because God always opens the door, always

Before Pat and I began walking our Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, we spent several days in the well-preserved medieval city of Ávila, home to our beloved Santa Teresa de Jesús.

For lodging, we had arranged to stay at the Convento Santa María de Jesús, located on a hill right outside the famous walled city.

Not actually running a hotel for tourists, the Franciscan nuns (las Clarisas) at the convent agreed to let us stay in the Convent's guest rooms after I explained that Pat and I were pilgrims, headed to Pamplona, where we would begin walking el Camino de Santiago.

From the train station, a taxi dropped us in front of what appeared to be the main entrance to the convent. 

First timidly, then forcefully, we knocked on the wooden door and waited. And knocked and waited, several times.

No answer.

Hungover from jetlag and not thinking very clearly, I searched the massive door with black iron nails for something obvious that could announce our presence. A doorbell, a bell, a knocker.  

There was nothing but the door handle that we kept trying to twist open, without success.

We set our backpacks down against a wall with a beautiful carved image of St. Francis and St. Clare.  And Pat and I took turns knocking on the door and walking up and down the front of the building, even peeking into the windows.

Nothing. I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to get in!

I decided to walk the entire street block looking for a different entrance to the building.  When that didn’t work, I walked down the hill to a paint store that had its door open, and I asked the clerk behind the counter if he could tell me how to get into the convent.

The man looked puzzled by my question, then generously offered me the store’s phone to call the convent.

“The door isn’t locked,” said the confused nun who answered the phone. “It’s not locked,” she repeated slowly, “Just open the door.”

I walked back to the intimidating, massive, wooden door, and stood in front of it for a moment. And this time, instead of knocking or reaching for the handle--I gave it a slight push.

The door was heavy, but it was, indeed, unlocked!

All we had to do to go inside was to move forward and go through the open door.

Lesson number one...as in the Camino, so in life…

brokenness

my Dad, folding hands in his sleep, in spite of all the hook ups

"What people don't realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe. If you feel you can't believe, you must at least do this: keep an open mind. Keep it open toward faith, keep wanting it, keep asking for it, and leave the rest to God. ”

~Flannery O’Connor

“Many people would be willing to have afflictions provided that they not be inconvenienced by them."

~Francis de Sales

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When I was young, I was convinced that I would grow up to be a doctor. I also loved any and all doctor shows—and still do. But I think that must be connected to a different spiritual need, a topic for a later date.

Imagining myself as a doctor meant that some day I would be able to heal the suffering I instinctively sensed in the three grieving grandparents living with me. I would be able, finally, to fix the broken dreams of my refuge parents, to collect the pieces of living sorrow all around me and make it whole again. I would be able to help.

It was a childhood illusion—one quickly and categorically dismissed as soon as I began to take science courses my first year of college!

I’ve been remembering these loving yet misguided childhood notions during my many hours spent in hospitals and other medical facilities lately.

Sometimes the only thing one can do to fix the brokenness and heal the suffering is to be present to it—and with—the people we love.

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“When we handle the sick and the needy we touch the suffering body of Christ and this touch will make us heroic, it will make us forget the repugnance and the natural tendencies in us. We need the eyes of deep faith to see Christ in the broken body and dirty clothes under which the most beautiful one among the sons of men hides. We shall need the hands of Christ to touch these bodies wounded by pain and suffering.”

~Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

my girls surround my mom in love

people of The Way: remembering my Camino

We encountered many special people as we walked the Camino de Santiago. In small towns along The Way, townspeople frequently gave us weather prospects for the day (and they were always right!). Often and everywhere, we were offered words of encouragement.

From my journal:

Old lady: “¡cuidado, el sol está caliente!” (be careful, the sun is hot today!) 

 Another: “hoy os va a calentar” (you’re going to heat up today) 

 As we left Leon today—car honked and waved at every pilgrim going uphill! 

 Many, many: ¡Buen Camino! (e.g. Young man at the café where we took morning coffee break yesterday) 

 Bikers waving past us – one yelled: “¡anda, anda valiente!" 

 Little kid as we left Pamplona: “¡mira, peregrino!” 

 Woman at Astorga: “¡anda, anda, vas llegando!” 

 Older lady as we left Hospital de Órbigo, stopped us to give us directions for a shorter route

There was one special man, an hospitalero, whose name I will never forget. But he deserves his own blog post. Read about Isodoro--tomorrow!

It was also very clear that the communion of saints—both living and in heaven—walked with us. Pat and I commented repeatedly how aware we were of the people who were back “home” praying for us—and I was reminded daily of saints that are special to me and to my family.

Whether actual images or through the names of things all around us, St. Michael, St. Christopher, St Ann, St Veronica, St Ignatius, and of course, Mother Mary—all reminded us of their presence daily.

“God is not far from any of us” ~Acts 17:27

“Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them,

 ‘Peace be with you’” ~John 20:19

Video: Santa María del Camino

Ven con nosotros a caminar

¡Santa Maria ven!

the courage to be oneself

entrance to Eglise St Jacques, Compiegne

I remember the first time that I really understood the phrase, “be gentle with yourself.” My friend Pat was giving a workshop at a nearby parish in Austin, and I tagged along with her to listen and keep her company.

