As I am within spitting distance of AARP qualification, I have to say I’m charmed by the ritual now, and I marvel at its popularity. Think about it: Ash Wednesday is not a holy day of obligation, and yet people flock en masse to Mass for this occasion. I suspect it’s the symbolism of the ritual. “Remember that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return,” we are told. But that’s a bit too intense for me. I prefer Jack London’s more palatable position: “I would rather be ashes than dust!” 

Read Maureen O’Brien’s reflection on Ash Wednesday. One of our best writers, she draws interesting parallels between her life and this yearly practice. We hope you like what she has to say. 

Lent is a season of solemn travel—toward God and with God. We at Franciscan Media are with you on the journey. 

Founded by Franciscan Richard Rohr in 1986, this center helps people unpack the tradition of Christian contemplation and put it into action. 

If you are looking for the Center for Action and Contemplation in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and you’re not paying attention, you just might drive right past it. The building is an unassuming one, tucked amid the homes in a neighborhood in the city’s South Valley area. In fact, the center’s main building, known as Tepeyac House, is the oldest home in the neighborhood. 

This former home of the Gonzalez family now houses the center’s bookstore, as well as various offices and meeting rooms. When you enter, though, it still has the feeling of a family home with its layout and coves and arches, many filled with statues and artwork. 

The center, often referred to as the CAC, was established in 1987 by Franciscan Father Richard Rohr around a kitchen table with some volunteers. Its vision: transformed people working together for a more just and connected world. 

As for why he chose Albuquerque for the center’s location, Rohr says there are several reasons, such as the state’s role in the history of the development of nuclear arms, its proximity to the border with Mexico, and the fact that it is one of the poorest states in the country. 

But exactly what is this humble center about? Michael Poffenberger, executive director of the CAC, says the center is “an educational nonprofit introducing spiritual seekers to the Christian contemplative path of transformation. This isn’t meant to be a place where we are talking passively about theological concepts. It’s meant to be a place where we’re applying really deep, rich lived spiritual traditions in service to human transformation.” 

Poffenberger says that Rohr always says it is neither the words action nor contemplation that are the most important ones in the CAC’s name. It is, rather, the word and. That is because he believes that action and contemplation are inseparable. 

Dive More Deeply 

Throughout the center are images of whales, a nod to the biblical story of Jonah. The underlying message of the images is a call to dive more deeply within ourselves. That calling is reflected in the many offerings the center provides. Probably the most popular are the Daily Meditations, but there are also a awide array of books, courses, a podcast, events, and other offerings.  

Brandon Strange, director of engagement, says the many offerings of the CAC (cac.org) provide “wisdom and practices that can help deepen people’s prayer lives and support personal transformation.” 

One of the programs offered is the Living School for Action and Contemplation, which was launched in 2013. Students in the Living School work to deepen engagement with themselves and the world through rigorous study and contemplation. During the course of the two-year program, students are invited to awaken to the pattern of reality—God’s loving presence with and in all things—and to embrace a rich heritage of faith from Christian mystical traditions. 

Gigi Ross, manager of the Living School, explains that the school “gives spiritual grounding through what Richard calls the alternative orthodoxy, which I would say for someone who doesn’t know what that means is Franciscan spirituality . . . which is actually an alternative to what most people think of as Christian orthodoxy.” She says that the school can help students reconnect with work they are already doing, but in a new or deeper way. Or, sometimes, students discover a new way to live out what they have learned. 

The school is currently led by a core of four contemplative teachers—James Finley, Barbara Holmes, Brian McLaren, and Richard Rohr (Core Faculty Emeritus). The courses are mostly online, but students make four trips to the CAC for community gatherings. A good deal of the work the students do, says Ross, is internal. 

Mike Petrow knows the Living School well. A graduate himself, he now helps inform the content for the school. He says that he hopes the content he is helping to develop “gives people more than alternate sets of information—that it really affects transformative work on their soul and that it helps them heal and do their part to contribute to healing the world.” 

