62: Leaving Portugalete

It took a long time for the photo store to get Anabel's pictures from her digital camera. During that time I went to two different bookstores, neither of which had a pocket-sized New Testament which I could take for the rest of the pilgrimage. I had a small booklet containing the four gospels -- a Spanish man at Taize had given this to me -- but I wanted to read around in the Epistles as well.

As the process in the photo store was delayed and delayed, we met a man who immediately began to talk to us about the Camino. He was one of the "Amigos del Camino", who dedicate themselves to promoting and improving the pilgrim ways to Santiago. He said there was another pilgrim shelter near Muskiz, but it wouldn't be open in April, and to walk it would take more hours than we still had daylight for. He walked with us until we were out of town, talking incessantly to Anabel with a million words of advice for a pilgrim. I was starting to tune out what he was saying, but Anabel kept asking questions.

Once outside of Portugalete, we started off at a brisk pace towards the lowering sun. Anabel had two large walking staffs, which looked sort of funny. There was something spider-like about the way these slender legs helped her walk.

"So why are you taking this trip?" I asked her. I asked this of every pilgrim I met along the way, although I eventually learned that it was not such a good idea to start a new acquaintanceship with something so personal, even though it would seem like the most natural question two pilgrims might ask each other.

"Turismo ecologico," she answered. "This trail has the infrastructure of essentially one long series of nature hikes. Also, I thought that crossing the entire country on foot would be a great way for me to do something, you know, get a feeling of achievement, to be able to believe in myself."

The words "believe in myself" usually just bounce around inside my head looking -- unsuccessfully -- for some meaning to attach themselves to. They must mean something, or people wouldn't use them, but I don't know what they mean. I've always "believed in myself", in the sense that I've never doubted my existence. What more can it mean to believe in oneself? People talk about it as if it were a sort of validation for one's existence.

I once wrote into my journal: "Even in my darkest hours I've believed in myself. That's part of what made them so dark."

"And you?" She asked.

It was only fair for her to take revenge by asking the same question. It is a difficult question, but I had the answers that I had been working out, even if they weren't the complete reasons for my doing this.

"Well, I wanted to travel again, see some new part of the world, but I hate traveling in countries where I can't communicate. I haven't been in Spain before, but I do speak Spanish, so this is ideal. And, as you say, it's a great infrastructure for walking, which is a travel mode I wanted to explore a little more. And I wanted some away time to come to peace and learn how to pray."

"So you're a believer?"

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"Well, I'm Catholic, but I don't believe any more."

"Yes?"

"When I was a child, my cousin became very sick. My mother told me to pray for her, so I was praying, praying, trying everything, you know, but she just kept getting worse. And then," her voice started failing her a bit, "and then she died. But my mom said I should keep praying, so that her soul would be set free from Purgatory, and I continued praying..." she was fully weeping now. "I'm sorry..." she said, trying to breathe normally again and wiping her eyes. We walked on for a while. I was experiencing the helplessness of every man who is confronted with a crying woman. The natural impulse is to put your arms around her or something, but I've learned that giving in to this impulse is not always a good thing. "Don't hold on to me" and all that.

"And then," she said a little more calmly, "later on I saw what this whole thing had done to me, and I decided that there is no one up there. No one who cares, anyway."

We walked in silence for a while. The evening sun made everything golden. The pilgrim trail here went alongside a bike trail, and cyclists in training raced past us.

This, I thought, was the kind of Catholicism I've grown up being taught to reject. This idea of appeasing God by praying enough, of spiritual blackmail and perpetual uncertainty. Every brand of Christianity can play such power games, but what is it about the Roman Church...? I was fully intending to discover my own spiritual connections to Roman Catholicism on this pilgrimage, the ones that I had never known as a child because I grew up in the sort of context in which Catholics aren't even considered Christians.

"Have you tried telling Him?" I finally asked.

"Telling whom?"

"Telling God. Tell Him He doesn't exist. Tell Him He's not fair. He can take it."

"Why should I do that?"

"Well, what can you lose? If you are angry at Him, you're not making it better by keeping your anger to yourself. Even if there is no God, any psychologist can tell you that there's value in releasing your emotions. But if God is there -- well if He's really unfair then you can at least tell Him so, but if He really loves you then He'll be glad to communicate with you, even if you're afraid that He won't like what you say." I started babbling. I often get this way. I tried to explain to her that God actually likes us. I told her of how long it had taken me to understand this, because I had been told all my life that God loves me, but had taken that to mean that He's forbearing with me, gets frustrated at how hard it is to change me, suffers when I do bad things, and is just generally burdened by my existence -- everything except the most obvious characteristics of love, such as "enjoys spending time with me" and "is more interested in freeing me than in controlling me". I tried to say that Jesus loves our friends even more than we do, loved Anabel's cousin, loves us more than we can love ourselves.

I don't remember what I said and how trite it may have sounded, but I remember the feeling. I'm not sure what it means that I become a babbling idiot when I speak about the love of God. It is interesting that in those moments I have so much conviction -- not pretended conviction but true, deep confidence -- in what I am saying. I can wrestle with God all night long and accuse Him of everything, can blame Him for creating me and thwarting me and tormenting me, can ask Him to take away my life because I have no desire to keep going. But when I start talking to someone about the love of God, I believe strongly and passionately in the love of God.

What does this mean? Does my own talking convince me? Does my conviction awaken in time for me to talk to others, and then wane again when I am left to myself? Is the love of God more credible to me when I am in the presence of someone who I wish were experiencing it? Do I subconsciously force myself to believe something because I want someone else to believe it? Or do I live in the conviction, but forget about it too often and need reminding? Do my words to others serve as a reminder to myself?

Many things I do not understand.