Padrón to Santiago
We began beneath cloudless skies in Barcelos,
in heat and dust and bright sunshine.
Nine days later, rain and wind
accompanied our final steps into Santiago de Compostela.
It was my birthday, September twenty-nine,
the feast of Michael, Gabriel and Raphael.
I carried the day into prayer
as we set out from Padrón.
We prayed the Sorrowful Mysteries
and called upon Saint Michael.
Around us, conversation flowed easily,
jovial and alive.
Inside a gully, two yellow flowering plants
recalled the arrows we had followed.
Even on this final morning,
I welcomed signs to guide me.
We had passed countless vines,
but today my eyes rested on the grapes.
The prayer at the preparation of the gifts at Mass
rose quietly within me:
fruit of the vine, work of human hands,
received through God’s goodness.
I thought of all we carried toward the altar:
our gratitude, aching bodies,
and the stories entrusted to us.
In the forest, a companion pointed
to a crucifix high in a tree trunk.
He had felt moved to turn around;
only then had he seen it.
We too turned and looked upward.
The journey into the cave of the heart
carried the cross within it.
Near Santiago, the Galician wind
touched my skin with cooling strength.
I stopped to feel its caress,
to hear the leaves rustle
and watch the branches dance.
For a moment, I was back in Mandeville,
receiving the healing wind of my retreat.
Six kilometres remained
when the cathedral’s towers came into view.
Excitement quickened our steps.
Walking sticks clicked a livelier rhythm;
the destination seemed almost within reach.
Then my ankle’s pain returned,
and the steep hills asked more of us
than our weary bodies wished to give.
Our pace slowed.
Each incline seemed to lengthen the journey.
I welcomed the wind against my skin
and kept walking with my companions.
We had come so far together;
now we made our way, painfully,
toward the treasure we sought.
Wind and pouring rain met us
as we entered the city’s centre.
Other pilgrims welcomed us with applause.
I stood among them, wet and weary,
grateful that my feet had brought me here
and that others had helped me arrive.
Inside the cathedral,
the pilgrims’ Mass gathered us into warmth.
I felt like an eaglet sheltered
beneath an eagle’s expansive wings.
After the storm of the walk,
the sanctuary was the eye of the hurricane:
a place to breathe,
to let the heart grow quiet.
At Saint James’s tomb,
I gave thanks for his missionary life
and asked his prayers for us
as we prepared to return to our own missions.
That cold, rainy birthday night,
we gathered around the dinner table.
In our warmth, intimacy and communion,
I recognised Christ among us.
After more than a hundred and ninety-nine kilometres,
the treasure was here—
in the presence we shared,
and the grace we would carry home.
