A Scottish Scorcher

Another Scottish scorcher – a relative term I hasten to add before any Oz or US readers beg to differ. Blue skies and sunburning sun oh so welcome. We expected this in Spain, and got rain, which didn’t stay mainly on the plain but scattered wherever we were. We don’t expect this in Scotland. Family visiting from America keep being asked if they’ve brought the weather with them.

Expectations. We get used to things and begin to assume that there’s almost an unwritten law that this is the way it is. There is a peculiar Scottish assumption that there is a finite amount of good weather to which we may be entitled, and so we are hearing folk say, ‘I hope we don’t use it all up now and then have a lousy summer.’

God isn’t stingey with his gifts. He is lavish. Why not expect a lavish gift of heat for Scotland this summer? It happened in ’76!

Into the darkness

We sat at the back of the ancient French church, settling ourselves before the Lord, admiring the stained glass, aware of the folk lighting candles in one of the chapels. My focus sharpened as I watched a young man light a candle, place it in the stand and then sink onto a bench, head bowed in prayer. He was alone. When he stood up, he pulled out his phone and took a photo of the candle, the flame flickering alongside many others.

My eyes welled with tears. What was his story? We were at the beginning of the Camino: was he sending the picture back to a would-be pilgrim whose illness or circumstances prevented coming? Was he sending the picture back to someone newly bereaved? Or was he keeping the picture for himself, in memory of someone close to him?

‘Into the darkness you shine, out of the ashes we rise’ go the words of a praise song by Chris Tomlin. Isaiah 63 says that God gives a crown of beauty for ashes to all who mourn. Praying this morning for that unknown young man. Praying his pilgrimage has brought light into his darkness, inspired peace and awakened hope, whatever his story is.

No Room

Gradually, step by pain-wracked step, we ascended the Pyrenees, though my ‘puir-knees’ were screaming STOP with every step. One was taped and had begun the ascent with significant issues, and I guess the other was coming out in sympathy.

I thought we’d never reach the top. Every bend in the road was sure to be the last, I would think, only to be greeted by the sight of another stretch of ascending terrain. The skies seeped a steady drizzle, but that was the least of my concerns.

At last we arrived in Roncesvalles, 5.45 pm, 9 hours after we’d set off. With a huge monastery and an overflow dorm in the town, in addition to other accommodation, we’d never imagined that there would be ‘no room in the inn’, but that was what we found.

Resourcefully, Don signlanguaged a taxi driver, who booked us the last two bunks in a hostel six miles away. Rather un-pilgrim-like, we sank gratefully into the cab and were whisked away to our overnight bunks.

I thought of another couple, two thousand years ago, struggling into a town which was totally ‘complet’. No taxi came to whisk them off. They settled down in a draughty cave with the lowing cows, rather than in an airless room with snoring pilgrims.

I thought of others today, on the run from violence, carrying everything they own. I remembered ‘our’ own dear Bosnian family who came to us like that, all those years ago.

Overwhelmed by gratitude to God for our privileged situation. Today’s Syrian, Eritrean, Afghan, Rohingya refugees are on my heart. Lord, have mercy.

Ever upward

We toiled ever upward. My left knee, strapped in fluorescent orange kinetic tape, was beginning to complain and soon the right knee, in perfect shape I’d thought, was harmonising the pain. Every step elicited a sharp pain and I could sense the swelling.

The path narrowed and the rucksack, heavy but manageable, gave me an alarming sense of insecurity. The path fell away sharply towards a lively burn, twenty feet below.

‘I’m sure it must be beautiful here,’ Don remarked. ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but I can’t look. If I trip on a root I’ll never be able to regain my balance.’

It was the first day of our Camino and the arduous path took us over the Pyrenees by Charlemagne’s route. Rain fell steadily as we plodded doggedly onwards and upwards, upwards, ever upwards.

Life can weigh heavily on us. Pain demands our attention. The burdens we carry so easily unbalance us, causing us to focus on our path and miss the beauty of the moment.

Jesus invites us to come to him, to give him our burdens. He promises to take the strain, the weight, so that we can partner with him on the journey through life and not miss the beauty.

It’s hard to slip the rucksack of responsibilities off, though, without feeling guilty. Without picking it up again.

Here it is again, Lord Jesus. Thank you for taking the strain.

Thirty-five minutes

Thirty-five minutes didn’t seem long enough on the ground at Charles de Gaulle. We arrived from Biarritz at one terminal and transferred by bus to another adjacent one, and in fact, it was long enough to catch our flight to Aberdeen, with enough time to buy a parting sandwich and coffee from Paul. Not St Paul, but the food outlet.

It was long enough for us but not enough for our well-travelled pilgrim rucksacks. Despite their faithful service throughout our revised pilgrimage, they couldn’t keep up at the end and had to catch the next plane.

Seemed a fitting end to a rather unique pilgrimage.

In fact, it meant that we could walk unencumbered to pick up our car in Aberdeen, and have the bags delivered to our door the next night. Throughout these last few weeks, God has  met us at every turn, surprising and delighting us sometimes, providing the strength and will to persevere at other points.

I’ve learned a lot.