by Patrick Gray
15MUCH-NEEDED REST
— JUSTIN —
I’M TIRED, AND PATRICK IS EXHAUSTED. Our rest day in Logroño feels like it was more than just five days ago. Since then, we’ve averaged fifteen miles a day, and we have one more day of walking before our next planned off day, in the city of Burgos. We’re ready for some respite from the grind of day in, day out walking. The trek from San Juan de Ortega to Burgos proves difficult, and the trail is rocky and incredibly uneven. Patrick is forced to zigzag along the trail in order to find enough even ground to navigate without jarring me too much in the wheelchair. Cresting a hill on the trail outside of Burgos with John, Christie, and Lynda at our sides, we encounter an even taller ascent littered with many large stones sticking up from the dirt. Some are as tall as eighteen inches. These stones make it impossible for the wheels of my chair to continue to roll forward.
Patrick and I discuss our options to get beyond this section, and only one solution seems possible: I’ll have to be carried. We consider using the sling like we did on the Pyrenees, but without Ted to assist, we’re not sure we can do it. Although we’re surrounded by people who are willing to help, we’re not sure that anyone is strong enough or tall enough to keep my back and butt from hitting the protruding rocks below. Additionally, there is no safe place to set me down while those who carry me rest their backs and arms.
“What do you think about just trying to carry the whole chair with Justin in it?” Christie asks. This seems to be our best option, but with a combined weight of 250 pounds, it will be no easy feat.
Bernie from Ireland joined us a few days ago, which gives us a team of five, but as they try to hoist my chair over the stones and boulders, it quickly becomes clear we need another person to even out the load. As we discuss what to do next, a muscular man in his midfifties walks past us up the hill with a confident stride. When he reaches the top, he drops his backpack on the ground and turns to jog back down. As he approaches us, he barks out in a thick Australian accent, “You’re going to need help. What can I do?”
Patrick smiles and says, “Can you give us a hand carrying the wheelchair up the hill?”
The man nods in agreement, and we are grateful for his assistance.
Before he grabs the side of my chair, the man rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder and says, “My name’s Ray, and I’m retired from the Australian Special Forces. The Yanks helped me out so much in Vietnam, this is the least I can do.”
With Ray, we now have six sets of hands. Patrick and Christie hoist up the handlebars in the back and use their shoulders for leverage, while Ray and Lynda grab the aluminum rails on each side of my chair, and John and Bernie lift the footrest. It’s a constant struggle to find secure footing while keeping the welded front wheel from bashing against the rocks, but the crew manages through the rough terrain. For several hundred feet, they haul me toward the top of the next hill, while keeping up a constant dialogue among themselves.
“Watch your step.”
“Rock to your right.”
“Careful, that one’s loose.”
The uneven terrain means I’m never level. Though my friends do their best to keep me from tipping over, I feel the strain of the seat belt across my lap as it holds me in place.
“You guys got this!” I shout.
Finally, we make it the top, but even with all the help, this last section has been especially taxing, and Patrick and I are increasingly weary.
We have been away from home for three weeks and have traveled nearly 180 miles in twelve days on the trail. We’re grateful for all the help we’ve received along the way—starting with Team Ted and continuing with Christie, Lynda, John, Bernie, and now Ray (not to mention the many other volunteers who have stepped in from time to time)—but the trail has taken its toll, and we desperately need tomorrow’s day of rest. We work our way toward the city of Burgos while the others either walk ahead or fall behind. Patrick and I move quietly together in silence as we enter town. We find our hotel, check in, and get settled. With backpacks off and feet bare, we lie down to take a nap.
Lying on my back, with my chair resting beside me, I can hear Patrick’s slow and steady breathing from the bed next to mine. I’m tired, but my mind is full and sleep eludes me.
