Sean of the South: A prayer along el Camino de Santiago

Dear God, thank you for letting me happen upon this small church, so I might rest my anguished feet. This little church, alongside the Camino, somewhere in the far-flung regions of rural Spain. A place where I can kneel and pray in solitude.

I’m alone in this ornate Catholic chapel, save for one elderly nun who is watching me from the back of the room, giving me plenty of space for prayer.

I wonder if this nun knows how hard it is for a guy like me to concentrate and pray.

When I was a little boy, praying was always a challenging endeavor. Namely, because my ADD-riddled adolescent mind liked to wander into various places, into unrelated fantasy scenarios, some of which involved cowboys, or pirates, or women in swimsuits made entirely of dental floss, and pretty soon I’d lose track of what I was thinking about. Kind of like I’m doing right now.

In many ways, Lord, I am like Peter, who couldn’t even watch and pray one hour with you. And I bet I could deny you, too.

We have been walking the Camino de Santiago for a long time now. I don’t even remember when we started. It seems like 600 years ago we set out. I don’t even remember why we’re out here.

We have been away from our own country for more than a month, we have 260-some kilometers left to walk on a distant dirt path through nowhere.

I am tired, I am weary, and it feels as though angry, soccer-playing toddlers have been kicking my shins all month long.

Over the last few days, my steps have all been painful, and whenever we stop walking, I cry when no one can see me.

I don’t cry because of the pain, God. The pain is not NEARLY as bad as I make it out to be. After all, it is only my tibias anterior muscles, which control the entire dorsiflexion of my feet. No big deal.

Neither do I cry because I have a great emotional burden. I have burdens, yes, but I have already let many of those go out here. I cry mostly because I’m tired. And that is reason enough.

Also, because I miss English. I miss having clean clothes. I miss sleeping in places where no one’s body odor fills the air.

I miss my dogs, who are always so happy to see me, often wagging their whole butts instead of just their tails.

The Spanish people in cafés are not always happy to see me. The Spanish people do not wag their butts.

The Spanish people are sick of pilgrims, who all enter into their establishments as though we are minor celebrities. We demand our coffees and orange juices and pastries. And the Spanish cashiers, who have endured such abuse for decades, have developed the same customer service approach you see among many professional cock fighters.

The proprietors look at you with angry eyes and they humbly take your order. But you can tell what they really want to say is, “Please get out of my country.”

But somehow, God, we keep walking. Day after day, we meet new friends. Friends whom I know I will keep with me for a lifetime. These are people whose hearts are now dear to my own. So much so, that I find myself praying for them instead of praying for myself. I never knew I needed more people to love.

Still, I need your mercy, God. I don’t even know what I mean by this statement, exactly, I just know that I mean it.

Many of the pilgrims out here has been saying they feel the same way I do. They say they are out here because they “need something”; something unnamed; something they’re willing to walk 500 miles to find; something that has motivated them to undertake a journey which only sixty percent of us will ever finish.

They don’t even know what this “something” is. They only seem to know that it has something to do with You.

So, we stop at all the churches. We kneel beside each pew. We cross ourselves, just like our forebears did during the days when they were slaughtered for saying your name.

And we pray.

 We try so hard to focus our human brains for more than a few minutes. We ask humbly for things we cannot identify. We release pain, of which we know not the origin.

We just want to hear your voice. Somehow. Someday. Some way.

Until we hear it, if we ever do, may you hear ours.

Amen.

— Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. He has authored 15 books, he is the creator of the Sean of the South Podcast and makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry.