Ash Wednesday encounter

It was the week of Ash Wednesday that I got round to buying the tickets. The familiar hassle of trying to navigate the Ryanair website.  The unfamiliar, and yet familiar hassle of trying to navigate the covid protocols, upload your international covid vaccination QR code here, give the address of where you will be staying, make sure you have booked your covid tests, upload this, download that. 

Cross-eyed with frustration, I needed the prayer on the fen that day. It took the form of a one-sided conversation.

Ash Wednesday encounter.

Hola Peregrino. Buen camino. Just setting off? Going far?


Wait a minute, don't I know you? You don't know me, but I've seen you I'm sure. Yes, that's it, you're the one who was preaching the other day! You work miracles. You've made a tremendous stir too, where stirring is much needed! What a following you had! But you're leaving?  You're leaving such a lot! 


What are your pals going to do?  Are they going with you? No? They're devoted to you.  They've given up their jobs, they've left their homes.  Their wives have no fish to sell at the market, no money to buy food.  I bet there have been some uncomfortable conversations. Are they going to go on preaching without you at their centre?  Go back to their nets?   What did they say to you when you left them?  What did you say to them? Did they understand why you have to go? 


What did you say to your family? How did your family take it, the loss of a useful man about the house and workshop? (I too can use a plane and a square by the way.) Or maybe you had moved out already. Does your Mother understand?  And Joseph?  You had skilled hands, but maybe he realised he had lost you long ago, when you began preaching and doing miracles, and maybe he found other apprentices to take your place.  Sorry, I've just realised, forgive me if I've been insensitive, is Joseph still with us, or has he passed on?


Leaving is not easy for any of us peregrinos. Easier for me than most.  My mum and dad are dead. My sons are all independent.  My husband is going off to stay with one of our sons while I'm away.  I still feel some sort of cheat, ditching my responsibilities.  I am cheating on my allotment too.  I will plant it before I leave and ask a friend with whom I share the produce to keep an eye on it.  Do the plants know I'm cheating on them? 


Why do you have to do this? You were doing such a lot of good just preaching and doing miracles? No, don't answer.  Peregrinos may volunteer an answer but one should not ask. I can imagine that the fierce popularity must have downsides that even a miracle worker must find difficult. People always think they want to be famous, until they discover they are and realise they don't.   I can imagine it is far from easy.


It's easier for ordinary people like us.  We pass from anonymity to a greater anonymity when we become peregrinos. Take up the shell and we are all the same. The same wants.  Good weather and an easy road, with fuentes and bars along the way.  The same hurts. Feet and shoulders, blisters, sun scorch and aching muscles, thirst and hunger. The same fears.  Will there be room in the albergue?  What will happen if there is not?  What if I lose my way? Run out of water? Can't find food? I'm guessing, but I guess you share these fears same as we do. 


I'm not asking, but do you understand why you have to do this? 


Do I understand why I have to do this?  At some level, none of us know why.  What need does a desert fill? 


Whatever it is, I hope you find it.  I hope you come back shoulders square standing tall and head held high.  We need you, we need you here, where people can hear you, see you, and know there is hope, that miracles can happen.  Come back, and we'll stand behind you and you'll lead us to conquer the world. 


Feed on the desert and come back triumphant.  Buen camino my friend.


 




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