For the past eighteen days, Patrick and I have been together almost every waking moment. During the day we’ve had every meal together, and have taken every step and every roll of the wheels together. At night, we are always in the same room. Well over a third of the way through the Camino, with about three hundred miles to go, we haven’t had a single disagreement. Even with the many struggles we’ve faced—the Pyrenees, the broken wheel, the wear on both our bodies, the hill we’ve just come over—we haven’t had one fight about directions, or how to navigate an obstacle, or when to leave town each morning. With our two strong wills, I think we both expected some conflict by now. But there hasn’t been any, at least not between us.
Several times before we left on this journey, we were told how unique our friendship is. Since being on the trail, we’ve heard others say the same thing.
When we first met Christie, she told us, “I’ve never seen a friendship like this before.” And even though Ted knows both of us, he made a similar comment right before he left. I can’t help but wonder why what we have is so rare.
As kids, we didn’t know our friendship was unique. It’s just the way it’s always been—and maybe we’ve taken it for granted. But why are strong friendships so uncommon? Certainly, the chemistry between us is based on a lot of shared experiences, but is there something else we’ve done that makes our level of connection possible?
When Patrick gets up from his nap, we make a plan to tend to our laundry so we can wear clean clothes tomorrow. Patrick has periodically washed our underwear and socks in sinks or showers with the hopes of minimizing our stench, but his efforts are no match for a washing machine. With a backpack full of filthy clothes, we head out to find a Laundromat.
Sitting outside the muggy room that houses four small washers and dryers, we rest in each other’s company—sometimes talking, sometimes saying nothing at all. There are no awkward pauses, and any lull in conversation feels natural. Silence is okay. In fact, it is more than okay; it is welcomed. We welcome the silence—not because we need a break from each other’s words, but because in some strange way, the silence we share is ours. It’s a time of comfort and rest—our comfort and rest.
After Patrick finishes with the clothes, he stuffs them back into his backpack and we return to our room. We speak little, other than to discuss a plan for dinner. We’ve been surviving on traditional pilgrim meals—including hearty potato-and-onion omelets known as tortillas españolas for breakfast, and bocadillos for lunch—but the variety has been lacking. Even though many restaurants have a pilgrim’s menu, with dinners that are quite substantial and filling, tonight we opt for pizza.
As we enter a small pizza shop, Patrick is so focused on getting us food that he forgets he is pushing a wheelchair and not a shopping cart. He parks my chair in a corner and heads to the counter.
Looking over my shoulder, I shout, “Dude! Timeout?”
“Crap!”
He walks back to me, turns me around, and then returns to the counter to place our order. While standing in line, he hangs his head in shame. I know he is focused on managing everything for two, but I do get a kick out of giving him a hard time. It’s what friends do.
When the pizza arrives, we enjoy our dinner, and the topic of tomorrow’s day of rest rules the conversation.
Rest . . . Sabbath.
In the Christian tradition, the word Sabbath, or a day of rest, has usually been associated with the day people go to church or abstain from work, but it doesn’t have to be reserved for Sundays. Right now, we need a day to rejuvenate, to appreciate what we have, and to reflect on this trip and the things we hold dear. It’s easy to get caught up in the go, go, go of life—but not so much on the Camino. Our quiet moments sitting outsi
de a Laundromat, and this dinner discussing our rest-day plans, have me thinking that just maybe this is one of the secrets to our friendship—the concept of Sabbath. It has clearly helped us enjoy the constant time spent in close proximity, but I think it may also have been a piece of what helped us endure so many years apart.
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— PATRICK —
Spring of 1993 brought the end of our high school careers. Graduation came and went, and the stress of finishing high school was replaced by the anxiety of paying college tuition. Justin and I both qualified for a number of loans and scholarships, but they covered only a fraction of the cost of school. We both turned our focus to making money to pay for the remainder. While I swung a hammer for a construction company, building onion sheds on local farms, Justin was breaking the ground with shovels and pickaxes as he dug swimming pools in the backyards of neighborhood homes.
