I awoke in Barcelos
to the crow of an imaginary rooster,
calling me from sleep
and back towards the cave of my heart.
But pain had awakened before me.
It waited inside my right knee,
whispering that I should abandon the road
and separate myself from the group.
Fear quickly became worry.
Worry began drawing me towards desolation,
where every difficulty appeared larger
and every remaining kilometre felt impossible.
Still, my companions were preparing to walk.
Their presence called me beyond myself.
I rose and joined the community,
carrying both my desire and my doubt.
We set out together for Ponte de Lima,
following the familiar yellow arrows.
They appeared along walls and pathways
like small sacraments pointing us towards Christ.
When we wandered from the route,
local strangers welcomed and redirected us.
Their kindness became another kind of arrow,
guiding us back towards the way.
One pilgrim offered a simple wisdom:
“When you are on your way
and you lose connection,
it is time for reflection.”
I had lost the connection on my phone,
but the words reached somewhere deeper.
What other connections had I lost
while trying to remain connected?
Along the road, villagers greeted us.
Church bells rang across the countryside,
reminding me that every hour is sacred
and every moment belongs to God.
The Chapels of Santa Cruz
stood quietly along the route.
They reminded me that the inward journey
also travels along the way of the Cross.
To enter the cave of my heart
is to meet what I would rather avoid:
my wounds, my fears, my hidden judgments,
and the crosses I have resisted carrying.
The September sun grew fierce above us.
Someone looked into its scorching brightness
and exclaimed, “Look at how
God is smiling at us.”
I thanked God for the heat of the day
and for the coolness beneath the trees.
Yet the road asked a difficult question:
“Do you prefer shade to security?”
Would I remain on the marked path
beneath the full strength of the sun,
or follow an uncertain trail
simply because it promised shade?
Around me, creation spoke in contrasts:
grapes ripened on one side of the road,
while discarded garbage ripened on the other—
fruitfulness and neglect sharing the same earth.
Still, there was beauty in the barren:
life emerging from hardened places,
colour breaking through dry ground,
grace refusing to wait for perfect conditions.
When I stepped into the bushes,
the stench of human waste overwhelmed me.
I wanted to hurry away
and breathe clean air again.
Then I remembered my African ancestors,
confined for months within slave ships,
forced to breathe the stench of human waste
without room to turn or move away.
I could leave that place freely.
They could not leave the ship’s hold.
So I paused and received the smell
as a brief and painful act of remembrance.
The road continued beneath the burning sun.
Seventeen kilometres entered our bodies
through aching knees, weary backs
and feet bruised by the unyielding ground.
The final stretch was laid with cobblestones.
Each stone pressed against our tired feet.
A pilgrim’s words became painfully true:
“No matter how hard life is, cobblestone harder than life.”
Complaints also travelled among us.
When one companion began his litany,
judgment rose quickly within me
and compassion fell behind.
The cave of my heart opened again.
Inside it, I saw my impatience
and my failure to recognise
another person’s pain beneath his words.
Lord, teach me to hear a complaint
as more than an irritation.
Help me listen for the wounded body,
the fear and exhaustion hidden within it.
Night began to surround us.
I walked among the final pilgrims,
our bodies pleading for the journey to end
while the road continued beneath our feet.
I remembered my ancestors
who endured suffering beyond my imagining.
I asked them to accompany me
and to lend courage to my faltering steps.
Their endurance did not erase my pain.
It placed my pain within a larger story.
I received their memory as strength
and continued walking through the darkness.
Before I could clearly see the Rio Lima,
I heard the rushing of its waters.
Its sound reached my aching soul
before my eyes could find the river.
The river offered no explanation.
It simply flowed beside my weariness,
washing the dust from my spirit
and soothing my wounded feet from a distance.
Then the bridge appeared—
Ponte de Lima, the bridge over the Lima—
stretching across the troubled waters
at the end of our gruelling day.
I recognised God in that bridge:
steady beneath our exhausted bodies,
carrying us over the waters
we no longer had strength to cross alone.
Lord, become the bridge within me.
Carry me from judgment to compassion,
from fear to trust,
and from isolation back to community.
When pain makes me want to abandon the road,
remind me that grace may first be heard
like a river flowing in the darkness
before it can be clearly seen.
I arrived in Ponte de Lima at night,
weary, aching and grateful.
The treasure I found within the cave
was the God who had walked every step with us.
