none-unfolding-hcsgt

A Turn Toward Surrender

Sun, 08 Mar 2026 13:34:50 GMT

Standing at the Foot of the Cross

Soul of Christ, sanctify me.
Body of Christ, save me.
Blood of Christ, inebriate me…

A favorite friend and mentor, Sr. Jean Hinderer, reminds me often of the “gospel story” that each of us lives: a story complete with encounter, parable, growth, and transformation; each of us moving through many deaths and resurrections. Our sharing of these gospel stories is where we find and feel the one story and the one Spirit that underlies all.

As my dad entered hospice at the beginning of Lent, this liturgical season began more clearly as a time of deep reflection than most. While my family is relieved by the compassionate care he is receiving, this has pushed each of us to enter our own desert journey via different paths, framed by different life experiences. Here in the desert, we all remain witnesses to the rest of Dad’s gospel story.

What I would call my dad’s last “passion story” began in June 2021 with the first symptoms of a strange illness. “Strange” meaning that it took three surgeries and included two neurosurgeons and an ENT to find a diagnosis. By the time a source was found, cancer had paralyzed the right side of his face, including his eye, ability to swallow, and the hearing in his right ear. He has not eaten since that time, instead relying on enteral feeding.

Chemo and radiation have given Dad almost five more years. These years have often been times of struggle physically and emotionally for him, and for all of us who love him in our complicated and different ways. The man who was awake at 5 AM for 35 years to sort and carry mail, golfed four days each week, and cooked two pounds of bacon and a dozen eggs for our visits, is now a little less recognizable as he sits in his chair most of the day.

The word “passion” derives from the Latin “passio”, meaning “enduring” or “suffering”. Fr. Ron Rolheiser takes this a step further saying, “Passio meaning passiveness, non-activity, absorbing something more than doing something. Hence, the ‘Passion’ of Jesus refers to that time in his life when his meaning for us is not defined by what he was doing but rather by what was being done to him.”

The idea of hospice can feel counterintuitive to striving humans, and yet this is the example that Jesus gave as he entered into his own passion. Jesus fully surrendered, receiving both pain and gift on this path. The Agony in the Garden – that place of mental and spiritual wrestling – could perhaps be imagined as the grief of letting go that we experience so many times throughout our lives. Letting go of control, of outcome and expectation, of imagined futures. “…if you are willing, take this cup from me. Yet not my will but yours be done.” The physical suffering was great, but the surrender of ego and will is greater.

A posture of equanimity in the face of suffering is a grace. Throughout his time of illness and the loss of my brother three years ago, my dad has gifted us this grace. Never has there been a question of “why me?” He does not complain. At the same time, there is an unspoken understanding that our mom has heard his agony prayers often, many times in the wee hours of the night.

Where is the gift in this walk with suffering? Jesus’s pain was witnessed fully by his mother - no turning away. Simon of Cyrene shares the weight of the cross for a short while, and Veronica wipes his weeping face. And in the end, the women, including Mary Magdalene, stand as witnesses at the foot of the cross. These were gifts of presence in the midst of physical, emotional and spiritual suffering.

My dad’s story is not yet fully written, but when the time comes that his physical body is no longer with us, I feel peaceful in the knowledge that these gifts of presence have been offered. We have not looked away from his suffering. During this final walk, Simon and Veronica appear in the form of hospice nurses and bath aids.

Who stands at the foot of the cross in this moment? Brothers and sisters, good friends, children and grandchildren. We cannot carry this cross, but we can stand at the foot. And the most fully present - my mom. Each night my parents pray together, concluding with Anime Christi and the words:

O Good Jesus, hear me...

At the hour of my death, call me

and bid me come to you

That with your saints I may praise you

For ever and ever. Amen.

Guatemala Musings

Sun, 15 Feb 2026 01:13:56 GMT

Experiencing Awe

It’s day nine in Guatemala, and the poverty continues to be both oppressive and intriguing. Houses stack one behind the other in the pockets of these steep mountains. The streets are crowded and dirty, air thick with pollution from dirty fuel and old cars. Dogs roam the street, bothering no one other than street vendors.

We finish packing up the hospital after a week of cleft lip and palate surgeries, saying our final “good-byes” and thanking hospital staff. We make sure to add “Hasta el año proximo!”, assuring them of our return next year. An attempted quiet meal turns into lunch for six, another opportunity to share experiences and our humanity in this very different space.