The work was grueling for both of us. Baking in the sun for eight to ten hours a day of manual labor drove a good work ethic into our brains and our bones, but by the end of a long Monday, we were already exhausted, and by the time Friday rolled around, we were desperate for a break from the heat, sweat, and sore muscles. If Justin’s weakness was progressing, I couldn’t tell. His leg brace offered enough support for him to manage the digging, and he had no problem driving to and from work.
We still found time to be together on the weekends, and the less time we had, the more precious it seemed. August was coming quickly, and Justin would soon be off to San Diego and Point Loma Nazarene College while I would head east to Northwest Nazarene College in Nampa.
The impending separation worried me, and I think Justin had his reservations as well. How would we stay connected? What would this time apart do to our relationship? With each passing weekend, we avoided focusing on the coming changes and embraced the time we had together. Even as teenagers, we had developed an appreciation for being present in the moment instead of worrying about what might come. Evenings were spent playing basketball, watching movies, or lying on our backs in one of our bedrooms listening to Pearl Jam’s first album, Ten.
The day finally came for Justin to leave for California. After loading up his green Honda Accord, he gave me a hug.
“See you at Christmas?” he said.
“See you at Christmas.”
As he drove away, I felt an emptiness that lasted for days—and seemed even heavier when I packed my belongings into my parents’ car and headed to Nampa.
College life meant new friends, new activities, and new interests, but Justin and I made a point of calling each other every few weeks in an effort to stay connected. In the days before cell phones, when we had to consider the cost of long-distance charges whenever we picked up the phone, we somehow always had enough money to make the call—and those phone calls are fond memories for both of us. We rested in the company of each other’s voice as we talked about school and girls. Other times, we sat in silence, knowing our best friend was on the other end of the line. Anytime there was a change, Justin would update me on his disease.
I still remember the day he told me things were getting worse.
“I’ve been getting some twitching in my upper calf, and when I’m not wearing my brace, I have to steady myself against a wall or a piece of furniture.”
“What do the doctors say?” I asked.
“They’re stumped.”
“Is it still just your leg? Any chance of it spreading?”
“Nobody knows.”
He told me about the many office visits, MRIs, and blood tests, and the painful muscle biopsies that hadn’t yielded any results that would help with a diagnosis. Still, Justin remained positive in spite of it all—even when playing tennis grew more difficult.
By Christmas break, Justin’s disease had progressed to the point that he had to give up playing tennis altogether. Though it still affected only his left leg, he was too unstable to run. When he came up to Nampa for a visit, I could see his gait had slowed and he now had to swing his weaker leg forward to compensate for his limp. More weakness and still no answers from the doctors.
Although his days of playing tennis and soccer had come to an end, he never dwelled on the loss. Instead he turned to new interests to invest his time and energy in. He learned to play guitar and poured many hours into watercolor and graphic design.
The following spring break was the first time Donna met Justin, and she was surprised to see his braces and his limited mobility. He now had to be careful on uneven terrain or when stepping down from a curb. I had told Donna stories about our boyhood mischief and how we loved spending time together, but I had failed to mention how Justin’s disease was spreading. I hadn’t omitted it intentionally . . . it just wasn’t how I saw him.
During Justin’s visit, we spent the warm spring afternoons and cool evenings listening to him explain his new art projects and the music scene in San Diego, and I fulfilled my role as the math and science nerd, explaining the new discoveries I was making in my classes. As we talked, Donna and Justin got to know each other, and I received his official stamp of approval for dating Donna.
Though it was challenging to maintain a close relationship while separated by a thousand miles, time and distance did little to diminish our friendship during our college years.
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— JUSTIN —
The day after our arrival in Burgos, Patrick and I wander through the city, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells. We’re captivated by the architecture of the four- and five-story buildings bordering the brick-paved Plaza Mayor. Each set of windows or doors boasts Juliet balconies, small patios with black wrought-iron railings. The buildings are painted different shades of yellow, pink, or white, and no two adjacent buildings are the same color. The pastel hues offer a stark contrast to the bright blue sky. We pass a small bakery, and the aroma of fresh-baked bread and warm pastries washes over us. Ambling through side streets and plazas, we eventually find ourselves at the base of the magnificent Cathedral of Saint Mary. We’re intrigued by the ornate Gothic exterior, and the inside of this cathedral is even more stunning and awe inspiring.