He says that what the CAC is offering is so important right now because “we live in a moment in time where there are contemplative practices that have always been part of the Christian Church. There are teachings that have always been there, but they’ve been tucked away in the back of dusty libraries; they’ve been inside monasteries, and there’s just, at this particular moment, the opportunity for ordinary people to access that. It’s giving people access to a very old and simultaneously very new vibrant spirituality that is life-changing.” 

Always Welcome 

Behind Tepeyac House stands the Trinity Tree, as Rohr named it years ago. It is one of the oldest “grandmother” cottonwood trees in the region, and its grand canopy covers a courtyard filled with benches inviting people to come and sit. About a block down the street stands another one of the CAC’s buildings.  

The adobe home, known as Stillpoint, previously belonged to the Damien Brothers Community, whose ministry was with the HIV/AIDS community. In the rear of the building sits a labyrinth for people to walk and pray. Both outdoor locations are always open to the public, offering a place for calm and reflection. 

Those places, says Poffenberger, serve as a reminder to him that “this isn’t a job. I’m here to serve a purpose and a mission.” He says the fact that the spaces are always available to people fits perfectly with the mission of the CAC. “We sometimes call ourselves a gateway or a front door. We want to give people a taste of [Christian spirituality] and some of the tools they’ll need, and then help them move out into the groups and experiences that are really going to sustain them over time.” 

Out of Many, One

Despite being founded by Rohr, a Franciscan priest for over 50 years, the center is not formally affiliated with the Catholic Church or any organized religion, says Poffenberger. Friends, participants, and members of the staff come from a wide range of faiths and backgrounds—and find themselves at the center for many reasons. 

Brandon Strange came to be part of the CAC after finding himself disillusioned with the world of marketing he was working in. He sought out a different path for his skills and one night happened to be checking the CAC website when a notice for his current job was posted. The job description, he clearly recalls, sought a person “who took a transformational, not transactional, approach to marketing.” He said it completely changed his view of marketing. 

And while Strange can tell you pretty much everything you might want to know about the CAC, what’s more important to him is what those things are able to offer to people. 

When asked what the CAC means to him, he says, “Hope. It’s so hopeful and exciting.” The son of a Methodist minister, Strange says that “as the boss’s kid,” he never had an experience of community in church. That experience, he says, resulted in a solitary path of just him and God. He never really felt at home in groups of believers—until he arrived at the CAC. 

“Not everyone here is specifically Christian, but there is a spiritual commitment and practice in most people here. That’s a really powerful aspect of the CAC to me,” he says. “There’s so much God here working through us and what we’re doing in a way that is extremely humbling.” 

The first time Paul Swanson, lead program designer for the Living School, heard of the CAC, he had no idea who Richard Rohr was. All he knew was that he read the center’s eight core principles (see sidebar) and felt instantly connected. He quit his job and became an intern at the CAC for a year. He eventually came back and, since then, has worn many different hats within the CAC. Each one has been different, but all are in service to the center’s mission, in which he so deeply believes. 

The Next Generation 

Last year, in celebration of the center’s 35th anniversary, Rohr announced that he would be stepping back from the day-to-day workings of the CAC in order to be part of the team rather than the leader. And while it might have come as a surprise to some, it didn’t to anyone at the CAC. That’s because it is a move that has been in the works for a number of years. Rohr still comes into his office—filled with books and items gathered over the many years of his ministry—but now it’s on his terms and time. 

In a letter announcing the change, Rohr wrote: “At this stage in my life, I plan to continue teaching as I am able, but my desire is to make more space for others in our community to carry the mission forward. . . . There is so much we still can and must do together in service to compassion and healing in our world.” 

The transition, says Poffenberger, is simply the natural process of the center’s growth. He says that Rohr has always understood that the CAC is bigger than he is.

