 5X palm leaf cowboy hat was dripping at the brim. The cowboy hat had been a Godsend on the trail. You never realize how functional a cowboy hat is until you wear one in the rain.

I’ve been wearing a cowboy hat since I was a boy. My father wore cowboy hats, and he wore them non-ironically. He came from farmers and cattlemen. It’s just what they did.

I stepped up to the cross. I reached into my pocket for my rocks.

When you view the mound of stones up close it will move you. Many stones are decorated with artwork. There are photographs. Hair ribbons. Baby shoes. Notecards. Wedding rings. There are farewells to loved ones, written on looseleaf pages, covered in cursive.

I placed my rocks at the cross. I had three. It doesn’t matter what they represent. But it’s a funny thing about carrying rocks. They sit in your pocket for so many weeks, they become like old friends. And even though they’re heavy, they’re YOUR rocks. You don’t really want to let them go.

But you must. So I did. I tossed my pebbles at the foot of the cross. I spent maybe 15 minutes there. Then, I turned to walk away.

That’s when I felt a voice.

I didn’t HEAR the voice. I felt it. It was in my chest. Like the sound of your mom’s voice, when she’s waking you up for school, and you’re still caught between sleepworld and reality. The voice reverberates across both worlds. Your mom is saying your name in a motherly tone, gently shaking you awake. It was that kind of voice.

I stared at the mound of rocks.

“You have one more burden to leave,” the voice said.

That’s when I knew the cross wanted my hat.

This hat was my dad’s. Sort of. I bought this hat when I visited his hometown, decades ago. I visited his hometown for the sole purpose of forgiving him, so it was significant for me.

I bought the hat in a desperate attempt to forgive my dad for decades of domestic abuse, for trying to kill my mother, for killing himself at the age of 42. For making me a freak among my peers. For ruining our homelife with gun violence and incarceration. For giving me what therapists would term PTSD. For holding me and my sister hostage during his last night on earth, until the sheriff’s department stepped in.

I removed my hat.

I just held it in my hands for a little while. It was heavier than I remembered. The hat was faded from years of sunlight, rain, and sweat. The hat has gone with me everywhere. Hiked every trail with me. Accompanied me on every road trip. I’ve worn this hat in almost every US state.

I wept. But they weren’t tears of sorrow. They were tears of another origin. I don’t exactly know how to describe them. They weren’t joyous tears, but they felt good. Neither were they angry tears, but they tasted bitter.

The voice was telling me that this hat is my pain. I carry this pain with me, every day, and I do it by choice.

I’ve been obsessed with my pain for years. I’ve been so preoccupied with it that it’s made me almost narcissistic. I’ve let pain make me self-righteous. I’ve let pain cause me to see myself as a perpetual victim. I’ve let pain fester inside me and grow infected. I’ve let pain make me afraid.

I put the hat down.

I heaved and cried until I couldn’t see anymore. Then, I staggered off the hill of stones. Nearby pilgrims kept asking if I was okay. I smiled, wiped my face, and said I was okay.

And this time, maybe for the first time in my whole life, I meant it

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