I honestly don’t remember the actual topic Pat was presenting, but I remember that at some point during the day she challenged the all-female audience to treat themselves as kindly as they would someone else.

“Imagine that it’s your friend who is in this situation and not you. What would you say to her? How would you treat her? If I had to guess, I bet you’d be much kinder, more patient, more gentle and understanding than you are being to yourself.”

Over the past couple of days, I’ve remembered that moment often, especially as I’ve tried to get back to the “swing” of things here, while still fighting jet lag both in my body and my mind!

Why is it so hard to allow myself to be human?

For example, ever since last week I’ve been saving May 30 in my mind for a special blog on Joan of Arc. Yet here I am with about one hour left in the date, and I still haven’t put anything together.

Yet why continue to give myself a hard time about it? What’s the worse that will happen? Only that you will have to hear about it half a day later!

On May 30, 1431, Joan of Arc was burnt alive on the Old Market Square in Rouen, France—and her ashes thrown into the River Siene. She was 19 years old.

Joan was a big part of our two-week French pilgrimage. We saw images and paintings of her everywhere—and without planning anything but Rouen, we came across several sites related to her courageous story.

Here’s a sampling:

By "chance" we came across the town/church where Joan of Arc was arrested,

in the little town of Compiegne, where we spent our first two nights

Here she is in Beauvais, the Cathedral that will never be finished!

And at the Cathedral in Amiens

And at the Cathedral Notre Dame de Reims, we came across a contemporary exhibit by Greg Tricker dedicated to Joan of Arc (and an assembly of other saints)

In Poitiers, a town we first visited 13 years ago as a stop on the train to Lourdes:

at Mont-St-Michel:

And finally, Rouen, where she was killed on May 30, 1431:

"I ask, first of all, to make peace. If one is not prepared to make peace, I am quite ready to fight for it" ~St. Joan of Arc

signs and symbols

On April 1, 1981, Michael and I announced to all our friends that we were engaged.

A very very young Michael and Maria, 

standing in front of the University of Texas Catholic Center, where we met 

We thought we were SO funny—not to mention clever—choosing April Fools' day to make the official announcement. As if our friends couldn’t already recognize the signs revealing where our relationship was headed!

I’ve been thinking a lot about signs, symbols, and the powerful ways that they genuinely reflect our inner lives, my inner life—and what’s important to me, while simultaneously becoming a metaphor for the big picture of (read everlasting) life.

It was a beautiful, intense and eventful Holy Week and Triduum, packed to the brim with symbolism.

And I hope you will forgive me, but even though we’re beginning the Easter season, it’s going to take me a while to process and digest the powerful liturgies of these past few days, particularly the Easter Vigil and all its signs and symbols.

following the yellow arrow, Camino de Santiago

Speaking of symbols--and before I forget, as promised, here’s what I wrote for the New York Times section “Room for Debate” on the topic, “What is the purpose of Lent,” which was published on Good Friday.  

By the way, the actual question proposed to me was, “is there a point to giving things up for Lent?” My response:

Ten years after my friend Pat and I walked 350 miles of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, we laugh about the vigorous women we were then. Pat is battling life-threatening brain cancer, and I’m learning to function with a diminishing chronic autoimmune condition.

It would be too simple to say our physical circumstances are a metaphor for the struggles and challenges of the Camino. In so many ways, the Camino is a metaphor for our whole lives: I can’t anticipate what struggles today will bring, but anything is doable one step at a time. Every uphill has a downhill. Hardship becomes manageable with a friend. Every single thing that I carry weighs me down, so I must choose wisely. 

In our culture, pain, suffering, worries, difficulties and grieving are all things to conquer — and to anesthetize as quickly as possible. Each of us is an addict looking for a quick fix. Drugs. Food. Exercise. Sex. Shopping. Disposable relationships. Whatever it takes to not feel bad, sad, hurt. 

Thus the question for me is not whether there’s a point to giving things up during Lent, but whether I should ever stop fasting from all that numbs, dulls and deadens me to life, all of life, as it is today — the good and the bad. Fasting makes me willing to try. 

For Christians, Good Friday stands alone in holiness and singularity. The day defines who and what we believe — and what makes us different. Christianity scandalously proposes a God who becomes human out of love for humanity. The scandal deepens when this God-made-man willingly accepts suffering and death out of complete trust. 

The Passion of Christ is not ultimately about how Christ suffered; it’s not a documentary on the History Channel. The Passion is about Jesus’ response. 

In the midst of intense pain, in spite of undeserved persecution and profound discrimination, Jesus keeps his eyes on God, commending his heart and entire being to the one he trusted completely and without reservation. Each Lent, I fast to remember.

Go here to read all of the entries.

I’m trying very hard to follow my friends’ sage advice to not read the comments published online! That being said, I want to thank you in advance for considering taking the time to write a comment at the NYTimes site demonstrating to the editor that you read my writing!