A trip yesterday afternoon to Zacaleu, a Mayan ruins site from some 1600 years ago, was a break that provided fresh air and deep history. This history reminds each of us that we are but a “blip” in time – realities that will fade. I allow myself to feel into this infinite insignificance while also holding the significance of having one small impact on even one person’s life this week.

Where were the touches and impacts during this bit of time? The language of smile – no words necessary. Helping a child find treatment at the last minute. Playing Memory or UNO with children and grandparents alike. Serving simple meals to families and “gelatina” to patients. Facilitating a ride home. Giving a hug. Reminding mothers of just how beautiful their children are.

It is said that in Guatemala there are a few wealthy people, the poor, the very poor, and the destitute. I don’t know who we are serving, but I know that they are kind and patient and humble. They wait for hours to be seen, share a room with many other families without complaint, and help one another in deeds and reassuring words. Their lives are as complicated as ours in many ways, and more so in others. I walk back to the hotel each evening watching men pushing carts and women carrying baskets of food atop their head or babies on their backs. Each of these people has a deep, full life with me as a momentary background character.

Father Greg Boyle once said, “Stand in awe of what the poor have to carry, rather than in judgement of how they carry it.” In Guatemala, I am in awe.

I don’t want to glorify or simplify the life of poverty here. Nor do I want to use a wide brush stroke to describe how everyone lives. The people of Guatemala are as varied and complex as the fabrics they weave and wear. Their work is physically strenuous, from manual farming, to carrying water, to cooking over wood fires. Some weave or bead, and others may be lucky enough to land a job in a factory or hotel. Education is not a given, and many children leave school well before high school.

Yet I do believe this life leads them to a place closer to one another, to creation, and to God.

Henri Nouwen, priest and prolific writer, once wrote, “Poverty is the inner disposition that allows us to take away our defences and convert our enemies into friends. We can only perceive the stranger as an enemy as long as we have something to defend. But when we say, ‘Please enter - my house is your house, my joy is your joy, my sadness is your sadness and my life is your life,’ we have nothing to defend, since we have nothing to lose, but all to give.”

What would life look like if there was nothing to defend and everything to give? It is difficult to imagine that, in a world of unchecked and oft encouraged consumerism, we could ever reach this place. And yet this detachment from wealth and power, and our resulting dependence on God – on “what is”, is the “Kingdom” that Jesus directs us towards. It’s a mindset and felt-knowing that God is infinitely abundant.

News of the death of yet another US citizen, protesting on behalf of immigrants, reaches us in Huehuetenango. I am shocked and saddened, but see this immigration clash clearly coming from a mindset of scarcity and defensiveness. We vilify the stranger, having forgotten that we “belong to each other” as St. Teresa once said.

Perhaps encounter with the poor can lead each of us to more clearly see what we fear needs defending, creating the possibility of inner hospitality and trust. As we hold material things with a more open hand, we may be able to welcome the stranger in a way that honors their dignity as “friend”. And only then will we truly experience the kingdom of shared joy, sorrow, and life – a kingdom not of this culture, but of love.

Christ Among Us

Tue, 06 Jan 2026 02:48:04 GMT

We were the lucky ones...

Who are the people that silently, invisibly, animate the threads of our lives? Those who are Christ-incarnate and real to us?

The month of January, with both its short gray days and occasional blustery beauty, marks the life and death of one such person.

Eric was my brother, my first friend, and Saturday morning cartoon-watching partner. We ran through backyard sprinklers and shared the thrill of sulfurous smelling fourth of July sparklers. He predictably became the annoying older sibling, beating me in backyard kickball and soccer. As high school came, we spent less and less time together and off to college I went.

And then Eric became someone different for me – for all of us.

In his early 20’s, Eric’s behavior became confusing. Conversations ran in circles, turning into arguments with no logic or end. He became withdrawn, stuck in his mind, frequently obsessed with a certain topic. When visiting one weekend, a statement of “You know he’s really sick” brought my mom to tears. She knew this truth, but the naming of mental illness is always painful to hear, to say, to live.

Eric’s life struggles can only be described as heroic, as is the case for many living with schizophrenia. There were times he lived in his car, shelters or group homes. There were hospitalizations and periods of calm. Work was out of reach due to paranoia. Medications left him feeling groggy and unclear. He saw the rest of the world moving on, holding grief as he felt a loss of purpose.