Mike Petra says it this way: “The CAC is not about Richard Rohr; it’s about what Richard Rohr is about. And we’re not about our core teachers; we’re about what our core teachers are about. Honestly, it’s not even about CAC. It’s about what CAC is about, which is pushing people toward contemplative spirituality.” 

Poffenberger is hopeful about the CAC’s future and the work being done. He says we are in a moment right now that needs what the CAC has to offer. “I think our world needs healing right now,” he says. “When we’re in this polarizing moment and it feels very full of despair, what we need are people who come and say, ‘My only concern is how can I serve love?’ It’s not about being right. It’s not about winning power. It’s about being an agent of healing. And when we adopt that as our task, we can’t lose.” 

What Is Contemplation? 

Contemplation is the practice of being fully present—in heart, mind, and body—to what is in a way that allows you to creatively respond and work toward what could be. 

For many, contemplation is prayer or meditation, a daily practice of deep listening to better connect with ourselves and divine love. Father Richard teaches that contemplative prayer helps us sustain the Truth we encounter during moments of great love and great suffering long after the intensity of these experiences wears off. Contemplative prayer is the way we work out the experiences that words elude, how we learn from them and bravely allow ourselves to be transformed by them, even when our normal modes of thinking can’t make sense of them. 

Contemplative prayer is a practice for a lifetime, never perfected yet always enough. Each time we pray, our habitual patterns of thinking and feeling will inevitably interrupt and distract us from deep listening, but it is through our repeated failings that we encounter God’s grace and experience a transformed mind (Romans 12:2). 

The contemplative mind is about receiving and being present to the moment, to the now, without judgment, analysis, or critique. Contemplative “knowing” is a much more holistic, heart-centered knowing, where mind, heart, soul, and senses are open and receptive to the moment just as it is. “This is how you come to love things in themselves and as themselves. You learn not to divide the field of the moment or eliminate anything that threatens your ego, but to hold everything—both the attractive and the unpleasant—together in one accepting gaze.” 

In short, contemplation might be described as entering a deeper silence and letting go of our habitual thoughts, sensations, and feelings in order to connect to a truth greater than ourselves. —Center for Action and Contemplation 

The Eight Core Principles of the Center for Action and Contemplation 

• The teaching of Jesus is our central reference point. 
• We need a contemplative mind in order to do compassionate action. 
• The best criticism of the bad is the practice of the better. Oppositional energy only creates more of the same. 
• Practical truth is more likely found at the bottom and the edges than at the top or the center of most groups, institutions, and cultures. 
• We will support true authority, the ability to “author” life in others, regardless of the group. 
• Life is about discovering the right questions more than having the right answers. 
• True religion leads us to an experience of our True Self and undermines my false self. 
• We do not think ourselves into a new way of living, but we live ourselves into a new way of thinking. 

The Lenten cross on her forehead reminds this author of the impermanence of our lives and the treasure that awaits us.  

I’ve always loved Ash Wednesday, the ritual of the ashes themselves, the exact point of entering Lent with the priest’s thumb pressing a cross on my forehead. With the words “Remember that you are dust,” that first dark line is placed upon me with a silky flow. At the second line—“unto dust you shall return”—the ashes are already vanishing from his thumbprint and feel chalky. I expand with pride, witnessing all of us somberly wearing these holy marks, and, as we disperse back into our daily lives, I imagine the wind blowing upon us all and carrying these crosses away. Butx not completely—a hint always ends up on my own fingertips after touching my forehead, wondering if any of the dust has remained. 

It’s from this faded imprint that I reflect now on a chalk portrait, and how these 40 days teach me so much about the themes of impermanence, forgiveness, and opening our hearts to the treasure. 

Accepting Impermanence

As I head into Lent reflecting on this past year, I can’t deny so much has blown away: I joined family members in helping my 85-year-old mother move from her home of 30 years into a much smaller home. Those words look simple, but the sorrow was not. My mother’s dementia had taken over, and she required care 24/7. Because she was unable to participate in any aspect of this transition, we all threw ourselves, without her, into various tasks. One of mine was to prioritize thousands of objects, taking only what she needed and leaving much of her lifetime behind. 

