by Patrick Gray
For several miles, the trail requires me to be carried, and for several miles the various pilgrims rotate in and out of the different positions. Groans from straining muscles and sore bodies can be heard all around me, as everyone is stepping over large stones and up the uneven stairs of dirt, rock, and roots. Despite the struggle, no one is giving less than one hundred percent.
While six people carry me in my chair, others carry the extra backpacks and walking sticks. Pilgrims continue to rotate in and out as we gradually make progress, and I find myself at the center of a remarkable human symphony. Before I know it, new people join the mix, and I meet Odei from Barcelona and another young man from Ireland. Each of these people are soon drenched in sweat, have sore muscles, and suffer from blistered feet. Hands, arms, and calves are cramping as the team lifts, pushes, pulls, and carries me with every ounce of energy they possess. I can’t help, but I can definitely encourage.
“You guys have got this!” I yell. “You are all amazing!”
The trail gets steeper.
“Keep moving, keep moving.”
Soon, Christie calls out from behind me, “I need a break.”
I shout out to the crew, “Christie needs a break, can someone—”
Before I can finish, Julie from New Zealand is at my side, ready to step in.
Despite the struggle, every face is full of joy, a joy that comes from giving of themselves, and I am at the center of it all. I can’t stop smiling. They say it is better to give than to receive, but right now the gift I am receiving is incredible, indescribable. This is one of the most humbling experiences of my entire life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Back home, I have an inner circle of people whom I trust enough to do all the things I can no longer do. Kirstin and Patrick are the two at the very center of this circle. I didn’t go into my marriage thinking that one day my wife would have to feed me and brush my teeth. I never thought that one day I would ask my best friend to hold a urinal steady so I could pee, or wipe my backside because I could no longer hold toilet paper or reach. But this is now my reality. The first time I asked Patrick to help me use the bathroom, I hated it. I felt like I was a burden. Part of me was back on my front porch, questioning God. But Patrick, just like Kirstin, has never thought twice. He has always been happy to do whatever needs to be done. Just knowing that he can make my life a little easier brings him joy—the same joy I see on the faces of these people who are now carrying me up this incredibly steep mountain trail.
Over the years, my pride has slowly been pushed aside as I have embraced all the things I can no longer do on my own, all the things others now have to do for me.
I’m not sure who said it—or even where I heard it—but there’s a fundamental truth that has stayed with me over the years: “When you deny someone the opportunity to help you, you deny them joy in life.”
I’ve had to embrace a lot of help over the past several years, and I have seen this truth play out in the lives of others time and time again. There is so much joy in giving, in helping others. A joy God intended for all of us to experience.
Patrick has always been one to give relentlessly, but it is time he learns to receive.
As we continue the struggle of the climb, the group has a break from carrying me, and now they are able to just push, pull, and drag me up the mountain. Soon we get a view of the valley where we started, far below us. Laughter and words of encouragement rise from our group as we begin passing through small mountain villages.
“Would it be easier if I got up and walked?” I yell at Joe.
He and Richard begin to laugh as he shouts back at me, “Yes, yes it would!”
In spite of the strain of the climb, everyone is laughing now. Town residents come out of their homes to see what has caused the ruckus invading their quiet, little hamlets.
By the time we reach the top of the trail, where it reunites with the mountain road, we are greeted by two volunteer police officers in a bright yellow truck. They had heard about our climb and were waiting for us on the road.
No words are exchanged, except a gruff but sincere “¡Buen Camino!” as one of the officers grabs the red nylon harness at the front of my chair and begins to pull me the rest of the way into O Cebreiro, while his partner drives the truck behind us with lights flashing.
When we finally make it to the top, all I can do is look around at the people who have given so much for me today. As we gather together for a photo, “thank you” doesn’t seem like nearly enough after all they’ve done, but it’s all I can give.
“Thanks, everyone!” I shout as Mike prepares to take the picture.
“On the count of three, say ‘¡Buen Camino!’” Mike yells to the group.
“¡BUEN CAMINO!”
I may not be able to feed myself, shower myself, or go to the bathroom by myself. I may not be able to hug my daughter, play catch with my boys, or hold my wife’s hand as we walk along a beach at sunset. But today, through the power, love, and sacrifice of others, I climbed a mountain.
| | |
— PATRICK —
Sitting in his wheelchair with his back to me, Justin watches the sun set beyond the vast valley below us. Deep in thought, he doesn’t know I’m here.
We have officially entered the lush region of Galicia, and the oranges and yellows of the sky bleed into the vast expanse of green stretching out to the west. Less than one hundred miles to Santiago.
The past several days have been filled with so much self-discovery. I walked away from Cruz de Ferro with open hands, having given up fear disguised as safety, but I had no idea what this kind of change in my life would mean or how I would navigate it. I just knew I had to do it. I needed to do it for my wife, for my kids, and for me.
Earlier in the day, when we were resting at the top of one of our ascents, Justin and I had a moment to ourselves.
“How do you do it?” I asked.
“How do I do what?”