Mental illness seeps into the whole of a family’s being, isolating and distressing. No one delivers casseroles for the family of a recently diagnosed schizophrenic son. The stigma of serious mental illness has lessened over time, but is still present. Unpredictable behaviors, combined with the lack of readily available support, leave many families unable to cope. So many mentally ill sons and daughters are relinquished to the street as families grieve.

This is a tough, tough road.

Eric was one of the lucky ones. Our parents, with the love and support of extended family and many wonderful (and underpaid) community mental health providers, hung in there. They took his 2 AM phone calls each night, had him over for dinner and to mow the yard, took him to volunteer at the local food pantry on Tuesdays. He was included in every family gathering.

It seems this is the place where I should say that my parent’s faith held them, and it certainly did in many ways. But I believe it is more important to note that surrender became the most important intention and prayer. Surrender to what is. Surrender to not knowing. Surrender to trusting that Eric is held by a loving God - well before and after he was known by any of us. Through surrender and a good dose of boundary setting, my parents provided a powerful example of steadfast love.

But we, too, were the lucky ones.

Despite, or maybe because of his illness, Eric was easily the most generous and kind person I knew. He would (literally) give the coat off his back. We laugh now at how frustrating it was to be forever buying new coats and housewares, but recognize his Christ-like example of abundant love and generosity. He had nothing and gave it all away.

As he aged, Eric became convinced that computer use was dangerous. He would often call, always saying “Kim, this is your brother Eric Ostergaard” (as if I might have forgotten his name), then ask if I still used computers. When I affirmed that yes, I did still use computers, he would reassure me that he was praying for me. If Eric said he was praying for you, you could rest easy knowing that he was heard.

My children, nieces and nephews, grew up knowing Eric as simply Eric. My sister, 20 years my junior, grew up with an up-close view of his struggles. All of them have a compassion that runs deep. We saw Christ clearly in Eric. None of us encounters an unhoused person without seeing that same image of Christ; someone’s son, brother or uncle. My own draw to be present to those on the margins comes from Eric. All gift.

When my dad was diagnosed with cancer in 2021, Eric was distressed. As we talked, he said that he had “never really suffered” and it was difficult to watch our dad suffer. I had viewed Eric’s entire life as suffering.

Following an earlier stroke and recovery, Eric collapsed with a major brain bleed in January of 2023, found within minutes by a staff member. There is nothing he would have wanted more than to give his heart away one more time - this time as an organ donor. As we walked him down the hallway to do so, I witnessed my parents giving part of theirs away as well.

I have no question that Eric lives on. I feel his gaze and hear his voice. He changed the way I live in this world, calling me to see Christ in all. I pray that he does the same for you.

Wild Goose

Tue, 14 Oct 2025 17:21:18 GMT

Encountering the Thin Place

Great Spirit, Wild Goose of the Holy One.

Be my eye in the dark places;

Be my flight in the trapped places;

Be my host in the wild places;

Be my brood in the barren places;

Be my formation in the lost places.

~Ray Simpson

Poets and spiritual writers have long described the Isle of Iona as a “thin place” - a place where the boundaries between this world and the next blur. A visit to this small island off the west coast of Scotland has been in my imagination and on my wish list for many years. It is where St. Columba landed bringing Christianity to the British Isles, where the Book of Kells was written, and where a 1400-year-old abbey still stands housing an ecumenical community and visitors. It is a place that holds spaciousness for the soul to both expand and rest.

Nearing the island via ferry, we could see the abbey within walking distance of the dock, surrounded by field and rock – austere. We walked the road passing through the ruins of a 13 ^th century Augustinian convent, arriving at the refectory of the abbey. Deep history was visible everywhere.

As part of the “abbey experience”, we ate, worked and prayed in community, facilitated by seasonal community members. I admired these “summer” community members. They were young (in their mid-20’s to late 30’s) and passionate about holding the spiritual life and social justice work together. As someone who understands that need to stay grounded as we follow our calling, I understand that this approach is needed more than ever. Yet surprisingly - and disappointingly - I found myself resistant to the unrelenting messaging at each meal and service during this week.

