I'll Push You

by Patrick Gray

  I can’t help but think that much of the laughter we heard last night was the product of friends and family intentionally and purposefully spending time together. How many stories, filled with joy and laughter, occurred last night because of this intentional nature? How many more would occur if each day were lived with this same commitment to one another?

  20PRIDE AND JOY

  — PATRICK —

  DESPITE THE LOUD NIGHTS IN León celebrating the life of John the Baptist, we found the rest we needed, and today is our second day back on the trail. Our extra rest day means John and Lynda are farther down the trail, but Christie is still walking with us, and we enjoy her company and appreciate her help.

  As we leave Villavante and head toward Astorga, we are anxious to leave this last leg of the Meseta behind us. My calves are feeling great, but I’m starting to get nervous about work again. My anxiety has shifted from feeling the pressure of needing to finish the Camino in time to get back to my obligations within our set timeline, to wondering whether I want to go back to my job at all. My position offers a remarkable amount of security, but it comes at a cost. The money is good and the benefits are great, but I haven’t been fully present for my wife and kids in months. They have suffered because of the very job I think I need in order to care for them. In the process of providing financial stability, I have failed to provide love, time, and affection. And at what cost? There is no price I can place on these things.

  Seeing how Justin has lived out his faith over the past decade—stepping out on his own as a freelance graphic designer despite the uncertainty of his illness—I’m beginning to wonder whether my commitment to doing what is best for my family financially has actually been an excuse for living in safety and becoming complacent. Every job I’ve ever had has been one I’ve been asked to apply for. I have never stepped out in faith. The safety I have known because of this has kept me from discovering what I am capable of; it has kept me from experiencing what God is capable of. My kids deserve more than this.

  While my thoughts about returning to work are conflicting, Justin and I have revisited our four-year-old dream of finding a way to work together. But there aren’t many businesses that combine the skills of a graphic designer and a nurse, at least not any that come to mind. The trail ahead is filled with short but steep ascents and descents, and the strain of this new series of challenges distracts me from my thoughts about work and my kids.

  The number of hills increases as we draw closer to Astorga, and I’m grateful that Christie has chosen to walk with us today. Her pulling out front has made the last half of the day possible. But as we enter town and find ourselves on pavement, we have one more extremely sharp incline to navigate.

  As Christie straps in and begins to pull with everything she has, I tell her, “Thank you for all your help over the past week.”

  “Thanks for letting me walk with you,” she replies.

  Our breathing soon becomes labored as we work our way slowly up the steep street. As we reach the halfway point, our combined strength is no longer enough. We are now at a complete standstill, with no one around to shout to for help. I’m pressing my entire body into the back of the chair while Christie leans into the nylon strap across her shoulders. Together we hold our position and consider what to do next.

  My legs are starting to shake, and I’m completely drenched in sweat. I look desperately up to the apex of the hill as a black BMW comes over the crest. The car rolls slowly past us, and a young Spanish man leans out the driver’s side window and yells for us to hang on. With one quick turn of the wheel, he pulls his car across both lanes of traffic, preventing anyone from approaching us from behind. With the engine still running, he jumps out of his car, steps in beside me, grabs hold of the handlebar, and helps us push Justin to the top. When the road levels out, he turns and runs back to his illegally parked car. As he climbs in, he shouts, “¡Buen Camino!” and drives off.

  We don’t have a chance to properly thank him. We don’t even know his name. But somewhere there’s a mother and father who should be proud of their son. I can’t help but wonder, Am I teaching my kids to respond to situations like this man did? I honestly don’t know.

  While my mind is filled with thoughts of doing things differently with my kids, I’m reminded that today is the day we’re scheduled to meet up with Amee Hardy (Ted’s wife) and a few boys from the boarding school in Idaho where she works.

  Amee is a licensed counselor who helps young men deal with behavioral problems that affect their ability to learn. Every year, a few of the boys earn a trip out of the country for their hard work and progress in school. This year they selected Spain as their destination, and tomorrow these young men will walk with us on the Camino.

  After Justin, Christie, and I work our way through town to find lodging, we head for a nearby restaurant, where we connect with Amee and coordinate plans for tomorrow.

  Under a few umbrellas outside a restaurant, we sit with Amee, her fellow chaperone, Kahn, and the young men who have made the trip across the ocean and plan to walk with us in the morning.

  As we eat our lunch, Justin asks, “How’s Ted?”

  “He’s good, and it’s good to have him home,” Amee says, “but I think he wishes he were still here. He misses the trail. He misses you guys.”

  “We miss him,” I interject. “We wouldn’t have made it here without him.”

  As the conversation continues, I can see the four young men are growing restless. Anxious to keep them occupied, we finish our lunch and begin a casual walking tour of the town’s streets, culminating in a visit to the Episcopal Palace of Astorga, an imposing, castle-like granite building that also houses the Los Caminos Museum. On our way back to the hotel, we get the boys some ice cream and finalize our plans for tomorrow with Amee and Kahn.

  | | |

  — JUSTIN —

  In the morning, Patrick has us both up and ready to go by 6:30 a.m. As we leave our room, Patrick is unknowingly humming the tune to the song I just sang for him: “There’s Pat, puttin’ on my shirt, puttin’ on my shirt.” I can’t help but laugh to myself.

