I'll Push You

by Patrick Gray

  “What does ‘church’ mean to you, Patrick?” Christie asks.

  If I’m honest with myself, church is what we have been experiencing for the past several miles, but how do I best express this?

  “I think I want to start with what it’s not,” I say.

  As I pause to gather my thoughts, the sound of our steps seems to drive the words into my mouth.

  “Church is not a building for worship or a place to learn theories about religious doctrine. It’s not about why ‘we’ are right and ‘they’ are wrong, or how to talk to ‘those people.’”

  “Okay, so what is it then?”

  “It is an existence grounded in loving God and loving others—regardless of race, creed, sexual preference, or one’s history of pain, abuse, or addiction—and drawing them into the truth.”

  “What truth?” she asks.

  “The truth that God’s love is more powerful than any darkness we can face.”

  Jesus painted a picture, time and time again, of a group of individuals in community with one another, living life together, facing the problems of the world together, loving together without an agenda, and putting the needs of others above their own. For many, myself included, church has been reduced to a place to go for a couple of hours on Sunday morning, instead of being a vibrant community of people committed to living life together, committed to loving one another. But here on the Camino, I am discovering a new appreciation for a different kind of church—the church Jesus called us to live, not one we simply attend.

  Don’t get me wrong, I find value in “going to church,” but I often feel as if the church has been reduced to a club with exceptionally high acceptance standards, where everyone who is a member has been forced to lie on their application just to get in. Too often, I’ve seen a refusal to be real with one another and to invite others into our pain because we are afraid we won’t meet the criteria—criteria created by man, not by God. So many people today “do church” by going through the motions and checking the boxes. As a result, religion takes precedence over relationship. Here with Christie, relationship is in the driver’s seat, and her openness reminds me of the beauty that exists when love is lived out.

  Jesus calls us to live this way, to live in relationship with one another, to live in community with one another—a community the apostle Paul has a few choice words to say about in 1 Corinthians 13, often referred to as “the love chapter.”

  Love never gives up. Love cares more for others than it does for itself. Love is not proud or boastful, and does not force itself on others. Love is slow to anger and does not keep score of the sins of others. Love does not take joy in the suffering of others. Love finds pleasure in the truth.[1]

  Quite simply, this is how we are supposed to live our lives. The result is a community where all feel welcome and safe; a place where healing can occur; an existence we are all called to live.

  Christie’s openness and vulnerability remind me of a lesson I learned at an age much older than hers. Her pain, guilt, and suffering wielded incredible controlling power over her while it was kept secret. Each time she shares her story, though, a little more light shines inside the closet where her skeletons reside. The more light she lets in, the fewer shadows there are for those skeletons to hide within. Eventually, the light will become so strong, so intense, that those skeletons will be reduced to ash.

  What Christie experienced as a child will never be miraculously taken away, but the power those experiences have over her is being transferred into her hands. She is choosing how those memories, combined with all the life she has lived since, will become a part of her identity.

  Have I taken control of my own darkness? My porn addiction and drug use are not things I’m proud of, but I don’t shy away from their existence, at least not anymore. For years, I stuffed the guilt and shame away in my own closet. But the more I kept these things hidden, the stronger they became. Pornography, in particular, drew me deeper into depravity, enveloping my every waking thought. I would try to fight the addiction alone, and I would win . . . for a while. But it always came back, and when it did, it was stronger than before.

  For the longest time, I would be honest about what I was doing and what I was seeing, but only when I was caught. I guess that isn’t really being honest. But when I began to tell others about my addiction, the control seemed to loosen its grip, and the weight of the load I was carrying became a little lighter.

  I invited my wife into that conversation. I invited Justin into that conversation, and now I am inviting Christie into that conversation, the way she has invited us into her story. As a result, I find freedom in their knowing all of me and still choosing to love me.