You see, our visit to Iona was themed “Time and Space” – what I thought was an apt title for respite; a chance to step away from the daily news cycle that continues to break my heart and take up too much space in my head. I arrived ready for “Sabbath” and “thin places”, and the constant messaging around ecological distress, war, and the curiosity about our country’s political state felt abrasive and wounding.

After doing my morning chores and attending prayer service, I found myself escaping to a bench with a view of the white sand beach and blue waters, or to a seat in one of the ancient chapels. I felt a certain guilt in this escape and avoidance of conversation, but in retrospect I see it as caring deeply for my soul. In the sounds of the beach or the silence of the chapel I could hear myself a little more clearly and feel the presence of God more intimately. This is the “time and space” that no one can provide, and I understood that I didn’t need to be in Iona to find it.

Was there a different “thin space” that was possible here?

On the fourth day of our visit, Tom and I walked south across the island to visit St. Columba’s Bay, the place where the saint is believed to have landed in 563 AD. This was not the first hike of our trip, and we had learned a bit –

Sheep are everywhere (including golf courses).

Close the gates behind you.

A sign stating “Boggy Trail” should be taken seriously.

As we passed through yet another bog on this hike, I found myself frustrated. Frustrated that I had just stepped squarely in the muck again, sinking my shoe down to my ankle in thick, odorous mud, frustrated that my ankle and hip hurt, frustrated that I couldn’t keep up with Tom’s pace or focus.

We came to the top of a steep rocky climb that ended at the bay, and decided that we would not go any further. This submission to body limitations was difficult to accept, but we agreed to be grateful and make our way to another beach.

And here is where the Wild Goose, once again, enters my story…

In Celtic spirituality the Wild Goose is a symbol of the Holy Spirit - and I simply love this imagery. This is the way the Spirit tends to enter my life: Unpredictable. Clumsy. Mysterious. I don't seem to attract a Spirit that lands with the grace of a dove!

As we retraced our steps arriving back at the bog, there, clinging to a barbed-wire fence, was an 80-year-old woman, donning cardigan, powder blue pants and matching shoes, clearly struggling. This would have been comical if it weren’t concerning. Before exchanging pleasantries and introductions, we talked her through a plan to extract herself from the mud, gently recommending that she reconsider continuing this trail.

This Wild Goose was named Marjorie.

Marjorie slowed us down. We didn’t make it to the beach, but instead walked with a new friend, seeing the face of Christ.

Tom shared his walking poles as the three of us hiked together down a rocky hill and back to the small village. Marjorie shared stories with us about her Franciscan spirituality, her previous trips to Iona, Assisi and the Camino, about the bishop she met on the island who had come to be a spiritual friend, and about the contemplative prayer group she started 25 years ago. She laughed telling us that her kids worry about her solo travel, and she lovingly talked of her grandkids. After 45 minutes of walking and talking, we approached the gate of her retreat center and she looked at me squarely, saying, “I just really think that in this world of non-stop activity and noise, what we all need is a little more silence. All of us need some silence so we can listen.”

I didn’t know that I needed to meet Marjorie, but she was a balm for my soul that day, a mirror, and friend. There is no one who could have been more encouragement for me in that moment. There were so many beautiful places on Iona, both natural and man-made, but meeting Marjorie was the “thin place” that I didn’t know I was looking for. A reminder that the Wild Goose shows up when we least expect it, sometimes clinging to a fence in the bog.

Learning from the Sunflower

Fri, 29 Aug 2025 16:18:36 GMT

Learning to allow and welcome the gifts and the mess...

We wake these Iowa July and August mornings and step outside to air heavy with humidity; to the sound of birdsong; to the smell of milkweed flower and lilies; to coneflower, beebalm, and ripening tomatoes.

But perhaps most delightfully, we wake to the amazing sunflowers.

Throughout the spring, the seedlings of these mighty flowers pop up cheerily in newly planted pots of geraniums, moss rose, petunia and begonia. “Weeds” in this context, I pluck them out of the soil with a satisfying tug, careful not to uproot the other young plants. In our backyard, the sunflower seed, dropped by carefree birds or planted by industrious squirrels, took root in random patterns - and they are glorious. These towering yellow flowers, in so many shades and varieties, provide workspace, rest, and play for many, receiving our admiration in return. They turn their heads to the sun throughout their generative days, animated by spirit.