  As we make our way to the nearby restaurant where we’ll meet Amee and the boys, the sun casts long shadows as it rises out of the east and begins to warm the streets. We haven’t been waiting long before Christie shows up, along with Tiffanie, another pilgrim who has walked with Christie occasionally over the past week. Soon after, Amee, Kahn, and the boys arrive. With the film crew in tow, we set out for the 14.6-mile trek to Rabanal del Camino.

  The road out of town is flat, and the morning is quickly warming. The boys are all eager to push me, but Patrick is at the helm for this first stretch. Navigating city streets often means my chair must be lifted up and down tall curbs, and this is something the boys aren’t quite strong enough to do. But as soon as we’re west of Astorga, they begin taking turns pushing me along the trail while Patrick, Christie, and Tiffanie walk with Amee and Kahn.

  The rotation of pushers quickly dwindles from four to three, and after a couple of hours, only two boys are still willing to keep me moving. By the third hour, we’re down to only one young man who is still pushing me, but he is having the time of his life. He stops to rest more often than I’m used to, but he’s half Patrick’s size, so I give him some grace. Each time we stop, he checks to make sure I’m okay—and even though sweat is pouring down his face and he looks like he’s in pain, there is so much joy in his eyes. Patrick has offered several times to give him a break, but he just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

  This kid—this servant! His joy is infectious, and I can’t help but be happy. More than three months have passed since this wheelchair first arrived at Patrick’s house and our six young kids followed us around the park on the inaugural test drive. On our second lap, each of our children pushed me briefly, and now this young man pushes me. Kids can be filled with so much tenacity, so much joy, and so much acceptance. I am appreciating how much of a gift they are.

/>   My role as a father has evolved as my disease has progressed. There are many things I wish I could still do with my sons and daughter. I can no longer play catch, swing a tennis racket, or wrestle with them, but I can still try to teach them the important things in life. I’m trying to teach them to love their fellow man and to help when needed. I’m trying to teach them to respond to life’s situations the way the man in the BMW did yesterday and the way the young man pushing me is doing now.

  | | |

  Between Patrick’s family and mine, we have six amazing children, all very different and all special in so many ways. Jaden, my eldest, has been active and athletic ever since he was born in September 2003. Because I was still able to walk when he was a child, we wrestled and played games of hide-and-seek.

  In April 2005, after Patrick graduated from nursing school, his eldest daughter, Cambria, came into the world. The excitement of being parents was now something Kirstin and I could share with Patrick and Donna.

  Cambria has an inquisitive nature and bright mind, something she shares with Noah, my other son, who joined the Skeesuck clan in late August the same year.

  With our increasing numbers, our annual getaways became more difficult to arrange, so we started going to each other’s homes instead. Either we would visit the Grays in Idaho or they would come to San Diego to see us. Shortly after Noah was born, I began using a manual wheelchair full-time, but I could still get out of it, lie down on the ground, and wrestle with my boys and Cambria. Together, Patrick and I would toss the kids around, tickle them, and pin them to the ground with kisses.

  In October 2008, Patrick’s son, Joshua, entered the world, followed by my daughter, Lauren, the next March. Josh came out moving to music, and Lauren loved art and princesses from the start.

  In October 2009, the Grays’ younger daughter, Olivia, was born halfway across the globe in southern China. It would be another seven months before she would meet her family, but Patrick and Donna were overjoyed to have finally made their family complete.

  By the time Olivia came home, my ability to play with the kids was limited. I could no longer push them in the swings, play hide-and-seek, or play catch. Fatherhood was looking different with each passing year. However, the evolution of my disease and the fact that I was living life from a wheelchair didn’t seem to matter to my children, nor did it matter to Patrick’s. They never saw me as a man in a wheelchair; they just saw me as Dad or Uncle Justin.

  Though I couldn’t run through the yard in a game of tag or throw the kids over my shoulder the way Patrick could, this became something he did for me. It was difficult to give this up, but I could either choose to be angry or embrace it. I chose the latter.

  For years, Patrick and I dreamed of living closer to one another so he could do many of the things with my kids that I can’t. Now that we live close by in Idaho, that dream is a reality. I have come to see it as a gift that we give to each other—a gift that is shaping my children, just as it is shaping his.

  | | |

  — PATRICK —

  On the trail, Justin and I have talked a great deal about fatherhood, about our kids. He’s had to give up so many elements of being a father—playing games, wrestling, building forts, playing tag in the front yard, and climbing trees—but I’ve been blessed to be able to do all of these precious things, both with his children and my own.

  But after our time in the Meseta, I realize I haven’t relished the moments of laughter and play as much as I should have, at least not recently. Each of these moments should be a reminder of the joys in life and how beautiful time spent with our children can be. I have lost sight of the wonders that are my kids. And while these moments are important, they are not what is most important. I have been missing out on something else as well.

