by Patrick Gray
All the pain, doubt, and fear Justin left behind so many years ago is now shining a spotlight on my insecurity. I have been wrestling with what comes next. This journey has changed me, and now I know that I must turn my back on the safety I have known, on the complacent comfort I have taken for granted. I’ve always felt I had to do everything on my own. There is safety in that. I can control the outcome. But there is so much more out there for me if I trust others to do what I cannot, just as Justin has trusted me to do what he cannot. He needs me to embrace whatever comes next so that we can truly do this together.
Becca’s words have stayed with me.
I will be praying for your safety along the journey.
I turn to Justin, and the look in his eyes and the nod of his head tell me he understands what I’m about to do. Stepping over stone after stone, I work my way up the vast expanse of rock until I’m standing next to the post that supports the iron cross. Doubt—in myself, in others, and in God—has kept me from experiencing so many great things for far too long.
As I place the prayer angel on a rock at the base of the pole, I say out loud, “Thank you, Becca. I don’t want to be safe anymore.”
22YOU’RE NOT PUSHING
— JUSTIN—
THE MOMENT PATRICK SET his little prayer angel at the foot of the cross, I could see something shift in his eyes.
Sitting here at a late dinner Patrick has made in the kitchen in our albergue, I ask him, “What did you mean today when you said it?”
“When I said what?”
He knows what I’m asking, but he’s going to make me say it anyway. “What did you mean by I don’t want to be safe anymore?”
He looks at me as he cuts my pasta and sausage. “I’m not entirely sure. Still working through it.”
After giving me a few bites and taking several of his own, he puts down his fork, leans his head back, and stares at the ceiling, deep in thought. His breathing slows as he gathers his words.
“I don’t know what leaving safety behind looks like, but I do know what it’s not.”
“Okay . . . ,” I say, prodding him to continue.
“For me, safety is me. It is what I can do, what I can control. Safety means not allowing outside forces to influence what I can achieve. Pretty flawed thinking, huh?”
“If I thought that way, I would still be at the airport!” I say with a laugh.
After he lifts my cup to my mouth for a drink, I continue. “You have to let people in; you have to take a risk on them. Sometimes they might let you down, but more often than not, they’ll surprise you.”
The smile on Patrick’s face tells me he knows who I’m talking about.
| | |
Our start this morning is a little later than usual. Yesterday’s early departure, coupled with our late-night chat, caused us to sleep later than we had intended. This morning, we’re the last ones to leave the albergue, and we hit the trail alone.
As Patrick begins pushing me, he’s moving slower than normal. Our rest days in León seem forever ago, and Patrick is feeling it in every muscle and every bone.
Yesterday, when he walked back down the mound of stones to where I sat, I knew that whatever the change was, it was permanent. I think he’s still working through it today. He is uncharacteristically quiet. I know his calves have started to hurt again and he is definitely in pain, but there seem to be deeper thoughts rattling around in his head.
Today, like many other days, we plan to trek nearly twenty miles to the quaint mountain town of Villafranca del Bierzo. There, we will meet our friends from home, Michael and his sixteen-year-old son, Matthew. They timed their trip to Spain to help us with the last part of our journey, and they’ll be with us when we meet up with Joe and Richard at the base of the ascent into O Cebreiro. But first we have to get to Villafranca.
With almost 340 miles behind us, Patrick keeps putting one foot in front of the other. But as we begin to climb another long hill, his gait slows. Soon he’s taking ten steps at the most before he is forced to stop and rest because of the pain in his calves. For whatever reason, after twenty-seven days on the Camino, the strain of pushing me up this particular hill is almost too much for him to bear. Our ten-step intervals soon become eight, and eventually drop to five. We aren’t even halfway up the hill, and with Patrick’s increasing pain and cramping, there’s no way we’re going to make it the remaining distance.
“Let’s stop and go back down to rest,” I say. Patrick’s lack of protest tells me this is definitely the right decision.
At the bottom of the hill, he stretches his calves and rubs out the knots in an effort to reduce his discomfort. Since walking out the front door of our albergue this morning, we haven’t seen a single other pilgrim. Patrick finally sits down on a bench next to my chair, and we begin to discuss what to do next.
“Should we just get a taxi?” Patrick jokes half-heartedly. This is the first time we have seriously considered skipping an entire section of the trail, and we both feel like raising the white flag. For almost an hour, we sit and rest in silence. Though I don’t want Patrick to hurt himself, the thought of skipping a section feels like we would be cheating ourselves.
“What do you think?” I ask him.
“I don’t like the thought of giving up on this stretch, but we have to get to Villafranca today. I don’t know that I can get us there.”
After a few more minutes of silence, I ask, “So?”
“I’m not done yet,” Patrick says with determination.
“Give it one more shot?”
Patrick nods his head. “One more shot.”
| | |
— PATRICK —
Justin’s faith in me is flattering, but right now it feels misplaced. I am struggling up this hill just as much as I did an hour ago—maybe more so. My body is covered in sweat, and though my hands feel weak, they are the least of my worries
How much more can my body take? . . . Is this it? . . . Have I reached the end of what I can do?
