by Patrick Gray
In spite of the pain and fatigue of exertion, a wave of gratitude washes over me. I find myself thanking God for each of these fellow pushers and pullers. Each one has a story, and each one is sacrificing something to be here with us. Some much more than others.
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— JUSTIN —
When Claudia started walking with us yesterday, I asked her my usual question: Tell me about yourself. Like Christie, she quickly opened up. With a firm grip at the back of my wheelchair, she began telling her story.
She told us about how she had joined her friend Jess on the Camino at the very last minute, and how her decision to undertake the five-hundred-mile journey was grounded in making sense out of a grief and darkness that had all but consumed her over the past six months.
As we walked, Claudia talked about the most recent New Year’s Eve, when she had gathered with her family in South Africa, as they always did.
“We celebrated life, enjoyed amazing food, and drank splendid wine,” she said with a smile. “It was simply wonderful being together.”
But when she began to describe an annual tradition of taking a family photo as the year came to a close, her voice changed. Any sense of joy at a happy memory was replaced by a stony coldness.
She described how they set up a camera with a timer to capture the photo at exactly midnight. Surrounded by her loved ones, Claudia stood smiling as the timer counted down the last ten seconds of the year. With each passing second, everyone shouted, “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
As the countdown reached zero, the camera captured the moment as masked gunmen burst into the house. In the seconds that followed, Claudia, her sister, and her mother watched as one of the intruders fired a shotgun blast at her father, striking him in the lower abdomen.
I sit in stunned silence as the reality washes over me: On New Year’s Day 2014, Claudia and her family held her father as they watched the life leave his eyes.
Patrick and I have both lost loved ones, but I can’t imagine watching someone I love die in such a cruel and violent way. Loss is difficult to deal with, no matter the circumstances. The effects ripple through the lives of everyone it touches. But what can we say to this?
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— PATRICK —
Claudia’s story fills my mind with thoughts of death and grieving. I can’t begin to understand the pain she’s facing.
As much as it hurts to lose a grandparent, it’s expected. With each passing year, the odds of saying good-bye to the elders in our lives increase. I lost my Grandpa Gray when I was nine, and Justin said good-bye to his maternal grandmother a few years later. Over time, our remaining grandparents began to fade, and eventually they all passed. When someone dies young, though, a different dynamic is at play.
In 1988, one of my older brother’s friends was killed in a motorcycle accident at the age of eighteen. Jeff had met Tony at a church camp a few summers earlier, and Tony used to come to our house to hang out or to pick up my brother for a night out. Whatever the circumstances, though, he always hunted me down, tousled my hair, and asked how I was doing. When you’re thirteen and your older brother’s friend seeks you out, it’s a big deal. Tony was kind, full of joy, and full of life. And in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
I still remember my brother’s response. It was more intense, more visceral, than when our grandpa died. I don’t think it was worse, necessarily, but the pain presented differently. It seemed more emotional, more visible.
As a sophomore in high school, I went out for the track team while Justin played tennis. I wasn’t fast and really had no business running track, but there was an upperclassman, Bruce, who took me under his wing and helped me train. I wouldn’t say we were friends outside of my one year in track, but I appreciated his interest and the time he took to help me. The following year, he put a loaded gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I still remember sitting at our dining room table doing math homework when my dad walked in and gave me the news. Filled with anger and tears, I stabbed my pencil through the pages of my math book over and over.
I wasn’t terribly close to either one of those young men, but I have clear memories associated with their deaths. When I close my eyes, I can still see my older brother coming down the hall toward our bedroom to give me the news about Tony. I can still hear his voice. If my memories of these deaths are so clear, I can’t begin to imagine what Claudia sees when she closes her eyes.
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— JUSTIN —
It has been several days since we successfully made the climb near Castrojeriz. Finishing a rest in a small room with two twin beds, Patrick and I are about to head out into the streets of the village to find something to eat. As Patrick readies himself to transfer me from the edge of the bed to my wheelchair, he looks at me and says, “It was pretty incredible the way everyone came together to get us up that hill the other day.”
“I know,” I say quietly while shaking my head in wonder.
“A little extra strength to help us continue on.”
As Patrick says this, my phone dings, indicating a new e-mail. Assuming it’s from our wives, Patrick places the phone in my lap and positions my hands so I can manipulate the touch screen.
“It’s from Claudia,” I say as I check my in-box. Right after the day we climbed the hill near Castrojeriz, she had gone on her way ahead of us, and we haven’t seen much of her since.
“Read it,” Patrick says. Somehow we both sense this is something that can’t wait.
“She says she wants to thank us,” I begin, “and the only way she can do this is by sharing an entry from her journal.”
“Keep going,” Patrick says.
“Okay, so these are her words . . .”
“Ready?” asks Patrick.
“Yes, ready,” we all reply as we flex our muscles and prepare ourselves for the exertion and exhaustion that lies ahead of us. I’m strapped into a harness at the front next to John, who is a sixty-year-old recycling specialist/US Naval officer and regular at the Burning Man festival in Nevada.