Each day, all day, bees of every size and shape do the work of filling their pollen baskets. These iconic workers of the insect world give us lessons on both holy work and holy rest as we often find them nestled in the flowers sleeping each morning. Some choose individual accommodations – one bee per flower. Others sleep side-by-side, sometimes as many as ten per flower, none having made it back to their nest the evening before. A warm puff of breath can warm these bees back to life, and they’re off to another day of busy “bee-ing”.

As the seeds of each flower mature, our next visitors are the goldfinches. Petals disappear as these little birds industriously pluck them apart, throwing them to the ground and revealing that first row of fresh seed. Filling of bird feeders diminishes as the birds opt for this fresh produce.

The sunflowers are by no means a dainty flower. By the end of July most have grown to over nine feet tall and the sturdy stalks provide new climbing and foraging opportunity. What seeds the goldfinches leave behind, the chipmunks and squirrels rifle through, leaving chunks of flower head strewn about our driveway.

There was a time when the chaos of the sunflowers would have made me uneasy. And in truth, it sometimes still does. These flowers are planted with wild abandon, not in some symmetric, planned order that I may have attempted. They can look like a mess as they are eaten and torn apart, our other native flowers attempting to grow amongst them. These are not the neat flower beds of my younger years!

But I see and know that these flowers, in all their abundance, have many lessons for us.

The pollen of the sunflower is available for just a short season. The bees intuit this and gather all they can during this fruitful time. When the day has been long, they find sacred pause and rest wherever they are able. We, too, have seasons of “gathering” – seasons of career and child-rearing, elder care and community service. Busy lives. We can take a cue from the bees and find sacred rest in a “flower” – morning coffee on the front steps, a short walk alone or with a friend, accepting offered help, a few minutes of prayer. These interspersed moments of awareness can remind us that everything is sacred. As author Paula D’Arcy says, “God comes to us disguised as our life.”

The sunflower goes on to give of itself - to the birds, the squirrels, and to us - as the seasons change. It is no less a sunflower, but it now bows its head as its seeds mature and are dispersed. It continues to stand tall with an inner knowing that it has done, and continues to do, what it was created for. A natural allowing. How do we allow our being and doing to look different as the seasons of our lives change? Where do we find that inner knowing for ourselves?

Perhaps emulating a farmer of parable is a good place to start.

In Matthew 13:29-30, we are told to let the “wheat and weed grow together”. This could be seen as a simple story of “letting God sort it out later”, but I believe the sunflowers teach me otherwise. What looks like weed and chaos may have beauty to offer if only we have the patience to allow it to mature and show its fruit. Can we allow the “weeds” in ourselves to be seen and revealed for what they may become, perhaps even witnessing as they produce their own fruits and feed others? As we learn to do so, we receive the gift of accepting the “messiness” of ourselves and learn compassion for others.

Awareness unfolds as we allow the fruits of our human nature to mature and disperse like the seed of the sunflower.

Silence

Tue, 22 Jul 2025 14:15:28 GMT

The Gift of Silence - A Week at Prairiewoods

“Silence is God’s first language.” ~St. John of the Cross

The gift of silence is not simply the absence of sound, but an oasis of quiet that creates spaciousness and presence – awareness of body, mind and spirit – bringing us closer to the sacred center where Christ dwells. But the power of and access to silence in today’s world has been relegated to few places or forgotten altogether. Sabbath rest has all but disappeared, while feeding our senses and soul is more important than ever.

American monk Thomas Merton once wrote, “The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of innate violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting problems, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to this violence.” In this time of 24/7 news cycles, the constant connectedness of cell phones, and a culture fixed on productivity and consumerism, a rhythm of silence creates space for healing from this violence. Where do we find it?

On a warm June morning, I sit at a table alone in both silence and solidarity with twenty other women on a 6-day silent retreat. Eating breakfast, feeding body and soul in this quiet, I hear the mourning dove, the cardinal, the woodpecker. I hear the scraping of spoons to bowls as fellow seekers nourish their bodies with homemade granola and yogurt. The sound of my teeth sinking into dried banana precedes the pleasure of a familiar taste that simultaneously registers in my body, mind and heart.