“How have you let go of so much safety and lived such a full life in spite of this disease?” I’ve known Justin my whole life, and I felt as if I should know the answer to this question, but I didn’t.
“Letting go wasn’t really a choice,” Justin said, “but living a full life is a decision I make every time I let others help me do things I can’t do on my own.”
Here on top of the mountain, as I stand behind my friend, I’m beginning to realize how often I tend to overcomplicate things. I’m not being physically forced to let go of safety, but if I’m going to value my wife, my kids, and my relationships as much as I want to, letting go is the only choice I have. God has shown me what a powerful gift I can give others by simply loving through my actions, through being his hands and feet. But openly and graciously receiving this same love from others is a whole new kind of beauty, a new kind of freedom—a freedom I witnessed today as my fellow pilgrims carried Justin up this mountain.
If I’m going to embrace a life of faith, I must embrace the gifts of provision that God gives to me. I must embrace the help of my wife, my neighbors, my friends—and even complete strangers. I must welcome the helping hands of people I’ve only just met, like Victoria, the crew of pilgrims who hauled us up the mountain today, and friends like Ted, Michael, and Matthew, who have flown across the ocean to help us chase a dream. To live a life of faith, I must no longer trust solely in my own strength; I must let go of safety and learn to trust the strength of the people God surrounds me with.
I walk up to Justin as he continues to look out from atop this beautiful mountain landscape. Hearing my approach, he looks up at me, and a smile spreads across his face.
“Can you believe we made it?” he asks.
“Yeah, I can.”
23PROVISION
— JUSTIN —
WITH LESS THAN seventy miles to go before we reach Santiago de Compostela, both Patrick and I are beyond weary. But the remarkable events on the climb to O Cebreiro have us reeling in waves of gratitude and wonderment. Several da
ys have passed since our many friends pushed, pulled, carried, and dragged me up the mountain pass, and many of them have gone ahead. Now it’s the two of us, along with our friends Michael and Matthew, as we leave the town of Sarria on our way to Portomarín.
Pilgrims who walk the Camino carry a pilgrim’s “passport” known as the credencial del peregrino. This document allows pilgrims to stay at the albergues along the Camino and serves as proof of their travel. Whenever pilgrims stay in a town, they can receive a stamp from a local church, albergue, restaurant, or hotel. The stamp on their passport proves they passed through the specific town or city. When pilgrims reach Santiago de Compostela, they can present this collection of stamps at the Pilgrim’s Reception Office. Once the credenciales have been examined for appropriate stamps and dates, the pilgrims are presented with their compostela, a certificate of completion of their journey. Pilgrims must walk at least the last one hundred kilometers (sixty-two miles) of the Camino, or ride the last two hundred kilometers on bicycle, in order to receive this certificate.
The town of Sarria lies 116 kilometers east of Santiago, which makes it a fairly major access point for the Camino. Many choose to start their pilgrimage here because it’s just far enough away from Santiago for them to earn a compostela. With so many people trekking this shorter distance to the cathedral in Santiago, it makes for some congestion, and now we’re even seeing families walking with their children.
There are so many stories represented by each person we meet—some are filled with joy, some with sorrow, and most with a combination of the two; but each person is finding something here. For many it is friendship, peace, healing, or connection with God. Whatever it is, it’s beautiful.
| | |
For the past several days, Michael and Matthew have been pulling or pushing more often in an effort to give Patrick a break. Still, we’ve had to stop fairly frequently so Patrick can stretch out his leg muscles, but the pain never seems to subside. He has been more willing to let others help, and though I know he welcomes the break from the strain on his legs, the real reason is a new perspective.
Yesterday, we talked a lot about what comes next in life.
“I’m going back,” Patrick said when I asked about his job at the hospital, “but I’m not staying for long.”
Though I hadn’t expected this, I wasn’t surprised.
“So, what are you going to do instead?” I asked.
“I’m not sure yet, but we’ll do it together.”
| | |
— PATRICK —
My mental and spiritual shift over the past week has challenged me in many ways. Time and time again, we have had the help we needed, and every time, it was help we didn’t ask for. For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with asking others for assistance. But the challenge of accepting help that is freely offered opened my eyes to a deeper struggle. I haven’t just struggled to ask, I have struggled to receive. Over the past few days, though, I’ve seen a beauty in receiving that I didn’t know existed. A beauty I am about to witness yet again.
We’re now facing a short climb through a forested area just west of Sarria. The towering trees seem to have equally large roots growing up through the soil below us. Getting Justin’s chair over these roots is more than Michael, Matthew, and I can handle.
“¡Buen Camino!” we hear echoed in a chorus of voices as a group of cyclists passes to our left on a narrow pathway worn by many years and millions of tires. When the last cyclist makes it to the top of the hill, we see her stop and look back at us. Recognizing our struggle, she yells something in Italian to her fellow pilgrims and points down the hill. Before we quite know what’s happening, we’re surrounded by eight men and women in cycling togs, and in a matter of two minutes, we have covered a distance equal to what we had managed over the previous half hour.