  It wasn’t easy; I was fearful and worried that others might judge me and think less of me, or cast me aside as unworthy. But the opposite happened. When I shared with those whom I trusted, with those who made me feel safe, I realized I wasn’t alone. We all struggle; we all have some form of darkness in our lives—past or present. But even though these shadows or stains are a part of our story, they don’t have to define us.

  When we invite others into our world, when we surround ourselves with a community of trusted individuals, we are able to share like Christie has been sharing. And we begin to realize we’re not alone in our suffering, and we’re not alone in life. Our stories begin to take on a different shape; they’re filled with hope. Soon, the beauty of our relationships outweighs the darkness of our pasts, and people—like Ted and Christie—can help us create new memories as we continue to write our stories.

  The Camino is filled with people who are dealing with something—searching for a safe place to face their demons. How different would the world be if every church offered that safe place?

  14THE RIDICULOUS AND THE ABSURD

  — JUSTIN —

  THOUGH PATRICK DOES most of the pushing, Christie, John, and Lynda put in their fair share of work as well. In fact, Christie has earned the nickname “Mini-Ted.” Though only a fraction of Ted’s size, she is a true workhorse. Whenever Patrick struggles with the long inclines, she straps in without hesitation and pulls like an ox. Both John and Lynda have eagerly provided help as well. We didn’t ask for their assistance, but they continue to freely give it; it is beautiful.

  I continue to find it humbling when someone offers help, and I have tried to make it a habit to always accept. Patrick and my wife might disagree, because of my stubborn streak. When my hands started to go, I still insisted on tying my own shoes, even when someone offered. In fact, I continued to tie them—no matter how long it took me—until I literally could no longer do it. It was the same with brushing my teeth and using the bathroom. So yeah, I’m a little stubborn. Out here, though, stubbornness is of no use to me. I am completely at the mercy of others. Without my power wheelchair, my opportunities to demonstrate independence are nil, so I embrace any help offered.

  When Patrick doesn’t need help pushing or pulling, our three new friends walk beside us in conversation. Sometimes these conversations are very serious, sometimes silly and awkward.

  As we work our way down the trail, John shouts out, “Does this backpack make my butt look big?”

  Christie just rolls her eyes and says, “Are you sure you want me to answer that?”

  Each day brings us all a little closer as friends and fellow pilgrims. Just as navigating the struggles of life together helps facilitate a strong bond between people, so do the moments when we can laugh with—and sometimes at—one another. Patrick and I have had plenty of these moments.

  We arrive in the town of San Juan de Ortega in the early afternoon. This particular town boasts a thriving population of eighteen, complete with one albergue, one church, and one small hotel. Patrick and I opt for a room at the hotel because Patrick’s back is wearing down from too many nights on paper-thin albergue mattresses. Also, most of the albergues have bunk beds, and there’s no way to get me into a top bunk. Patrick has often had to transfer me into the bottom bunk, which is us
ually no more than eighteen inches off the ground. Lifting 200 pounds in and out of a bed this low, while trying to avoid knocking his head on the upper bunk, has taken its toll.

  After dropping off our bags at the hotel, we head over to the albergue, which is the only place in town where we can get food. Mike, Robin, Terry, and Jasper are already there, enjoying the warm sun and a reprieve from the day’s work. Patrick and I find a shady spot and capitalize on the opportunity to relax. With his feet up on a chair in front of him, Patrick alternates between lifting a glass of cold beer to my lips and taking sips of his own.

  Over the years, Patrick has perfected the art of feeding me and giving me a drink whenever a straw is not available. By trial and error, he has learned how much food I can take in one bite, and when he lifts a glass to my lips, I give a slight nod to let him know when I’m done.

  For the most part, it works pretty well, and we’re both able to finish our meals at about the same time. But sometimes there are a few hang-ups—such as right now, when Patrick is spending more time drinking and talking with our fellow pilgrims and less time giving me a hand.

  Not wanting to bite the hand that feeds me, I try to be patient throughout the process, but after an hour or so, his glass is empty and mine is still half full.