I sit in this silence throughout each day for six days. I hear the breeze blowing through the leaves of trees old and young - oak, maple, willow. As I walk the prairie, I hear that same spirit move through last year’s tall, dry grass as new plants grow beside. A cricket chirps in that insistent way that convinces me it has a skip. In the distance I hear the traffic as others live their full lives – heading to work, maybe dropping kids at summer camp or heading to a doctor’s visit. As I listen to this traffic, I welcome the knowing that this is the rhythm of life while also holding deep gratitude for this time of stepping away.

This prolonged silence brings with it a new quality of seeing. When was the last time I took time to watch the ants industriously march in and out of their domed dwelling, doing exactly the work that is theirs to do? Or watched a bumble bee clumsily glide from clover to clover? Each day my heart is full as the daisies turn their faces up to meet mine in the morning sun. Silence gives me the space to be present to the verdant greens, the flick of the squirrels’ tails (are they talking?), and the gentle faces of the deer occasionally crossing the trails.

The lack of words during this time also allows me to sit and “chew” on some thoughts and ideas. To intersperse them with feelings, memories, and patterns, and perhaps hear some clarity around what God is saying to me. The quality of my listening to the Spirit changes as I release what I think I know and am present to what is.

As retreat ends, I attempt to gently return to the reality of a busy life. A life with kids, grandkids, aging parents, household and community responsibilities. As someone that cares very much about the “common good”, I come home to the very difficult news of the day and a drive to DO something. But here is a truth I’ve learned – my action is grounded in love and right action only when I’ve taken the time for the listening and healing that silence brings. That often looks like 20 minutes of contemplative prayer, a silent walk in nature or gardening. Some days 20 minutes is harder to come by than others, but the older I get, the more the longing for silence grows.

Rest and silence are exemplified in scripture, from the law of Sabbath to Jesus taking personal time for silent prayer, and instructing us to “go into your inner room” (Matthew 6:6). While Psalm 23 is heavily associated with funerals, I want to reclaim it for all of us each day. Many feel that we are “walking through the valley of death” as we read the news and sometimes feel both helpless and exhausted.

Let us remember that the Divine invites us to “rest in the meadow grass” and leads us “beside the quiet streams” as He helps us “do what honors him the most.”

God offers the gift of silence – how will we embrace this grace and healing?

Wisdom Gained

Tue, 24 Jun 2025 14:29:49 GMT

The Camino Journey - Part 3

The path of the Camino is a long trail of old cathedrals, chapels, monasteries, convents and hostels that have provided refuge and hospitality for centuries. However, the Presence is not always felt in, nor contained by, these structures. The cathedrals’ enormous altarpieces adorned with gold and alabaster sculpture, stained glass windows and hand-carved choir stalls are impressive works of art. There is also an acute reminder of the role that empire and wealth have played in our Church’s history. Noble men and women may be entombed in these places but not the poor and marginalized, in whom we are called to see Christ.

We felt the Spirit with intensity and warmth in the small chapels, in the pilgrims we walked beside and shared meals with, and in the nuns who gave loving hugs and blessings along the path. In those seeking blessing, at the Iron Cross (Cruz de Ferro), where so many share their mourning and try to lay down their burdens, in the patience of my husband and in the stillness of my heart. The Spirit was with us as we followed a path, literally and figuratively, that so many seekers walked before us. This blanketed me with a sense of comfort.

Did I have to go on a pilgrimage to find this awareness? Deep peace came from looking into my heart and making myself available to the Spirit. How do I allow myself to be available as a conduit of the Spirit as this journey continues? Who and what is making the Spirit a reality for me?

Gratitude, humility, wisdom

Our arrival into Santiago was a bit of a letdown, perhaps because it ended in a tourist hub or because it felt like another enormous cathedral in a chain of cathedrals. Maybe because we came to understand the adage, “joy is in the journey.” While in Spain, a new grandson arrived and we lost Tom’s mom. We spent time together and with others in beautiful conversation, praying, mourning and celebrating. We had ups and downs in terrain, moods and weather. All parts of a journey that will continue.

A final Mass at the Pilgrim’s Office in Santiago provided one more parting gift. As we communally shared petitions, a priest on pilgrimage, celebrating 30 years of ordination, asked for three graces as he continued his ministry journey: gratitude, humility, wisdom. His words came from his own grateful, humble, wise heart. The Way has provided and continues to provide these graces.