“We look like a pair of oxen,” I say with a smile to him as he wheezes and splutters next to me, beads of sweat sliding off his chin and onto the steep gravel path below us. While John and I do the pulling up in the front, Patrick is pushing with a firm grip on the steel bar at the back. He has calves the size of spanspeks [cantaloupes] after doing this for almost two weeks. He is flanked by two Swiss girls we met halfway up this hill. They started their Camino in Burgos, so they’ve only been walking for two days, and their fresh, unstable blisters are screaming at them with every step they take. Despite the shooting pain, they continue to push onward and upward with the rest of us. We’re only halfway up this hill and all five of us know that giving up is not an option.
“You guys are awesome,” says Justin as he sits, strapped tightly into his wheelchair while we slowly heave him up the hill.
As I read, I glance up at Patrick, and I can see that he is reliving that day as he listens.
Claudia’s journal entry continues as she explains who Patrick and I are, why we’re on the Camino, and a little about our first encounter with her:
When Justin told me about his condition, I said, “I’m sorry to hear about that.”
“There’s absolutely nothing to be sorry about!” he responded.
Back on the steep hill, we are finally within twenty metres of the top.
“The final push,” gasps Patrick, while Justin sings a slightly out-of-tune rendition of “That’s What Friends Are For.” John, the oldest in our group by a good few decades, has tapped out, and we have replaced him with a passing pilgrim called Matt, who is now in the harness next to me, ready to pull like an ox. Patrick’s sweat is cascading down his face, and the two Swiss girls next to him look like they are equal parts exhausted and excited. We’ve been fighting our way up this hill for almost an hour and a half.
“Ready?” asks Patrick
“Yes, ready,” we all reply.
And we’
re off. Inching our way up. A choir of heavy breathing. As we get closer to the top, Justin begins a countdown: “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
No, I think to myself, this can’t be happening. The last time I did a countdown, it was followed by unimaginable cruelty.
When it hits me what that day was like for Claudia, I have to stop to catch my breath and fight back the tears. As I begin to read again, my voice cracks.
“Seven . . . six . . . five . . .”
Maybe I should ask them to stop.
“Four . . .”
My calves are aching.
“Three . . .”
I’d be happy if I never have to endure another countdown for the rest of my life.
The tears are flowing so hard now that I have to stop reading. When I look up at Patrick, I see that his hand is over his mouth and tears are streaming down his face as well. What did this woman give, what did she endure, just so she could help us up that hill?
My eyes return to her journal entry:
“Two . . .”
I don’t know if I can do this. But I’ll do it for Justin.
“One . . .”
We get to the top and we’re hugging each other, doing a victory dance, celebrating, and kissing each other on the cheeks. And I’m crying because I didn’t believe that a countdown from ten could ever be happy again.
At the end of the day, we sip our ice-cold drinks in a small Spanish town. The sun hangs low in the sky, making me realize there must be at least a million different shades of gold and that all of them are visible during a Meseta sunset. Justin looks at me and says, “Thanks for getting me up that hill today.”
I look back at him and say, “No, Justin; it was you who got me up that hill.”
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— PATRICK —
As terrible as death is, as painful as it was to watch someone she loved stolen from her, Claudia taught Justin and me a powerful lesson with her kindness, her love, and her willingness to share her story. Before that hill, she was plagued with grief and confusion, and hope was distant, if it was there at all. While Justin and I were bathed in the kindness and love that Claudia and others showed us that day, she was reliving the horror of the most terrible experience of her entire life. But because of her kindness and her willingness to help others in need, Claudia was offered a glimpse of hope, and some of the darkness associated with the violent loss of her father seemed to loosen its hold. Though we were present and clearly part of the moment that brought her some healing, we had little, if anything, to do with it. Claudia’s willingness to show love and compassion to strangers, to offer help even when it cost her physically, and to push through, even when the emotional and psychological pain was crippling, gave her hope.
Claudia showed us how love and kindness have the power to lift up others. Loving and serving others is the only way we can push through the darkness that life will undoubtedly give us. Acts of unconditional love shine a light into the lives of both the giver and the receiver. A light no darkness can hide from.
18HOW DID WE GET SO LUCKY?
— JUSTIN —
ON JUNE 19, we arrive in Carrión de los Condes, the halfway point on our journey to Santiago de Compostela. The camera crew is already in town—minus Terry, who has gone ahead to size up the trail—and they’re staying in an old monastery that rents out rooms. Patrick and I decide to join them there.
Mike, Jasper, and Robin are exhausted after two and a half weeks on the Camino and could use a nice meal, so to celebrate our progress and thank them for their dedication and hard work, we invite them to join us for dinner at a restaurant adjacent to the monastery. While these men are here to film our journey, we have drawn close to them and have developed a sort of familial bond. As we sit around the table enjoying each other’s company, I’m reminded of what is waiting for me at home. Skype calls to my family have kept us connected to some degree, but I miss my kids. I miss my wife.
