Post postscript: A hospitaliera new to the job

Albergue Winter

Plazas en dormitorios compartidos: 5

Numero de dormitorios:  3

Donativo


Did you think, just because you signed up to it as as in His service that it was going to be easy? That it was not going to hurt? Even on your first camino, in His name, you expected that your feet would ache, that the straps would set sharp stars dancing along your neck and shoulders, that weariness would stretch the kilometres of the afternoon to feel like miles. 


You even knew from sharing your house thirty-five years ago the pain of the shift from "my kitchen" to "our kitchen": loved pots  pressed into unusual service and stored in unexpected places, the fridge overpopulated with food you'd never buy, curious leftovers you never cooked. You knew what you were signing up to, as certain as you knew in your feet as well as your head what 400k means when you collected your Confraternity of St. James credential, and bought tickets to Zamora to undertake another camino, in His name. 


True, there was that which could not be anticipated. 300k at age 60 was subtly but profoundly different from 400k at nearly 70. Top bunks had become inaccessible.  Beyond 30k in a day had become a step too far. Hosting known friends at age 35, even with six under-five's in the house, did not furnish an inadequate estimate of the demands of hosting foreigners, strangers, involuntary peregrinos, now at this present time following years of covid imposed introspection, even if there is only one under-five in the house.


I had guessed that it would be harder. I had hoped that by anticipating the strain I could bear it with equanimity and grace. Well, I was wrong. Pardon me Lord, please, if I sit here in your garden and have a good old fashioned blub. 


---------------------------


The next morning.  Last night, young Yesinya (10), under my instructions (in my very best Ukrainian sign language) climbed our tree, selected the fruit and prepared the baked apples. The whole family is making progress in learning to eat custard. We are learning about borscht. Little Lika (18 months) and I enjoyed a solemn game of pass the coaster back and forth across the table and a rowdy bilingual conversation of squeaks snorts and grunts at Lika level in the kitchen. Ana (15), when she emerged briefly last night, returned my smile with a smile, or something as close to a smile as teenage dignity permits. Grace God it's going to be alright. 


But for all that, I doubt very much that yesterday will be the last time I need take refuge in Your garden.

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