  Whether a man can run and wrestle like I can or lives life from a power chair like Justin, as a father he can offer the most important things to his children. Every interaction with our kids is an opportunity to facilitate trust, demonstrate accountability, and show love.

  Our words can give our children the freedom to explore new ideas and develop their own faith, or our words can tear down their self-esteem. How we behave in a game of basketball or while building a fort can be just as powerful a demonstration of how we should value other human beings as the words we choose when addressing our wives.

  As fathers, we show our sons how a woman should be treated and what our daughters should expect from a man through what we say and do, and how we say and do it. This happens whether we are playing games, washing dishes, or working hard to pay the bills. In every situation, our words, actions, and demeanor paint a picture of who our children think they should be.

  As the young boy next to me pushes Justin in spite of the pain and exhaustion, I feel a sense of pride in him. I hope his parents are able to see the beauty and tenacity that are inside this young man. The gentleman in the BMW yesterday demonstrated love and generosity in a few short minutes, and I’m grateful for having met him and for the people in his life who helped instill those values. With each step I take, I consider my own kids and what I want them to see when they look at me. Who do I want them to become and how do I want them to live their lives?

  The Camino has made this much clear to me: I want my life to demonstrate love, sacrifice for others, compassion, and value placed in relationships. I want my life to be a compass for my children to use as a guide for how they should live theirs, and I am suddenly and painfully aware of how I have been failing my beautiful children.

  At the end of the day, Justin and I sit at a small table outside of an albergue. I turn to him and say, “I don’t want to go back to who I was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Through clinging to the safety and financial security of a job that is consuming me, I have shown my children that money is more important than love, and success is more important than relationship. I have been blind to how my job is eroding the bonds I have with my kids and Donna.”

  “What do you think will happen if you continue down this path?” Justin asks.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out. I have already become stale and disengaged from my family. I have made decisions based on financial comfort, and the very thing I want my children to see most in me is the one thing that is missing.”

  Justin stares at me unblinking. “What’s missing?”

  “I have placed all my faith in myself. I’ve placed little in those around me and virtually none in God. More than anything else, I want the faith that guides me, that pushes you along, to be the same faith that guides my children. That’s what’s missing!”

  I lean forward and rest my head in my hands and continue.

  “I have played it safe and have let my fears take too much control. As a result, I have completely limited what God can do in my life. Not because he can’t, but because I won’t let him.”

  “What aren’t you letting him do?”

  Raising my head, I look at my best friend. “I’m not sure yet, but I’m ready to find out.”

  Amazing, these children of ours. They bring us so much joy and happiness, and yet they challenge us. When we look past their eyes and into their souls, the character we see is a reflection of who we are—our life choices, our successes, our joys, our fears, and our pain. But here in the town of Rabanal del Camino, I am looking less at who my kids are and more at who I want them to be. Not focusing on the career path or the résumé, but rather the spirit they will one day possess. When I look at who I want them to be and compare it to who I am right now, a powerful light shines on the person I no longer want to be. There is more for them than what I am living. I just need to find it.

  I know it’s in here somewhere.

  21WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

  — PATRICK —

  IT’S 3:00 A.M. My word, this is early. Christie and Tiffanie plan to meet us outside at 3:30. We all want to get to Cruz de Ferro, the Iron Cross, before sunrise. There are no songs from Justin this
morning as I quickly help him into his clothes and brush his teeth.

  At 5,020 feet, Cruz de Ferro is the highest point on the Camino, and for centuries, it has served as a landmark for leaving things behind. Pilgrims traditionally bring a stone or a memento from home to leave at the foot of this cross. None of us are sure what to expect.

  Outside, we assemble in the chilly morning air. Christie and Tiffanie are ready and eager to start the day’s hike. Before we go, I bundle Justin into his flannel-lined chaps and fleece jacket, tucking his hands into the insulated pockets to protect them from the cold. Reaching into his pack at the back of the wheelchair, I retrieve his wool stocking cap, pulling it down over his ears as I slide it toward the back of his head to keep it from covering his eyes.

  The darkness requires us to don our headlamps. After pulling Justin’s over his wool cap, I push the button on the top and then put on mine. Christie and Tiffanie flash theirs at us to let us know they are ready to begin.

  As we venture out onto the ascending trail, four beams of light are all that disturb the predawn. The hill is not very steep, but the incline is steady and long. Christie straps in up front to pull while I push; Tiffanie walks alongside, awaiting her turn in the rotation. This early in the morning, our bodies are awake, but not our minds. There is little conversation for the first hour. My thoughts over the past few days—about my family, about my future—still weigh heavily on my mind.

  It is now 4:30 a.m., and we’re moving slower than expected. There is no way we will make it to the cross by sunrise. Trudging on, we begin to talk more while occasionally looking back to the east to see if the sun is catching up to us. Eventually we see the thin line of light that announces dawn’s arrival, and we decide to stop to rest at Foncebadón and enjoy a quick café con leche. Standing outside, we find ourselves gazing at an immaculate sunrise.