I was caught off guard by the entire process. I was confident that I knew how it all worked, this letting go, this impermanence. After all, I had gotten divorced eight years prior and had been faced with seeing the broken objects of a 25-year marriage overflow in a dumpster. I had been told then that the dumpster would be taken away on a Thursday, and when I pulled into the driveway after work on Wednesday night, it was gone. I was devastated to have all my brokenness gone a day early. It shocked me, how I had held on. 

So as I plowed through my mother’s belongings, I felt I was seasoned. I wanted to believe I was tougher now after what I had been through, attacking my mother’s chaotic, overstuffed bureaus and closets with a ruthless frenzy. I was on a mission. She would remember nothing of any of the objects I held. We threw away bag after bag of junk. It’s not an exaggeration to say that while dragging a few of them out to the garbage bins, I heard her broken necklaces make the sound of sand falling within. It’s life, I told myself. Deal with it. 

I persisted in my tough-guy phase, but after a weekend of this clearing out, the veneer began to crack. One of my next tasks was quite simple. In the bathroom of her new home, I opened a little vanity drawer and placed a full tube of toothpaste and her toothbrush inside. Into the drawer below it I tucked her comb. She’d once done this for my two siblings and me; I had done this for my own two children; now I was doing this for her. 

Is there a word for when love and confusion combine, crashing over your head in a wave while looking at yourself in your mother’s mirror? Is there a word for when sorrow knocks over your mother in a wave? 

Return with Your Whole Heart

In helping my mother move, I was given the opportunity to become a better listener, being present to my mother in her grief. This strengthening of my ability to listen has impacted my desire to listen more closely to Scripture. On Ash Wednesday, the words that are spoken as we receive our ashes are incredibly challenging and beautiful. But we also hear Scripture that adds layers to this day’s reflection. This year, I am grateful for Joel 2:12: “Return to me with your whole heart, with fasting, weeping, and mourning.” 

The beginning of Lent is a return, and it does bring weeping and mourning. My family and I had been trying to navigate the move for Mom, to protect her and make it as easy as possible. We consulted with her neurologist’s social worker about how best to transition her. We did the entire move ourselves, without involving her, to try to minimize her anxiety and obsessing. 

On the second night in her new house, she fully understood that she had moved. She had not been so certain, and now she knew. In 61 years of being her daughter, I’d never seen my mother cry that hard. Not when her mother, Irene, died, not when her “Pops” died, not when my father died. It came from a place that I do not think there’s a word for—though there should be. 

“I just can’t believe it’s gone,” she sobbed. Her tears fell, turning amber in the lamplight. All I could think of was Psalm 56:9: “My wanderings you have noted; are my tears not stored in your flask?” These words had gotten me through the deepest grief of my divorce. I said very quietly: “I know, Mom. It’s hard. Change is hard.” 

“It stinks,” she said bitterly. 

In my head, I said Hail Marys. I sat on her four-poster bed, the one from her childhood, and she sobbed on her mother’s reupholstered loveseat. It was like this for hours, almost like watching rainfall. At night, when droplets cascade in a fury outside my house, the movement sets off the beams of the motion detector. The rain pours in the slant of the light. I felt God with us, so I did not try to talk her out of her feelings. She was right: It cut deep for things to disappear, for something as precious as a home to die. I knew I was being called to simply be alongside her. 

“I know, Mom, it’s rough.” 

“I can’t believe it’s gone. That was my home.” 

It seemed to me I was in the womb at the center of the world, where a mother sobs for all that’s gone, all that has been taken, all that must be let go of, all we cannot hold on to. In the womb at the center of the world is a grief built of tears and timber. It holds the truth that you will leave every dwelling you ever have: including your mother’s womb, including every single home you live in, and even, especially, including your own body. 

My whole childhood, whenever I went to bed crying or despondent, my mother would begin to shut my door, and from her silhouette in the hallway light she’d say, “Things will look better in the morning.” And they always did. 