With every step, my legs feel heavier. The pain in my calves throbs in time with my heartbeat. I just want the pain to stop . . . please make it stop.
More time. I thought I had more time.
I was afraid this would happen, but I thought it wouldn’t catch up with me until the very end. Now, it’s all I can do to take ten steps before I’m forced to rest. But I have to keep going. I can’t stop now. I can’t stop here.
Just steady yourself and push through the pain.
The ache spreads to my thighs, and my calves begin to quiver before I can take eight more steps.
Rest . . . just a few minutes of rest.
I decide to keep moving, but after five more steps, the pain is almost unbearable, and the weakness is spreading. I extend my right leg back to stretch my calf muscles. This offers a momentary reprieve from the pain. The slight relief I feel as I stretch my left leg tells me I can keep going.
As we near the point where we turned around last time, I’m down to three or four steps before I have to rest. Justin tries to encourage me.
“One more step. You can do this. Just focus on one more step.”
I keep moving, little by little, but after three more steps, I realize I’m done. This is it—my legs won’t carry me any farther.
Why is this happening now?
Justin leans back in his chair, eyes closed, and takes a deep breath as he considers our options. I know he isn’t disappointed in me, but I’m disappointed in myself. I can’t do any more, and we have so far to go. I’m leaning my chest into the handlebars to keep the chair stationary. We hold our position on the hill, not quite ready to head back down, but my legs are done; I can feel it. It has been hours and not a single other pilgrim has passed by.
My body is beginning to shake with fatigue when I hear footsteps drawing closer behind us. Each footfall is a little louder than the last. I’m almost afraid to look, afraid that I’m hearing things.
A beautiful voice with an Australian accent washe
s over me like water.
“Can I help?”
“Yes!” Justin and I reply in unison.
Standing next to us is a young woman in her late twenties with a brown pack on her back. She’s wearing a black hat to keep the sun off her head, and dark sunglasses hide her eyes, but there is so much warmth in her smile.
“I’m Victoria. What can I do?” she asks confidently.
I grab the nylon harness and hand it to her.
“We need you to pull. Are you up to it?”
Nodding, she follows my instructions for anchoring the nylon webbing to Justin’s wheelchair and steps into the harness. With a fresh set of legs and all the strength I can muster, we finish the climb.
“Thanks for the help!” Justin says as we reach the top of the hill.
“You’re welcome,” Victoria says with a smile. “Where did you guys start?”
“St. Jean,” I reply.
“Oh my! You’ve been at this a while then.”
A stretch of flat trail allows Victoria and me to catch our breath and start a conversation.
“So, what do you do back home?” I ask her.
“I work for Scope in the UK, actually. It’s an organization similar to your Muscular Dystrophy Association.”
Of all the pilgrims to come alongside to help us, we get Victoria, who works with people with disabilities! As we continue to march down the trail, Justin shares details about his disease, life at home, and previous travels abroad.
Victoria’s help has made the pain in my calves tolerable, but now I’m afraid she’ll think we no longer need her help and move on.
“How far are you planning on going today?” she shouts from the front. The red nylon stretches taut as she leans into it, pulling hard up another short hill.
“Villafranca,” Justin replies. “We have some friends who are meeting us there to help on the climb to O Cebreiro.”
“Can I walk with you guys? I’m headed there too.”
| | |
Michael and Matthew Turner arrive safely in Villafranca, and when we get to town, we meet up with Christie, Tiffanie, and Claudia, as well. We have become accustomed to the ebb and flow of pilgrims as they’ve come in and out of our lives for the past few weeks, and it feels good to see these girls again. We exchange hugs and introduce them all to the Turners.
After dinner, before we return to our albergue, Justin gets Claudia’s attention and says, “Thank you for sending us your journal entry . . . for sharing what you experienced.”
She smiles and replies, “I thought it was important for you two to know the impact that day had on me. So, thank you.”
She hugs Justin again and then turns to me. As I give her another hug, I tell her, “I hope you will someday realize the impact you’ve had on us, what you’ve done for us. There are no words . . . but thank you.”
| | |
The next morning, after a good night’s sleep, my calves are still sore. At breakfast with Michael and Matthew, I spend a good thirty minutes stretching, but it doesn’t seem to help much. We head out to meet with the girls before we begin the day’s westward march.
Today, our initial destination is the small town of Vega de Valcarce, about ten and a half miles up the road, where we plan to meet up with Joe and Richard, the young men from Boise who offered to help us on the climb to O Cebreiro. Though my calves continue to hurt like crazy and I have to stretch them every time we stop, I still manage to push Justin the majority of the time, with some help from our crew: Christie, Tiffanie, Claudia, Michael, and Matthew. Despite my ongoing discomfort, we make good time and arrive in Vega de Valcarce a little after eleven o’clock in the morning.
Just as we had planned several weeks earlier, Joe and Richard are waiting for us at a small café. Our number has grown by two more for the steep climb to O Cebreiro. I hope it’s enough help.
