passed by

Pilgrims intentionally straggle. There is a delicate unspoken etiquette that allows one to gently fall in step with another, speak for a time, then quietly experiment with gait that allows
The swifter or more determined, if they wish, to pull ahead.

I am one of the slowest on the Strange Road, ever so slightly hobbled
Of gait with my right foot turned slightly in and the killer blister on my right foot sole. So I am easy to pass.

I have learned that there is a calling in being passed.

The dignified German man who passed me gravely, but stayed for a time, may not have told me that he
lives near Saxonhausen concentration camp. We discussed genocide, how decent German people live with the Nazi legacy, and the hypocrisy of the USA and our genocidal treatment of Native Americans and many others.

I would not have heard of the losses that other pilgrims have suffered, of children and marriages and ways of life, of health, of faith. I would not have heard of the quiet courage to carry on.

I would not have heard myself speak aloud my own pain, doubt, struggle, and fear.
I would not have had my own wounds bound in silence by the quiet acceptance of others.

Deep in the Spanish forest, on an old Roman road, lies a small bridge covered with planks. The local people call it the "fever bridge" because, they say, one Saint Telmo died beside it while on pilgrimage to Santiago. Next the bridge stands a very old stone cross, mute testimony that here Telmo's physical journey came to an end. But another journey began. His death-place became the place that all others would pass by on their journey. The arms and base of the cross are covered with stones, some inscribed with names. What a journey began for Telmo the day he stopped walking to Santiago but allowed others to walk into his solitude, bringing their pain.

Alone, I stood before Telmo's cross and gave thanks that mine too is a vocation to be passed by.