It never ceased to amaze me how she knew things would work out. Five decades later when I clung to the Psalms for refuge, I discovered the phrase from Psalm 30:6: “At dusk weeping comes for the night; but at dawn there is rejoicing.” My mother was never in any way religious, but her repeated advice to me was a paraphrase of this poignant and true passage. The night of her breakdown, after she had exhausted herself and I tucked her into bed, I assured her things would look better in the morning. 

And they did. My mother emerged with a haggard face and sore body, but soon her garden room windows were filled with light. She was amazed at how many windows there were in her new home—it was one of the reasons we bought it for her—and she kept counting the panes in wonder and delight. A few days later, she only remembered her previous residence as “the gray house.” 

In the months that have passed, she has had tears, but also much laughter, and no torrential weeping. I turn to what’s in my own heart as I focus on the Psalm reading for Ash Wednesday.  

I long to begin again. Though it was necessary to move my mother, I accept I made missteps in how I executed it, adding to her burden. I want forgiveness. Before getting my ashes, I hear Psalm 51:9 from the lectern: “Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.” 

Where Your Treasure Is

I wanted so much to see myself as tough when it came to impermanence. The Ash Wednesday Gospel reading from Matthew is one of my favorites. Jesus tells us: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and decay destroy, and thieves break in and steal. But store up treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor decay destroys, nor thieves break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be” (6:19–21). 

Because of the physical losses I’ve experienced, I believed I was free of hanging on to those earthly trea-sures. I don’t collect things. My papers are 100 percent in order for my children; my goal is that after I die it will take no more than a week to clean out my house, top to bottom. It surprised me, then, that I could not bear to go back to my mother’s old house when the dumpster became full. My parents had been married 62 years when my father passed in late 2020, and they had never downsized, never tossed anything away. 

I knew I had only one day to go into the old house to retrieve anything I wanted. I chose to not go. I was tough, right? I knew how to let go; I understood “dust to dust.” Then the estate sale went online, and I scrolled through the treasures of my parents’ life. 

I was not prepared for seeing my mother’s collection of “mother prints.” She had dozens of frames holding various old-fashioned poems, vintage Mother’s Day cards, and mother-themed songs on sheet music. While these images were not devout, they praised the beauty of motherhood. Now all were displayed as Item 223. I spied one I had made her. I recognized my own handwriting, the way I tried to invent a special font in a magic marker that read “MOTHER.” It was a poem I wrote for her birthday when I was 12, faded with decay, just as Scripture says. 

Then, amid my scrolling, something appeared that made me so angry at myself for trying so hard to be above all this letting go. While I took only a few things from my mother’s house, I wanted this. Badly. It was a pastel portrait of my mother’s mother, my grandmother Irene. I hadn’t seen it in many years, as it was tucked away among so much detritus in the basement. My grandmother is wearing her auburn hair in a late-1940s style, though the drawing is from 1952. Her smooth, buoyant curls, called victory waves, are quite flattering around her oval face. In typical Irene style—she was a fanatical clotheshorse—she sports fashionable jewelry: white button clip-on earrings and, exposed in the V-neck of her buttercup-colored top, a wide pearl choker to match. 

Even though I never knew her this young—around her early 40s, I think—I knew that this Miami Beach caricature, as appealing as it was, didn’t fully look like her. Yes, I recognized the outline of her hair (she never changed that hairstyle or the color) and the ladylike posture of her shoulders. What intrigued me were the big brown eyes. They were not that luminous in real life. Something about the expression in these not-quite-accurate eyes anticipates the face of my mother. Her gaze captivated me because in it I saw the faces of my children—who are, of course, my heart’s truest treasures. 

This woman once sat still for a portrait made of chalk: once a wife, daughter, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, gone 25 years now. Still treasured. 