Until the hill climb up to O Cebreiro, every bit of help we received from other pilgrims had me feeling uncomfortable. On the surface, I was fine with it, but my pride was hiding just below my expressions of gratitude, and my ego was telling me I should be doing all of this for Justin and doing it all by myself. Even the help Ted poured out on the Pyrenees—and for so many days after—left a bit of a sting to my pride.
For years, I’ve been open and vulnerable with Justin and Donna about my weaknesses, but I hadn’t ever embraced sacrificing my pride and receiving help from others until I stood back and watched a group of people do what I could not. How much joy have I robbed from others with my resistance to receiving help? How many things have I failed to achieve because I had to do it all on my own?
Today, accepting help feels different. As Justin, Michael, Matthew, and I thank the Italian cyclists for their assistance, I’m not at all uncomfortable. My ego isn’t whispering lies, telling me I should have been able to do it on my own. No pride clouds the beauty of their assistance. With the condition my body is in and the distance we have left to cover, I have finally embraced my limitations and am beginning to recognize that my vulnerability is my greatest strength.
| | |
— JUSTIN —
Patrick and I are fortunate to have a friendship that has endured so long. We have helped each other in many ways. But no matter how much help I have offered Patrick, or how much he has given me, our relationship is a dynamic interaction between two people. This means there are two decisions that must be made in order for it to work. The strength and energy we can effectively give each other is directly proportional to the willingness of the other to receive it. It’s no different out here on the trail.
I face challenge after challenge as this disease continues to take more of my ability to use my body. In spite of this, I strive to live a life of adventure and make the most of every day. But living this way requires utter vulnerability. Because the list of things I can do on my own is so much shorter than the list of those I can’t, I have to acknowledge my limitations and allow others to step in and do those things for me. No matter how much help Patrick offers me, he can’t help me if I refuse it. When I choose pride over vulnerability, I find that relying on my own strength makes me weak.
When I laid everything on the table back in 2012 and proposed the idea of tackling the Camino, Patrick’s response—“I’ll push you!”—would have meant nothing if I hadn’t been willing to accept his help and admit that I couldn’t do it all on my own. I didn’t realize this was a lesson Patrick needed to learn, but he echoed this sentiment yesterday when he told me, “I have accepted the fact that I can’t do any of this on my own.”
Before we left St. Jean Pied de Port on June 3 and ascended the Pyrenees Mountains, I had accepted my limits and embraced not being able to make the pilgrimage without help. If I had never accepted my limitations and allowed others to help, I would still be sitting in my living room watching PBS. The truth is, something beautiful happens when I invite others into my weaknesses. I don’t mean just the hard moments in life, like the death of a loved one, addiction to pornography, or not being able to care for myself. I mean everything. When I invite others into everything I am, no weakness is too great to overcome.
I don’t think Patrick ever truly thought he could get me all the way to Santiago on his own, but he certainly hadn’t accepted the prospect that he couldn’t. At least not until recently. By letting go of the things he knows he cannot do alone, like getting me up to O Cebreiro, he is offering me even more, and he is offering more to other pilgrims on the trail. They were able to help, and I was able to climb a mountain because he finally let go. I’m convinced that if he had continued to push through the pain in his calves rather than let others help as much as they have, our Camino would have ended several days before now. He had to completely relinquish control so others could do what he could not. Just as I’ve lost strength in my body but have discovered a freedom I didn’t know when I could walk, Patrick had to lose the strength in his legs in order to discover the freedom that exists in resting in the strength of others.
Today is Jasper’s last day
on the film crew. He has filmed so much of this journey, but he has one request before he leaves.
“Can I push today? I want to push for a bit!”
Patrick unclips the safety harness and steps aside so Jasper can take the handlebars. Jasper’s face lights up as he says, “I have wanted to do this ever since St. Jean!”
While Jasper pushes, Patrick and I talk a great deal about the Basque man who affectionately slapped my cheek so many days ago.
“A stranger in the middle of the Pyrenees has turned into a bit of a prophet.”
“Yeah! I wonder if he will ever understand the power of his words?” Patrick muses.
“I hope so, but do any of us ever know the power of our words?”
“No, I guess not. That’s why we should make sure they are filled with hope.”
It has been exactly one month since we heard the man shout, “The impossible is possible!” And we have seen more examples of this truth than we could ever imagine. Our journey has led Patrick and me over three mountain ranges, through days of self-exploration and discovery, and into the arms of strangers waiting to help us in ways we didn’t know we needed.
What an experience.
| | |
— PATRICK —
Two days have passed since the cyclists outside of Sarria helped us, and we are headed today to the town of Arzúa. Michael and Matthew have continued to push and pull whenever needed, and Claudia has rejoined us. Unfortunately, my need for help has been often. I have required their assistance more and more each day. Right now, I’m lying on my belly on the side of the trail, with my face in the damp grass, while Claudia attempts to work out the cramps in my calves. My legs have been so problematic, we have had to literally stop on the side of the trail while she uses her thumbs to knead away at the knots running from the backs of my knees all the way to my ankles. Despite the pain in my legs and the tears in my eyes, I remind myself we are two days from Santiago.