  When he turns back toward me again, I raise my eyebrows in mock disdain for his neglect. But I can’t hold the pose for long, and I start to laugh.

  “Just giving you a hard time, but could I have the rest of my beer?”

  Chuckling, he lifts my glass and pretends to drink it, but then he holds it to my lips so I can enjoy the cool liquid as it counters the heat of the day. While I drink, he says, “Sorry about that.”

  When it’s time for dinner, Patrick, Terry, and I head into the bar adjacent to the albergue. In these small Spanish towns, the bars are the center of commerce, places where you can find a meal, buy a few provisions, and even find, from time to time, an ice cream cone. We order a few bocadillos, take our food to a table, and settle in to enjoy our meal. These simple sandwiches of cured ham, cheese, and rustic bread have been a staple since we began this journey.

  As the three of us wrap up our dinner, we enjoy some quiet conversation. “Do you want anything for dessert?” Patrick asks me.

  “You know me. I’ll do anything for something that ends in ocolate!”

  A number of people have been ordering food at the counter to my left, and I notice an unkempt woman in her fifties who stands five-foot-nothing but clearly has some spunk. With her long, tangled, dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her wide-eyed look, she aggressively orders something from the counter, punctuating her words with wild hand gestures and almost maniacal laughter.

  Turning from the counter with a chocolate-and-nut-covered ice cream cone in hand, she immediately locks eyes with me as she takes the first few bites.

  Something is about to go down; I can feel it.

  Without breaking eye contact, she walks directly toward me and begins peppering me with staccato Spanish. I speak enough Spanish to get by, but she’s talking way too fast for me to keep up. Nevertheless, the confused smile on my face seems to tell her I understand every word.

  After taking a few more bites of her ice cream cone, she smiles, rattles off a few more Spanish words, and shoves the half-eaten cone into my mouth. I don’t even get an opinion in the matter. I’m going to share with her whether I like it or not.

  Meanwhile, Patrick, my guardian and protector, is just sitting there watching it all unfold.

  “Aren’t you going to do something?” I ask him with a laugh.

  He just shakes his head and says, “Nope!”

  Smiling, I say, “I guess I will do anything for something that ends in ocolate.”

  Patrick then reaches across the table and grabs my phone to take a picture.

  Both he and Terry are laughing hysterically as the woman alternates between putting the cone in her own mouth and then into mine. It’s one thing to have someone like Patrick feed me food I’ve ordered. But having a complete stranger force-feed me ice cream I didn’t ask for? This is strange, to say the least. The truth is, I feel a little violated. For the record, if you want to help someone in a wheelchair, a good rule of thumb is to ask first.

  But this gal is bright and joyful with each bite she crams into my face. She clearly thinks she is giving me a wonderful gift, so I decide to embrace it. This is definitely a first for me. But truth be told, if the tables were turned and Patrick were the one sitting in a wheelchair, I would have done the exact same thing—watch and laugh.

  | | |

  Though Patrick is getting the best of me here, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to laugh at him as well, much the same way he and Terry are laughing at me now.

  During our senior year of high school, I worked on the yearbook, which often meant taking photos at school events. In the spring, Patrick was nominated to the homecoming court, and there was an assembly scheduled to announce the king and queen. On the day of the event, I was in the gymnasium, sitting at the base of the bleachers with several friends and family members of the nominees, while most students were still in their classrooms awaiting release for the assembly.

  The previous year’s prom was the first time Patrick had worn a tux, and he and I had opted for vests. But for the homecoming court, all the young men were wearing cummerbunds. I didn’t know it at the time, but Patrick was in the back room struggling to get his shirt flat and smooth so his cummerbund would lie properly across his stomach. His limited experience with tuxedos meant he was unaware of the holes inside his pants pockets that provide access to keep shirts straight and taut. Patrick’s solution was to reach in through his fly. Shortly after he adjusted his shirt, he was asked by one of the teachers to take some papers to me before the students showed up.