Gratitude was having the space to notice and appreciate the day, the taste of bread, the love and patience of my husband, a soft gravel trail and rhythm of our steps, the story of another. Gratitude for the heavy sleep that came with a tired body, for moments to mourn the ones we loved, love the ones we mourn and to celebrate and love the person in front of us.

Humility was a close companion beginning on day one as I fell on a wet, rocky downhill, landing on my pack and one of my walking poles. I carried a bent pole the rest of my journey –a reminder of my imperfections. This is how life is. A difficult moment and we carry a little brokenness going forward. Add a couple more falls, painful feet, getting lost here and there and having days of simple sadness. I hold these realities together with the knowledge that each of us is the incarnation of the infinite love and generosity of the Creator and I remind myself of the Serbian proverb: “Be humble for you are made of earth, be noble for you are made of stardust.”

Then wisdom – how do we embody gratitude and humility in a way that leads to living with wisdom? Perhaps wisdom is simply coming to accept that I don’t know, remembering to live with curiosity, joy and patience with what is unfolding. Maybe it is embracing that “to be a saint is to be myself” as Thomas Merton, an American monk and writer, once wrote.

Perhaps the greatest wisdom gained on this pilgrimage came from taking the next step and then the next, in this eternally unfolding journey.

Living Body, Mind & Spirit

Tue, 03 Jun 2025 16:34:56 GMT

The Camino Journey Part 2 - Finding Grace

The rhythm of the Camino is a rhythm of simplicity. Wake, walk, eat, shower, laundry, eat, sleep. At the end of the day, we found a place of rest and whatever shower that space provided - sometimes a bathroom shared with 40, sometimes with four. We felt refreshed for just a bit. We admired, appreciated and cared for our feet in a way we had never done before.

Laundry took place in sacred space and time - the smell of clean clothes, the sounds of street noise, and the hum of washers and tossing dryers. On the Camino, this is another space where we feel our common humanity. Whether handwashing and hanging on a line or sharing time in a laundromat with fellow pilgrims, it was a space of honoring the holy in all that is and caring for that which cares or us; for watching the gentle breeze blow and the local cats nap as we slowed down just a little. There was a sanctity in this afternoon slow-down that called us to sitting in the sun. Holy rest.

In the evening, we broke bread and shared wine - fruit of the vine and work of human hands - with pilgrims from all over the world. All of us limping just a little – physically, mentally, spiritually. With guards down, we shared ourselves in story, living in some vague awareness of ourselves as the living, breathing Body of Christ and all the joy and sorrow it embodies.

I climbed into my bunk each night with body, mind and spirit craving sleep. Some nights snoring, coughing, and footsteps filled the room, making sleep frustratingly elusive. But more often, the rhythm of the day, the bodily exhaustion, the wine, and the warm feeling of the evening’s table conversation brought needed rest swiftly, my sleeping bag feeling like a soft, airy swaddle. And in the morning, we began again. Always we begin again.

Body, Mind, Spirit

The first third of the Camino was a time of reckoning with the body. This stretch provided mountainous uphill climbs and rocky, steep downhills. Some days my body reeled from the sixteen miles we had walked and I observed as my mood quickly followed. There was surrender in this first couple of weeks. My body was fully living the sights, sounds, smells and tastes. But surrendering to this embodied living meant that I would also feel a little pain every day. Maybe a hip today, a knee or blister tomorrow. Joy and suffering living fully in my body.

A few rolling hills followed by vast, flat plains with views that seemed to go on forever accompanied us midway through the Camino. Vinyards and olive groves gave way to fields of wheat, sunflower and corn. There was a kind of sweet comfort in the predictableness of this terrain. At the same time, it left the mind with a lot of time for thinking and praying.

For me, this was a place of deep and sometimes painful self-reflection. I observed and walked with my fears, biases, and assumptions at a level I sometimes didn’t want to see or feel. I watched myself become tied up in knots over a text from a daughter, the resurfacing of a buried memory, the dread of yet another bunk bed. I questioned life choices and worried about where I’m heading. With time and more miles, I turned back to the present moment and my need for forgiveness of self and others.

Psalm 94:19 became: “When anxiety overtakes me and my worries are many, your grace lightens my soul.” I cannot do this life on my own, as much as my logical, problem-solving mind wants to convince me otherwise. I found this “wrestling with self and God” moved me beyond the mind and a little closer to my Divine center. This is gift.

