2010

I no longer have bragging rights. I did not walk all of the Camino. Today I caught a bus to shave 10km off today's walk, a section into Burgos which is recognised as pretty awful through an industrial area. My blisters are healing, but taking an easier day has helped. 

I am falling more and more in love with the Camino even though less and less is actually happening. It's moments like yesterday afternoon, sitting with my back against the  sundrenched wall of a centuries old church (which was closed when the sign said that it would be open because this is Spain), looking out over an absolutely silent small town and the rolling hills above it. Such tranquility. 

The peace is cumulative: day after day of minimal cognitive load. I don't really need to think about where I am going because there are yellow signs pointing the way. I don't need to worry about whether there will be food and water or somewhere to stay, because there always is. So with a quick "shall we head to town X" with friends the night before I can just wander on. I often start the day alone, walking in the gathering dawn and doing my remembrance of whatever year. Then a couple of hours in there's usually a food and drink stop at which friends and new friends catch up and  conversations begin which continue on the road. 

Some farewells last night to Ingrid, our energetic organiser, to Erica, a quieter US nurse taking time off from the hectic life of ER nursing, and the Scandinavian guys, with med student Magnus pictured here. 

Today I remembered 2010. I would have thought that ten years into priesthood I would have already experienced most things and learned how thing work. But there are always surprises. 

A highlight was accompanying one of our lovely older men in his last months of life. I cannot remember his name, but it is always a privilege to draw close to people in extremis. For the first time I prayed Mass at his bedside when he was no longer able to get to Mass, and gave him his last Communion. I have only done this once or twice since when there is a person and family of strong faith, and it is always quite profound. 

As I grew in greater love for the parish (and this does take some time) and regained my confidence I started to make some changes. I wanted to have a Mass for the school families to get engaged in. I asked the school parents what would be the best time for them, and it turned out that the vigil Mass would be best and that  an earlier time of 5pm would work better than the existing 6pm time slot. I didn't survey the whole parish as to what Mass time they wanted because this always just confirms the status quo: people who like the existing Mass times tend to come, and those who don't already go elsewhere 

But keeping existing Mass times to keep the people you have happy means that you are choosing the present over the possible. If we wanted to reach new families then we'd need to provide an accessible pathway for them. So I consulted with the Pastoral Council and then made the decision. 

However, I didn't communicate it well. I simply announced that from date X the vigil Mass would move to 5pm to encourage more families to come. People were outraged. People were indignant. People touted out their record "Father, I've been coming to this Mass for 37 years" as they do when they want their opinion to count more than somebody else's. A couple of people said they'd never come back. 

But it did work. The vigil Mass nearly doubled over the coming year, and the growth was in the young families, as I had hoped. So right move, wrong communication strategy. 

I've since learned that such changes need a long lead time, even if they are inevitable. I need to throw out the possibility "I've been wondering if we did change X what that would be like" then allow people to voice their opinions and their opposition. I can then acknowledge and take on board all responses, and weigh them up, and decide whether to continue further. Then, to publish the discussion and the arguments "I've heard people say Z but I've also heard X and Y" and to stir it round for as long as it takes reasonable opposition to respond, before eventually explaining the decision. This was a big lesson for me and one I've drawn from manty times since. 

The vigil Mass at the Cathedral is still 5pm, 14 years later.

Today I am in the town of Rabe de las Calzadas, population 200. It's a pretty little town set among rolling hills, with a view to the wind turbines in the distance. But there's also beautiful spirit in the town, which I think comes from a convent of nuns with whom I hope to pray night prayer tonight. 

The hospitalier here is extremely gracious. There are Christian murals on the walls: 

But most remarkable, and perhaps the spiritual highlight of the Camino so far was that when I arrived the hospitlalier recommended I go visit a tiny church a couple of hundred meters away which was closing in half an hour. It was indeed lovely, and I spent a few minutes in prayer. But as I was leaving an elderly nun was praying with someone and then she beckoned me over. She spoke to me in Spanish which I understood none of and then she offered to place a medal on a piece of string around my neck. I knelt down before her as she was about 4 and half feet tall. She then placed her hands on my head and blessed me in Spanish, and while she prayed I felt a rush of love and holiness and grace such as I have only experienced a very few times before. She then embraced me and I stumbled out the door in tears unable to even describe to myself what had happened.  After a shower and a nap back at the albergue I woke up feeling more refreshed than I have the whole trip.