  Sitting on the edge of the front row of bleachers with camera in hand, I could see Patrick walking toward me with his tuxedo jacket on, cummerbund nice and flat, shoes polished to a brilliant shine, and about five inches of stark white dress shirt sticking out of his open zipper. I had three options: I could take a picture and immortalize the moment; quickly come to his rescue; or embarrass him in front of everyone else who was sitting there. We are best friends, after all. Option three seemed the only logical choice.

  As I stood up and walked toward Patrick, he was still absolutely clueless to the white Pinocchio nose sticking straight out of the front of his pants. As he handed me the papers, I quickly put them in the pocket of my shorts, grabbed the front of his pants, and stuffed his shirt back into his fly. The mortified look on his face was priceless. He just stood there in a mild form of shock, so I zipped up his fly and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “If you want your shirt to be flat, use the holes in the pockets of your pants. That’s what they’re for.” Speechless, he turned around to go back to the waiting area.

  “Go get ’em, Paddy!” I said as I smacked him on the butt.

  Returning to my seat, I could tell by the smiles and laughter coming from the people waiting for the assembly that I had made the right decision.

  | | |

  — PATRICK —

  In my relationship with Justin, turnabout is fair play.

  As a soccer player, he wore Umbro shorts on and off the field. The lightweight nylon provided plenty of mobility and freedom on the field, and the shorts were incredibly comfortable to wear day to day.

  Near the end of our senior year, the day arrived for our school-sanctioned “senior skip day,” and our class decided to drive three and a half hours up to Wallowa Lake, Oregon, a small mountain resort where my family often vacationed in the summer months. The lake water is cold in late May, but the air temperature is warm enough for swimming, and there are several miniature golf courses, coffee and ice cream shops, and ample hiking trails in the area, which meant we had plenty of activities to occupy ourselves for most of the day.

  Late in the afternoon, Justin, our friend Chris, and I were sitting on the docks cha
tting with a group of girls.

  With the sun shining down on us from the west and shadows growing taller behind us, we enjoyed the light’s reflection as it danced across the surface of the water. Surrounding mountain peaks looked back at us from their mirrorlike images reflecting off the face of the lake, and the scent of pine trees filled the air. Surrounded by God’s incredible creation and good friends, how could this moment have been any better?

  Justin was sitting on the dock with his legs in a V, basking in the sun as we talked with our lady friends. I had been sitting behind him in the full sun, but had grown tired of the heat, so I stood up to move to the edge of the dock, where I could put my feet in the water. As I stepped around Justin, I noticed that his Umbros had ridden up and that the boxers he was wearing underneath were not performing their intended function.

  This presented a bit of a conundrum. Should I get Justin’s attention to warn him that he was about to experience sunburn in a place that should never see the light of day? Did I risk embarrassing him in front of the girls? Or was it a moot point since he had been sitting like this for a good half hour? Surely the girls would have noticed and were just too polite to point out what was painfully obvious to all but Justin.

  I sat quietly until the girls moved on to some other activity. As soon as they were out of earshot, I walked over to Justin, leaned down, and said, “Hey Skeez, Umbros and boxers don’t mix.”

  At first, Justin looked at me in confusion, but then he glanced down at his shorts.

  “Dude! Why didn’t you tell me! Do you think they noticed?”

  “I don’t know how they couldn’t have.”

  | | |

  — JUSTIN —

  Patrick and I are firm believers that humor and laughter are as important to our friendship as openness and honesty about the struggles we face. Here on the Camino, we’ve overcome obstacles, fear, and doubt because of the strength and love we freely give each other. We’ve built relationships along the way by inviting others into our vulnerability and honesty. But our ability to laugh at each other, to laugh together, and to share the hilarity of our friendship has given us extra fuel on this journey. A bond forged through laughter—a bond that cannot be broken—lightens our load.