Irene is beautifully framed on a camel-colored background, surrounded by a cream mat and a frame with tiny three-dimensional gold leaves. She was Item 224. We had signed a deal that we could not go back into the house, as family members were not even allowed to attend the estate sale. I prayed no one would want to take her, losing sleep, churning and awake in the dark for hours, the night before I knew that Chalk Irene might disappear forever. 

I sent a text to my brother saying, “If that portrait of Grandma doesn’t sell, and you go back into the house afterwards, could you get it for me?” A few days later, after 150 strangers traipsed through my mother’s home touching all these items, my brother texted me a photo of Irene and the words “Did not sell.” He took her home to his garage, and soon she will come to me. I will hang her on my wall next to my Da Vinci The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne and Saint John the Baptist. Mary, holding Jesus, while sitting on her own mother’s lap. 

Gratitude and Faith

I’m always full of thanks for the chance to reflect as Lent begins. The ritual of ashes allows for a pause within their crossroad. I think of how the year’s journey of helping my mother gave me yet another chance to face impermanence—and there will be so many more. It led to becoming a better listener to those I love and to hearing, I hope, the other words spoken as I receive this year’s ashes: “Be faithful to the Gospel.” 

This Lenten journey led me to a chalk portrait that, while also impermanent as the ashes blowing off my forehead, stirs the treasure of love in my heart.  

In a Mennonite community in the rural Midwest in 2010, eight women from three families meet in a hayloft to decide what to do in the face of ongoing sexual assaults among them. The perpetrators have only just been identified because one of the victims recognized him and named the others. The men had used a spray form of animal tranquilizer to drug and subdue their victims. They are now in jail where the elders took them for their own protection after Mariche (Jessie Buckley), a young wife and mother, tried to attack one with a scythe. 

The women and girls (including Frances McDormand, Sheila McCarthy, Judith Ivey, Rooney Mara, and Claire Foy) have been selected by the women in the community to choose among three options: Do nothing, stay and fight, or leave. For the first time in their lives, the women vote on what they can do and then begin deep, far-ranging conversations to discern their next steps. 

Based on the 2018 novelized version of true events by Canadian author Miriam Toews, and written and directed by former child actor Sarah Polley, the film is a mesmerizing tale in which women take control of their lives in a patriarchal society that uses religion to control them. 

The only man in the film is August (Ben Whishaw). The women ask him to take the minutes of their meeting because he knows how to read and write—skills they do not have. Though his family was excommunicated, August is a believer and a schoolteacher for the boys of the community. He has also been in love with Ona (Mara) since they were children. She is unmarried but carries the child of her rapist. 

The cinematography and music complement the harrowing tale that wisely suggests, however vividly, more than it shows. While this could make an amazing stage play, Polley’s searing direction, sepia-toned cinematography by Luc Montpellier, a perfect score from Icelandic composer Hildur Guðnadóttir, and deeply felt acting by an ensemble cast make this a serious Oscar contender. How the film avoids demonizing all men while addressing themes of faith and forgiveness is remarkable. 

Not yet rated, PG-13 • Disturbing images, strong language, references to child rape, violence against women, and peril. 

She Said

When New York Times reporter Jodi Kantor (Zoe Kazan) receives a tip that actress Rose McGowen had been sexually assaulted by Oscar-winning producer Harvey Weinstein, she follows up with the actress. McGowen goes on the record and describes how Weinstein assaulted her when she was 23 years old. Kantor speaks with Ashley Judd and Gwyneth Paltrow, who describe their experiences with Weinstein, but will not go on the record at first out of fear it would damage their careers. 

When Kantor is unable to make progress in her investigation, Dean Baquet (Andre Braugher), executive director of the Times, suggests that she join efforts with reporter Megan Twohey (Carey Mulligan). 

The two reporters, with the encouragement of editor Rebecca Corbett (Patricia Clarkson) and Baquet, travel to the United Kingdom to identify and speak with other women abused by Weinstein, but most of the women are bound by nondisclosure agreements. This leads the reporters to investigate financial payouts to women to keep them quiet. 