The last third of the Camino brought us through more mountains, strong wind and rain, darker mornings, worn-out shoes, and crowded paths as routes converged and new pilgrims joined. While these conditions again brought challenges, I was able to meet them in a way that better integrated and honored body, mind and spirit.

Some mornings I cried as we started walking in the dark and rain, and I found compassion for these honest, uncomfortable feelings. My body hurt, and I was grateful for it. More mountains were ahead, but I was able to approach them with experience and surrender, knowing there was bread, conversation and rest on the other side. Fears and anxieties that arose were viewed a bit more like the weather that comes and goes. There was both a feeling of wholeness that shined upon me, and a bit of melancholy, knowing that this part of the journey would soon come to a close.

The Way is Many Ways

kimberly.a.novak914@gmail.com (Kimberly Novak) — Thu, 29 May 2025 14:42:25 GMT

The Camino Journey Part 1 - What We Carry

“And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” ~Rainer Marie Rilke

“How are your feet today?”

“What are you doing for those blisters?”

“Where are you stopping this evening?”

The questions of fellow pilgrims along the Camino de Santiago were questions about the immediacy of the moment. The now. In some tender way, these questions came to convey sentiments of “I’m walking right here beside you. Your worries of the day are my worries; your pain is my pain.”

Yet there was one question that landed in a way that was so personal and occasionally so elusive: “What brought you here?” For some, the reason was a defined searching as they sat in a liminal space. Losing a job, a spouse, retiring, looking for their next move. For others, the journey was simply for adventure or health. There were as many unique responses, paths, and experiences as there were pilgrims. The Way is many ways.

As Tom and I began our pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago, a thousand-year-old, 520-mile walk across Spain, my head and heart were foggy. Why this journey, this place, this time? Something or someone had drawn me, but I was at a loss to name or describe this calling. In Paris I wrote in my journal asking God to help me live the questions as we embarked on this six-week journey. As I held and pondered the questionsthroughout the following forty days, I came to understand that finding answers was not the point of this journey,or of life. Like Jesus’ time in the desert, this time was about hearing, seeing and walking with the Divine. It was about squarely facing the woundedness and temptations in myself, and allowing and witnessing transformation and growth. It was about finding the Divine in the pilgrim beside me and the world around me.

What We Carry

Pilgrimage starts well before the backpack is strapped and the first step is taken. What do we carry? What bags, shoes, and clothing serve us best on this journey? We pack intentionally, and what we carry says just a little bit about each of us. From the young man that carries nothing but a daypack, to a woman whose pack is bigger than her body, to the middle-aged couple with full suitcases transported ahead each day. In each of these bags we tuck a few of our fears, insecurities and hopes, as well as our needs for adventure, comfort and distraction.

By day four, the weight of our packs was just heavy enough, the day’s walk just long enough, that blisters appeared reminding us of the fears we carried. Fear that we might not find food; fear that our hostel may not provide what we need; fear that we may not have “enough” or that we may not be safe. There was a gift in those blisters. We needed to look at our fears squarely, and by day eight were having to ask for help. We went through our bags eliminating the “just in case” items - extra clothes and gadgets that found their way into our packs were given away. We limited the food we hauled, trusting that there would be tortillas and croissants in the next town. We reminded ourselves that there are so many fellow pilgrims we could lean on. And, in what felt like a bit of a defeat, we even had a transport company carry one of our bags each day to take some weight off our very sore feet.

One of the sayings repeated on this pilgrimage is “The Camino provides.” What we need will be provided. How do we learn to trust? We had not trusted that there would be a place for rest over the next pass and a bed at the end of the day, or that food would be plentiful if we could wait another half hour. We were not trusting in the help and compassion of others, but instead were trying to be self-reliant by carrying too much. Thom Rutledge asks, “How might I be different if this fear did not live inside my chest?” and as I pondered this, I prayed: “The Camino provides, The Way provides, YHWH provides,” and then wandered back to a psalm that has carried me in difficult times - “When anxiety and worries are many, your consolation brings joy to my soul” (Ps. 94:19). There was, and is, so much joy in the journey when we can release what we carry, living in the full knowledge that The Way provides.

What is it you carry that might need to be released?

Was it yours to carry to begin with?

How might you be/live differently if this "fear did not live inside your chest"?