Parking Justin next to Joe on the patio of the café, I notice Jess sitting with a number of pilgrims I haven’t seen before, all with their backpacks resting at their feet. It’s not uncommon to see other pilgrims when we stop for lunch, but something feels different here. Some of these strangers eye me with curiosity as I lock Justin’s brakes, unclip the harness that secures me to his chair, and head next door to a small store to buy some fruit and refill our water bottles.
Back at the café, Justin introduces Michael and Matthew to Joe and Richard. Together, with friends new and old, we eat a quick lunch in preparation for heading up the mountain. When everyone is finished eating, we begin to gather our things. But as we stand up to leave, everyone else in the café stands up as well.
Justin turns to Joe and asks, “Who are all these people?”
“They’re here to help!” he replies. “As they walked by and asked if we’re headed to O Cebreiro, we told them, ‘Not yet, we’re waiting to help Justin and Patrick up the mountain. Justin’s in a wheelchair.’ Each one of them said they would like to help.”
What started out as two young men in Burgos offering assistance has now become a group of about a dozen pilgrims, many of them strangers, ready to make sure we make it to the top of our final mountain pass.
A woman in her fifties approaches Justin and me.
“Hi, I’m Julie.”
Her accent sounds familiar, but I ask just to be sure.
“Where are you from?”
“New Zealand.”
“Jane, from Ireland,” another woman says as she waves and smiles from the table behind Julie.
A third woman approaches, and as she reaches out her hand, Joe introduces her.
“This is Xenia.”
“I’m from Belgium,” she adds before we can ask.
As I release the brakes on Justin’s chair, Joe steps up close to me, puts a finger in my face, and says with authority, “You’re not pushing! At least not for a while.”
Taking the safety harness out of my hands, he wraps it around his own waist and takes hold of the handlebars. It’s clear there’s no point in arguing.
As the group begins to move toward the Camino trail, for the first time in more than 360 miles, I’m not at the helm of Justin’s chair. Sure, there have been times when Team Ted or Christie or others have pushed, but I’ve always been right there, close enough to jump in if needed. But as Joe takes off with a spring in his step and the other pilgrims fall in with his pace, in a matter of minutes, I find myself several hundred feet behind, watching one of the hardest and yet most amazing parts of our journey unfold. This group of twelve people, including a number of complete strangers, has stepped in to do what I can no longer do on my own.
Tears stream down my face as the journey finally forces me to fully embrace the help of others—just as Justin’s disease has forced him to do in so much of his life.
This is so very hard, but so beautiful.
Our journey began as a physical one. For days on end, I have pushed Justin. Now, I’m finding, he’s pushing me—in ways I didn’t know I needed; in ways I doubt he is fully aware of. But it keeps happening. Just a few days ago, at the base of Cruz de Ferro, I committed to letting go of fear, letting go of the safety I have clung to, fleeing from the complacency that has been filling my life. I felt a shift in my psyche, and my soul began to fill up as I thought about what walking in faith instead of fear would look like.
Though Justin has breathed encouraging words into my ears ever since our initial climb up the Pyrenees, it hasn’t been his words that have pushed me as much as who he is. Every day, I have watched him embrace my help and the help of others, and those days have all led to this moment. By letting go of control and welcoming the strength of others to do what he cannot, Justin has been pushing me to let go of my need for control, to let go of comfort, to let go of safety, to let go of fear, and to embrace a life lived in faith, with others at my side.
Watching this tribe come together around Justin, I understand how one can lead with faith. By placing his faith in those around him, who are capable of doing things he can’t, who are capable of ta
king him places he never could reach on his own, Justin’s faith in us is pushing each of us to do the same. Just as Joe is pushing for Justin, his words at the outset—you’re not pushing—let me know he is also doing it for me. I have led the charge, or pushed, in every aspect of our journey. But now I see it—sometimes the best way to lead is to get out of the way. I have to place my faith in the love these people are actively giving us. I have to relinquish control to the hands and feet that God has laid in our path. I have to place my hope in the people he has provided, in much the same way Justin has placed his faith in me.
| | |
— JUSTIN —
Surrounded by friends and strangers, we have made our way to the base of the trail leading up to O Cebreiro. For this most recent section of the Camino, we’ve been largely on paved roads, but now we have the option of a dirt trail leading up the mountain.
Everyone asks me, “Road or trail?” Both are steep, and I consider the road for a moment. But who am I kidding? We haven’t taken the easier route once.
“Life is never easy!” I reply. “Let’s take the trail!”
We aren’t on the dirt-and-rock path for very long before we encounter a steep incline littered with stair-step stones and large rocks. Up ahead, we can see other pilgrims struggling up the steep mountain path—and they don’t have a 250-pound wheelchair to contend with.
As the trail grows more uneven and rocky, it soon becomes obvious that the only way up is for me to be carried.
Christie is first to vocalize what we need to do. “We are going to have to carry Justin, just like we did outside of Burgos,” she says to Patrick.
“We need six people,” Patrick yells. “We’re going to carry Justin in his chair.”
Everyone is ready to jump in and help with the carry, but Patrick and Christie give directions to the first six volunteers. As I am hoisted into the air, they march ahead.