Finally, the story comes together in October 2017. After its publication, 82 additional women came forward with allegations against Weinstein. 

The acting is solid, and the enormity of Weinstein’s crimes against women is heartbreaking and overwhelming. That so many were afraid to speak out shows the enormous reach of Weinstein’s power. While there are no reenactments, the filmmakers wisely incorporate taped recordings of Weinstein’s calls. This gives the film a very authentic feel. 

Not yet rated, R • Graphic descriptions of rape, language, and abuse of power. 

The Woman King

In the West African Kingdom of Dahomey, an all-women army of warriors called the Agojie defend their king and country against neighboring kingdoms and slave traders. Nanisca (Viola Davis) is their leader and answers to King Ghezo (John Boyega). The theme of slave-trading with Portugal-Brazil in 1823 (other European countries had already outlawed the slave trade), and Dahomey’s part in it, drives the narrative that is based on historical facts. 

Nanisca is the voice of conscience to the king about ending Dahomey’s participation in the slave trade. Meanwhile, in a separate story line Nawi (Thuso Mbedu), a 19-year-old recruit, reveals to Nanisca that she was adopted. This information is at once a grace and a challenge for Nanisca as the story unfolds. Davis, in an exhausting role, proves once again that she is one of the most intuitive and hardest-working actors in Hollywood. She deserves every accolade possible for her stirring performance. This film is ably directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood with screenplay by Dana Stevens. 

Not yet rated, PG-13 • Battlefield violence, slavery, references to rape, some language, brief nudity. 

Walking the Camino, I learned that in order to progress, I must renew our commitment to Christ daily and then be committed to doing this over and over again.

You learn a lot when you get up day after day and walk. It’s something that most of us take for granted. From the days when we take our first steps, till we grow older and find the task more difficult, we just don’t think a lot about walking.

During my hike on the Camino, I usually woke up early without any kind of alarm. Some people preferred to get up and get going long before the sun rose. This didn’t appeal to me. I didn’t like getting dressed, sorting through my stuff, and packing my sleeping bag while holding the flashlight in my mouth. Nope. Give me another hour in bed and then I will get up and begin walking.

Walking each day taught me many things. One of the blessings of the Camino is that you have the time to let God teach you about simple, beautiful things.

The Right Path

One of the things I had quickly learned on the Camino was that the surface that you walk on makes all the difference in the world. In the past, I had never really paid much attention to the surface under my feet. However, when you are walking seven or eight hours a day, you don’t take anything for granted, especially when it comes to your feet.

The walk this particular day was just over 17 miles, which was not terribly long. For about 13 miles, I walked on a soft dirt trail. Near the end of this section, my feet were beginning to be pretty sore, but they were about to get much worse. The path changed from a luxurious dirt path to evil concrete.

It appears that the people of Logroño, our stopping place for the day, wanted to give a gift to the pilgrims, and they created a “beautiful concrete path” in order to welcome pilgrims into their lovely town. While I appreciated the gesture, I would have preferred trees to shade me from the hot sun. After walking 13 miles, finishing the last four on hard concrete was miserable.

When I prayed at the end of the day, I was reminded that Jesus said there is a path that might look great, but it ultimately leads to death. The other path is more rugged, but it leads to life. We can’t just choose the path that looks the easiest.

Slow but Steady

One morning, as I was climbing over an old stone fence, I noticed a snail sitting on one of the rocks. Given that I had a lot of time on my feet, I found myself thinking about the snail. Everyone has heard the expression “a snail’s pace.” A snail is not going to break any speed records. But if it keeps moving forward, it will eventually get where it wants to go. And so was my life on the Camino. And so is the spiritual life.

This particular day was a short one, only about 13 miles. When I thought of how little I had walked, it seemed like a waste of time. It did occur to me, however, that 13 miles is a lot of ground. And what was ultimately most important was that I progressed forward. I did not quit. I kept moving ahead, even at what seemed like a snail’s pace.

