Cruz de Ferro
a quick hello and some thoughts on the prayers of pilgrims
Eric and I returned last night from our honeymoon walking the Camino de Santiago.
We walked 560 miles from the edge of France, over the the Pyrenees, across Spain to Santiago de Compostela then to the ocean and very tip of the Iberian Peninsula. (I’ll be starting a short series of posts soon for subscribers interested in the Camino!)
Pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago carry with them many things: water, blister care products, trail snacks and, for the first several hundred miles, a stone. Having carried the weight of our mistakes, and our grief and our desires and our regrets for so many miles, we (and countless pilgrims before us) leave them behind at the top of a mountain at Cruz de Ferro (the iron cross).
Both times I have stood at this sacred place I have wept. It’s like standing on a mountain comprised of human grief and regret and perhaps in some cases, also hope. This time, seeing stones on which are written names and prayers and pleas for forgiveness - seeing an empty wine bottle and a small baggie of prescription pills, I wondered about each person’s story.
Trust me when I tell you that you feel every once of weight in your backpack when you are carrying it for hundreds of miles, so there is something particularly moving about the very large rocks left behind at Cruz de Ferro. Yes, I had my own prayer I left there, my own crap I am (hopefully) ready to hand over to God. But to this personal prayer I found myself adding another: that none of us take it back. That we who have finally found the willingness to ask for help, also find the willingness to let the help come, no matter the form. It’s just too easy to cling to the shitty little payoffs we get for holding onto that which no longer serves us.
These little prayers could have been left by someone I find annoying. Or someone whose politics I find abhorrent. But none of that shit matters here. Here there is only deep, human longing; a crying out for something bigger than our remorse and failure, bigger than our loss and sorrow, bigger than addiction and cancer and grievance. Here, countless fellow humans have reached for God - whether named as such or not, and said, “help”.
Help.
Unburden me.
Forgive me.
See me.
Intercede for me.
What would you write on a stone you must carry for hundreds of miles before leaving it at a holy site?
Thank you, dear readers, for still being here after my 6 weeks away. I hope you enjoyed my lovely friends who stepped in to keep The Corners going!
I am jetlagged and bleary, but mostly I am just deeply grateful.
More soon!
Love, Nadia
Welcome home, Nadia! I'm so glad this post is available to share. I'm going to print it out and take it to my therapy group. It's court-ordered therapy. We are all on parole or probation for sexual offenses. I've grown to love these people. Many are addicts, as I am. Many are in recovery and have been sober for some years, as I have. They are broken but mending. They have made terrible choices and inflicted great harm. They carry shame along with remorse. They are learning and growing and getting better. And I see their beautiful souls.
Now, having written that about "them," I see myself. To be with them is to be with kindred. I belong with them, not only because of my crime and the harm I did, but also because I share with them both brokenness and healing. And I am starting to see beauty within myself. That is to say, I am a child of God, worthy of love, as they are - as we are. As you are. Just as we are.
The first thing that came to mind after I read your question, " What would you write on a stone you must carry for hundreds of miles before leaving it at a holy site?" was "Thank YOU!" I don't know if that makes sense really, but it kind of does to me on many levels. By the way, I just gave up alcohol to buddy up with a neighbor who must give up alcohol or die younger than he has to. Please pray for both of us. Love having you back, Pastor Nadia. Marriage looks good on you! Wear it well.