when my flesh and my heart fail

“I have the feeling that what is asked of us is to live in the whirlwind, without keeping back any of our substance, without keeping back anything for ourselves, neither rest nor friendships nor health nor leisure—to pray incessantly and that even without leisure—in fact to let ourselves pitch and toss in the waves of the divine will till the day when it will say: ‘It is enough’.”

~Raïssa Maritain

My flesh and my heart may fail,

but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever

Psalm 73:26

“Listen carefully… and incline the ear of your heart”

~Rule of St. Benedict

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Do you know how many times the word “heart” appears in Scripture? Depending on the translation of the Bible, and on how the word was translated in the first place, the answer can be something like 726, or as many as 963 times!

The HEART has been, quite literally, the center of my Lenten journey this year.

The week of Ash Wednesday, during a very relaxing and joyous time walking  and exploring the beaches of northern California with my hubby, I experienced what I can only describe as a heart episode—or at least, what I thought at the time could be a heart episode.

It was not, and I did not have a heart attack. Yet whatever that event was, it led us to spend a whole afternoon at the local ER, where I learned that my EKG results were abnormal.

Fast forward to a discussion back at home with my primary doctor, followed by one test after another with abnormal results—all the way to last week, when I became the dazed but thankful recipient of a new stent in my heart.

It all still feels very surreal. And quite honestly, I am still taken back by this new development, this very new world of heart “things”… cardiac terms (it’s like learning a new language!), ID cards that I must carry with me, new medications, and a permanent label of “cardiac patient” as part of my medical record.

As a dear friend reminded me, as mysterious as all this seems to me, it is nothing less than another life metaphor of my Camino journey, and a new path in the pilgrimage that is my body.

From the beginning – and all of a sudden – my Lent has become a season of listening… and anywhere and all the time, all I hear is the word HEART.

It jumps out at me everywhere… in daily Scripture, in song lyrics, Morning Prayer, in my Lenten readings, even in people talking!

It also makes it impossible to not see it and not hear it, with new eyes and ears.

My heart was blocked, and now is flowing. My heart was fragile, and now has strength. My 58-year-old abnormal heart is listening…

O Lord, help me to listen

art by Stephen Whatley

15 years after my Camino: my walking stick

flowers I pressed and taped to my journal

doodling in my journal, Camino shell and cross

I did not bring a walking stick with me for our pilgrimage. I knew it’d be an important item to have, but I sensed that I would find one to buy somewhere on the Camino.

I was half right. I found a stick, on the side of the trail as we descended el Monte del Perdón, the Mountain of Forgiveness, right outside Pamplona. It was the first day of our pilgrimage on el Camino de Santiago.

I spent the rest of the pilgrimage learning how to use it.  

There was something cleansing, cathartic even, about getting to work on it with a knife at the end of the day.  Every night, little by little, I took a little bit more excess off the stick, shaving its bark and smoothing its surface.

At one point on the walk, a stranger looked at my crooked stick and laughed, then he tried to sell me his own staff, telling me in Spanish that mine was too brusco, meaning, too rough. 

I met a man named Jesus at one of the albergues. His last name was Ruiz, and we joked about the two of us being distant relatives.  When he saw me working on it, he pulled out his knife and used his stronger blade to smoothen my stick, gently evening out the rough "knots" in the wood so that it wouldn't hurt my hand as I held on to it throughout the day.

One night, I took a red pen and drew the Camino de Santiago cross on it.  This was my Camino walking stick (and yes, I brought it home as checked luggage!):

15 years after my Camino: because God always opens a door...

As I mentioned last time, Pat and I began our Camino pilgrimage -- FIFTEEN YEARS AGO -- by spending the first several days of our Spanish adventure in the well-preserved medieval city of Ávila, home of our beloved Santa Teresa. 

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.

I will never forget our arrival in Ávila. After the taxi dropped us at what appeared to be the main entrance to the convent, Pat and I could not figure out how to get into the building!

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

No answer.

Hungover from jetlag, 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 handle that we kept trying to twist open, without success.

We set our backpacks down against the 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 looking 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, “Just open the door.”

So once again, I walked back to the intimidating door. 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 was move forward to go through the open door.

As in the Camino, so in life…

where do you see God?

I woke up today dreaming of my Camino buddy Pat.

In my dream, she was not the spunky Pat that walked with me over 350 miles across northern Spain on our pilgrimage, but the Pat she became after surgery to fight the brain cancer that eventually killed her.

Sometimes the veil between earth and heaven is über thin, and I can almost hear the voice of those I love who no longer walk this earthly pilgrimage.

June will always be associated with Pat and the Camino for me. And the Camino will forever remind me of the wonder and awe that God delights in surprising me with—with each of us—at the most unexpected moments.

From my Camino journal, 13 years ago this week:

Notas:  Today we walked through the town of Castañeda, location of the 12^th century lime ovens used to constroct the Santiago de Compostela’s cathedral! – Pilgrims once carried stones from Triascastela to these ovens.

Tonight we had dinner at the local bar during the “off” hours – the woman in charge, Ana, took pity on us and sent her worker/daughter? Maria to serve us -- in spite of the place being closed.  After dinner, when I thanked her for taking care of us she told me how once when she and her husband were traveling they arrived at the town early, too early for dinner. But they had to get some food – and the restaurant wouldn’t serve them because it was not the right time, although she could see the food already prepared... She swore she would never do that… thank you God for Ana!

Yesterday when Mass at the parish church ended, one of the pilgrim’s (an older man with a bushy beard whom I had see at the Melide albergue earlier) started siging an ode to Mary.  He had perfect pitch and sang with the trained voice of a professional.

It was amazing—and the regular parishioners stayed at the church to listen to him, reverently standing and facing the front altar until he was done.  He just stood there, holding a little book and singing… he seemed to have a German accent? Or perhaps French…