The spiritual life is just that. In order to progress, we must renew our commitment to Christ daily and then be committed to doing this over and over again.

I Have to Win

I admit that there were times when going at a snail’s pace was not easy for me. Maybe this is because I am competitive. Competition can produce great character in a person. But taken too far, it can be a bad thing. On the Camino and in the spiritual life, it can be a real problem.

One particular morning, we began walking at around 7:30. My body felt good, and I was walking at a fairly quick clip. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a couple of pilgrims took the inside of a sharp curve and blew right past me. I hadn’t even seen them coming. I actually got frustrated that I had been passed. I decided that I needed to walk faster and take the lead once again. There was no way that I was going to get passed. It was not long before I was forced to accept defeat. Those other people had won.

Why did it bother me? I was on a pilgrimage, not in a race. This was not a competition. Had I made it one? Perhaps deep inside of me, a part of me that I was embarrassed about, I had made it into a competition. I felt God telling me that it did not matter if I finished first: it wasn’t about winning. All that mattered was that I was walking and that I would finish.

Another day on the Camino. Another day closer to God.

As a 7-year-old, I remember eyeing a miniature Cincinnati Reds baseball bat at my friend Mike’s house. And I wanted it. I don’t have one, I clearly remember reasoning, and he has so many toys that he won’t notice. So I took it. (With considerable glee.)

Until this Christmas before last, it was still in my possession. Every time I saw the bat, I would wrestle with guilt. It was a moral stumble decades ago, but the psychological bruises from the fall lingered, despite having been absolved of the sin. I’ve committed many other sins in my life, but few have bothered me like this one. The bat was a tangible reminder that I had wronged—that I caved to a selfish whim. Sinning is easy. And though we may be forgiven, the psychological damage from our sins can hinder us from peace.

Pope Francis understands the uneven path of the human journey. Anybody who’s worked as a bouncer—as he did—has seen the best and worst in people. And he has sound advice for us weary travelers who can’t forgive ourselves.

Can’t Hide from God

I am human.

Sinning isn’t only easy, but let’s be honest: it can be fun. We’re told by our parents to be decent. As we get older, however, we must govern ourselves, which makes sinning even more attainable. But after we sin, regret usually finds us. Then shame. It’s easy to fall back on rationalizations—as I did. But self-realization is a healthy step toward self-forgiveness.

“Facing the truth about ourselves is not easy,” the pope has said. And he’s right. Before we seek forgiveness, we must first shine an unflattering light on ourselves. Why did I stumble? What was my motivation? Can I avoid the near occasion of sin tomorrow? Asking ourselves the tough questions is a crucial step in the process. Knowledge is power, but first we must know ourselves.

We read in Proverbs 28:13: “He who conceals his sins prospers not, but he who confesses and forsakes them obtains mercy.” It might be easy to turn a blind eye to our sins, but we can’t shield them from God.

Feeling Free

I am forgiven.

Sin might be easy, but the aftermath can be hard. And what of the emotional baggage we haul around after the infraction? Pope Francis made a bold statement a few years ago when he said that post-sin shame can be a good thing. “We are all sinners,” he said. “The problem isn’t the sinner. The problem is not repenting our sins, not being ashamed of what we have done.”

I have the regret part down. Self-reflection? Exhausting, but essential. Sinners like me should take comfort in knowing that we have a forgiving creator and that we can experience the blessing of forgiveness in the sacraments. Regardless, no sin can keep us from grace if we are truly sorry and granted forgiveness. If we are made in God’s image, then there is far more room in our souls for salvation than for sin.

Two Christmases ago, I could no longer stand the sight of the bat, nor could I carry the weight of that sin on my back. So I donated it to a toy drive. It was just a piece of wood, but the guilt of having stolen it was too much to carry around anymore. I gave it away and traded my guilt for grace.

God knows our flaws and loves us in spite of them. We are not irredeemable. To believe otherwise is the real sin.