Short Essay, Way Back When I Still Thought My Daughter Was Going to Spend a Year Abroad

Now that you know the story, here's an essay I wrote before my daughter changed her mind
This is a sort of retrospective on how I felt then.

The Way of Saint James

The year before I turned fifty, some of my high school classmates decided that a milestone year deserved something special: the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrim walk of at least 100 kilometers, starting from several points in southern Europe and ending in Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Why they had not decided to do something less arduous to mark a pivotal point in our lives, I did not understand at first. Most people would have chosen to celebrate half a century of living with luxury or, if finances did not permit that, a much-deserved languidness.

But their motives soon became apparent. Since we had graduated from a Catholic school in the Philippines, a country dominated by steadfast Christians, they wanted to take advantage of the fact that this was an auspicious time for the Camino pilgrimage. 2010 was a jubilee year for Saint James, and anybody who completed the requisite 100 kilometers on foot would be rewarded with a reduced term in purgatory. I think my gastronomic classmates were enticed by Galician cuisine as well—they began posting photographs of seafood platters and bottles of wine—and their calculus of sacrifice and pleasure accommodated this perk quite nicely.

Although my cost-benefit equation contained the same factors, it was slightly different. In addition to the above, my pluses consisted of a much-improved physique and the company of friends whom I had not seen in a long time. As a writer with motivation issues, I also hoped that the experience would unleash the creative dragon that waited inside me, smoldering and impatient to escape.

Unlike my classmates, the get-out-of-purgatory card did not affect my decision. My attitude toward the spiritual spheres of salvation was a little more cavalier than theirs. I believed, as Pascal did, that we have nothing to lose and everything to gain by believing in God. If this pilgrimage would indeed shorten my trip to heaven, I would certainly sign up for a well-organized, reasonably comfortable meander along the Spanish countryside. In my opinion, this was not mercenary behavior. A significant part of my spiritual constitution is anchored in my acceptance of the mysticism of God: we are human and weak, and God is hard to fathom. If heaven dispenses gifts from time to time to keep us going on earth, then maybe the food and beauty of Spain will be a benefaction for me.

As the planning for the pilgrimage shifted to a higher gear, I began to realize that things were shifting in my equation as well. This was not going to be an expert-guided tour with a support van to carry our luggage, prepared meals with three courses, and accommodations with private toilets. Two of my friends who had done the pilgrimage before opted for a less refined walk; they would arrange our own lodging and we would be left to the mercy of roadside dining places. I think they mentioned looking into the possibility of ferrying our luggage from town to town so as not to scare us newcomers. Not only that, but these hardy pilgrims wanted to do a longer walk, starting earlier on the route, while the rest of us would meet up with them to walk the last miles of the Camino. I would have to travel from Chicago to the meeting place alone. My four years of college Spanish would desert me, and I imagined myself waiting at the wrong train station, weak from hunger, and desperate to use the restroom.

But I did not divulge my apprehension to the rest. In fact, I did the opposite, researching timetables and airplane fares, trying to convey to my stalwart wayfaring friends that I was resolute in joining them. I even started a blog about my Camino preparations, a challenge I had hurled at myself: I had gone public about my vow. I was hoping that the momentum of planning would thrust me inevitably forward to a point where I could no longer turn back. The external would grind down the internal, and at the end I would be a salvaged soul with a toned body.

Except the internals were shifting too, in ways I could not control. My cradle Catholicism was proving to be too potent to ignore, and I started to question the integrity of my formula for spiritual and physical wellbeing. At the heart of my doubt was the Camino itself: why not just be a tourist if all I was after was to experience the splendor of Spain? Why plod along the Way of St. James if I am primarily a seeker of the secular more than the spiritual? Would I be defiling the path that pilgrims have taken for over one thousand years with my misplaced motives, my unsteady faith?

The answers began to be revealed to me through my earnest friends who persisted in organizing a Camino in what had been heralded as an exceptionally busy year. They had to find acceptable lodging at a series of towns, plan logistics, find the best route for a group with varying fitness levels. They had to answer all our questions about weather, equipment, and internet access, no matter how silly. They had to synchronize vacation schedules for three continents since we were dispersed throughout Asia, America, and the Middle East. In spite of all these complications, they managed to find points of convergence, areas of flexibility.

What my dear friends demonstrated to me was that the Camino de Santiago demanded not only an exceptional sacrifice but also a profound faith. My classmates were all accomplished, busy professionals and traveled extensively for business and leisure. They were accustomed to comfort and agency-planned tours. Yet they had already begun their Camino before taking even a single step, working through the entanglements while keeping the final destination in sight. They intended us to be co-pilgrims, taking step after heavy step together, buoyed by our friendship and the promise of heaven. In the presence of such generosity, I felt undeserving. Pascal’s wager seemed inadequate and self-serving.

Serendipity provided a way out of my moral quagmire. My daughter decided, entirely on her own, to study in the Philippines for her high school sophomore year. The stars aligned in her favor: she was admitted on early decision to the prestigious International School, the coursework done there would be credited, and she would spend time with my aging parents, whom she loved. I could not stand in the way of such a unique opportunity. Since I would have to accompany her, my schedule could no longer accommodate the Camino. External forces saved me. I gave my regrets to my friend who, in typical fashion, exulted that we would be able to spend time together in Manila. There was not a hint of wasted time and effort on her part.

Maybe what we call serendipity is God and our faith in Him working in synchronicity. Maybe friendship is a reflection of God’s goodness. Maybe my daughter’s initiative to spend a year abroad is God’s handiwork, pushing a passive believer to realize that a pilgrim must travel outside her comfort zone to attain redemption. Maybe Pascal should have a corollary that reads thus: Our belief in God is true and real when we feel that we have everything to lose and nothing to gain but our spiritual salvation. Maybe doubt is the seed of revelation. I have taken shaky, first steps on this path. When I am ready, I will traverse the Camino de Santiago not as a tourist but as a trusting traveler, and hopefully I will walk with friends.