While we admire some artwork in a glass enclosure, we are amazed at how quiet the cathedral is. Everyone steps softly as they take in the stained glass and carvings, and all we hear are hushed whispers.
“Hey! Aren’t you Justin and Patrick?” A booming voice from across the room shatters the worshipful silence.
“Uh . . . yes,” we both reply as two young men in their mid-twenties approach us.
“Hi, I’m Joe, and this is my buddy Richard. We’re from Boise.”
Halfway across the world and we run into two guys from our neck of the woods! Boise is only ten miles from our homes in Meridian.
“We’ve been following you guys on Facebook,” Joe continues, “but this is pretty cool that our Camino actually crosses with yours.”
As we continue to chat, Richard asks, “Hey, is there anything we can do to help you on your way to Santiago?”
“Well, to be honest,” I reply, “we’ve been talking about bypassing the mountain pass into O Cebreiro—everyone keeps telling us how difficult it is.”
“Quite a few people have reached out to us on Facebook, telling us to skip it,” Patrick says. “One individual told us that he and some fellow pilgrims tried to take a friend in a wheelchair through the pass last year and were forced to turn back.”
“So we’re thinking about taking a taxi to the top instead,” I say.
“Let us be your taxi to the top,” Joe says enthusiastically.
This takes a moment for us to process.
“Are you guys serious?” Patrick says.
“Yeah!”
Even with all the help we’ve received along the way, we’re still amazed at how complete strangers can be so kind and generous. After talking through some of the logistical challenges we’ve been told to expect at O Cebreiro, we make plans to meet Joe and Richard several weeks later at the base of the mountain, ele
ven miles west of the town of Villafranca del Bierzo.
After a few more minutes of conversation with our neighbors from Idaho, Patrick and I leave the house of worship and find a place where we can sit and enjoy the sun in the large square outside the cathedral. With the afternoon stretching out before us, and nowhere to go and nothing to do, we embrace our day of rest.
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— PATRICK —
Our time here in Burgos is completely reshaping my thoughts about Sabbath—on what God had in mind when he gave us the concept of a day of rest.
The word Sabbath is believed to be derived from the Hebrew word sabat, which means to stop, to rest, or to keep. Amidst the challenge of staying connected throughout college and the constant proximity our journey has given us, this, in many ways, sums up how we approach our relationship. But taking the biblical concept of stopping and resting for a day and simply applying it to a day of the week isn’t enough.
Here in Spain, Justin and I have embraced an extended Sabbath of sorts. We’ve slowed down and rested amid the pressures of life, clearing away the things that might otherwise distract us. And we’re learning how to keep close to us the relationships and moments that define who we are. If we didn’t practice this sort of Sabbath in our friendship, if we hadn’t taken this break to walk the Camino together, we’d have missed out on all of this.
Whether resting in my friendship with Justin or in my relationships with my wife and children, I find a greater appreciation for whoever is at my side when I take a moment to keep them close, to be present with them. This is something I haven’t done well lately, especially with my kids. Cambria is always wanting me to read with her at bedtime, but I have only followed through a handful of times. Josh wants to wrestle with his dad, but lately, “I’m too tired tonight” is a phrase that has left my lips far too often. And little Olivia just wants to be held—a role I have left to Donna. I’ve been a good provider, but I’ve also been absent and disengaged, both physically and mentally, because of the long hours I work and the distractions that come with the stress of my job. My kids have taken a backseat to my busy schedule, early morning meetings, and late nights at the office—not to mention how dismissive and disconnected I have been because of pressures at work. I really haven’t been much of a father lately. They deserve so much more than I’ve been giving.