Sharing dinner with Kirstin and the kids is something I haven’t done in weeks. On a night like tonight, we would likely head out to the park after eating and enjoy the warm summer air. My boys would beat us there on their scooters, and Lauren would either sit in my lap as I roll down the sidewalk in my power wheelchair or ride her bike beside me. At the park, Kirstin and I would sit and listen to the kids play, and just talk. All of this seems a world away.
The next morning, we take time for some interviews with the film crew in one of the many beautiful courtyards within the walls of the monastery. These up-close-and-personal conversations are important for the documentary we’re filming, but they also make for a late start to the day’s journey. As soon as we finish, we grab lunch in Carrión de los Condes and hit the trail.
The sky above us seems endless. With few buildings or hills to break up the skyline, the sea of blue appears to spill over the edge of the horizon. With only an occasional incline to break up the monotony of the flat, straight path, Patrick and I find ourselves completely alone in the vast expanse of the Meseta.
Normally we would cross paths with other pilgrims, but leaving town late means we are in between the daily waves of pilgrims walking from town to town. Rolling hills of wheat fields stretch to our right and left with no end in sight. Fortunately, the trail is easy going . . . at least physically.
With the ease of the trail and the lack of other pilgrims, we have taken to listening to music while we soak in the unvarying landscape. Patrick has found a cadence to his gait that keeps us moving, and each step and turn of the wheels has a rhythm that seems to match the notes of the music duo Mackintosh Braun sounding in my ears. There’s a meditative element to their music, and though I hear the lyrics of each song, they don’t distract me from my thoughts. My mind is still with my family, and I know Patrick is thinking about his.
Earlier in the day, he and I were discussing our wives.
“Can you believe Donna and Kirstin are letting us chase a dream halfway across the world?” I asked.
“It is pretty crazy,” Patrick said. “I can’t imagine life without them, but sometimes I’m surprised they love us in spite of who we are . . . at least, that’s how I feel about Donna.”
“I know what you mean. Kirstin has been there for me every step of the way—every appointment, every poor decision, every change in my career as a designer, every decrease in strength, and every moment of weakness. Sometimes it amazes me she’s still here.”
Patrick considered my words before replying. “It’s pretty remarkable to have a woman love me in spite of many of the decisions I’ve made—and continue to make. Drugs, pornography, career changes, and lately, a job I’m so focused on that my family takes a backseat. And now here I am spending six weeks in Spain—with her full support.”
Patrick continued as he pushed me down the trail, “Right now I’m not so sure I deserve what I have, but I feel blessed to have someone put so much faith in me. I just hope it’s not misplaced.”
Looking at the unchanging wheat fields stretching for miles all around us, I say to myself, I know we don’t deserve them. How did we get so lucky?
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— PATRICK —
The down tempo and ambient sounds of Emancipator in my earbuds match each step I take. Anytime I let my mind wander, it follows the trail back to my wife and family at home.
What are they doing right now? Are my kids crawling out of bed, going downstairs to wake Donna? Are they cuddled on the couch watching cartoons or reading books? If I were home, would I be there with them, or would I have long since left for work?
What are the fondest memories I have of my family?
I miss the laughter of my children as I wrestle with them in the living room or chase them through the house. I miss pushing them in the swings at the park across the street, or building with Legos on the floor of their bedrooms.
I miss lying next to my wife, listening to her breathing slowly as she drifts to sleep.
And it seems like a lifetime ago that Donna and I flew to sout
hern China to meet our youngest daughter, Olivia, but I remember the joy of introducing Joshua and Cambria to their new little sister.
There are so many stories over so many years, but my recent history with my family is nothing to be proud of.
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— JUSTIN —
The trail just keeps going. We can see the steeple of a small church in the distance, but after an hour it doesn’t seem to be getting any closer, even though Patrick has pushed me more than three miles.
The longer we’re out here, the more I miss my wife. I miss her face. I miss her voice. I miss her smile. I miss her touch. This is the longest we’ve ever been apart, and right now I just want her to be here.
Now that I’m away from her, I’m beginning to realize the many little things she does for me. Every morning she makes my coffee, and every afternoon we find time to sit and enjoy each other’s company. I miss the conversations and the laughter. I miss her stubborn streak, which rivals my own. Through all this time with Patrick and all this time away from home, I’m learning to appreciate my wife so much more. I am grateful for a woman who loves me completely and who takes care of me and our children. In her absence, I’m beginning to appreciate the unconditional love God has for me. The love he shows me through the eyes, words, and hands of my wife.
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— PATRICK —
The constant landscape of unending wheat fields, combined with a steady pace and minimal changes in elevation, makes for an interesting dynamic. Many people told us how the Meseta is mentally challenging and forces you inward, but up to this point we haven’t experienced this. Now, though, the unchanging nature of our surroundings offers no distractions from my thoughts. I find myself shaking my head in an effort to brush aside what begins to fill my mind. But these thoughts, these memories, won’t budge. The longer I am alone in my mind, the more they appear and the more I don’t like what I see.