The Chief Padre in Rome really liked Iggy. His street name was Pope Paul III. Iggy and his brothers formed the Societatus Jesu, and the Chief gave his blessing.
Iggy was pleased with his group. He was interested in getting down to some ministry and the teaching of what he had discovered all of those years ago while convalescing. His brothers wanted him to be the superior of the order. <sigh> (I suppose that´s what happens when you´re popular and accomplished.) He asked that they reconsider, and hold a second vote - same result. So, Ignatius (I really must stop calling him Iggy) took office.
My oh my the paperwork, the paperwork, and the bureaucracy! It´s a wonder that he had any time for himself - definitely none for teaching, and yet his legacy is of learning. His group grew and spread their ministry throughout the world - they are known as the Jesuits. During his lifetime he wrote more than 7,000 letters. People who have read them, say that he gentled and grew in love as he aged and worked. It is perhaps apt that his plans remained plans, that his accidents bore beautiful fruit, and that he really did prefer to eat that fruit with others.
Eventually, his youthful attempts at Sainthood caught up with him, and he passed on to whatever comes next (and of course, performed his posthumous miracles to become a saint!). That, my beloved friends, is the story of Ignatius of Loyola.
------
'oooh' I poked the blister on the ball of my foot. I thought that maybe one was fine, normal, the way of the way...I was nearly convinced, and it wasn´t really a blister, just a soft spot...that hurt when I poked it...
The previous day had been my second: Roncevalles to Zubiri, and it had been lovely. There were hordes of pilgrims. I had chatted with a French couple, and my new German friend Peta, and the older Swiss man Bruno. Then there was Matt, the English guy that I had my camino crush on - he and I had leapfrogged and made small jokes to one another for most of the day. Finally, he´d caught up with me and said, 'you´re quite hard to get alone, little miss congenial.' We´d walked and chatted our way into town where he´d split for the bar, and I´d headed for the albergue.
Many people had begun their journey at Roncevalles, those of us who´d come from St. Jean were all a bit sore and slow. There was a great picnic atop a hill in the shade, 15 people, unrelated, sharing food, shade and a view.
We had reached Zubiri and crowded into their bars and restaurants and fallen to sleep early.
Now, as my fellow pilgrims bustled around me in the grey of the following morning, I felt weariness drag upon me just a little. I laced my not-quite-a-blister into my boot and hoped for the best.
There are stages to pain, I´m sure that you´re all familiar. There is the twinge - not so bad. There is the ache - getting worse. There is the shot - this can be borne, but is often accompanied by cursing due to it´s surprising nature. Then comes the radiation - yes folks, it´s spreading. After a while, there is what I like to call 'the beyond' - pain disappears a little, and you think, ahhhh, good, it´s over. Then there´s the going numb and the getting tired - to your bones.
I know you´re all wondering why I kept going (I´m wondering as well.) I went through all of these stages over the first 17k of that third day. I hardly saw a thing. I hardly said a thing. I just tromp, tromp, tromped my way through the Basque countryside. When I awoke I had brought myself to the foot of a very steep goat-track. It´s base was populated by cyclists in bright racing uniforms with shiny, bug-like sunglasses, staring at the crazy lady - me.
I don´t know what possessed me, (there was a sign for an easier route which was flat) I went straight up the goat-track.
When I reached the top there was a high stone wall and at it´s corner a yard of glorious cool shade, and green grass dotted with daisies. I sat, and ignored the lady sitting by the door of a church, through which my fellow pilgrims were wandering. She did not ignore me. As I fumbled wearily with the knots of my shoes she approached me, knelt before me, and watched as I peeled back my socks.
Thirty minutes later, I and two other pilgrims, were having out feet tended to by two Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Betadine dripped dark brown trails across pale white skin, needles and thread were drawn through blisters, and Compeed patches were applied...for the other two pilgrims. My feet were another story.
About 10 minutes after they´d done what they could for me, and offered to drive me to the medical facility in Pamplona, my stubborn butt was walking down the sun drenched hill back to the camino, 8k more. I had grabbed an apple from my pack, hoping that food would help. I sank my teeth into the apple, took a step, winced, stopped, and noticed that the valley was blurring before me.
Tears were running down my cheeks, and my heart felt like it was breaking, so I chewed on my apple and wept myself into turning around.
At the hospital in Pamplona I was told, by two doctors and a nurse, that my feet were badly inflamed. What had been one blister had become about eight with deeper tissue damage. I was ordered to be off of my feet completely for at least 5 days, and not to walk any distance for at least a week.
I was shocked. The nun who had driven me - Marisol, shuffled me out to her car. She drove, and I feebly attempted to suggest that she drop me at the nearest hotel. She used her Catholic firmness and said quite flatly, 'No.' When I suggested that she drop me at the nearest albergue, she said, 'No, no, you are staying with us at the community. They cannot care for you there.'
I could feel the warm wet, and my throat was closing in grief and confusion. What would I do if I couldn´t walk the way. What...was I going to...do?
'Lindy, my dear, you are in a difficult situation,' said Marisol quietly. She shifted the car into a higher gear as we entered the highway. 'Do not worry. There are many ways to discover the way of your heart´s work.'
I had forgotten. I had told her, told myself, that the reason I came to Spain was to find my heart´s work.
She smiled, and my face contorted in a sob. Patting my knee, she said, 'Have you ever heard the story of Ignatius of Loyola? It is not that long...'
--
Lindy
28 May 2011
On Iggy, and arrival...(numero quatro)
There can be little suspense as to what happened next - Iggy became a priest. He was very glad, it having been such a lengthy accomplishment, to finally arrive. (But do we ever truly arrive?)
Eager to minister and to preach, Iggy gathered a group of his buddies from seminary. They wanted in on some of that ever popular Holy Land action. There was a crusade on, and money was flowing out of Europe as the tides off the coast of Normandy (proper reaction: whoa! That´s pretty fast!).
Iggy and his fellow priests were poor (he´d given all of his money away during that incident with the nakedness at the shrine to the Virgin Mary). They had no sponsor. So they waited...and they waited...and two years later they were still waiting for some money, or a kindly ship´s captain, to help them make the passage - no dice.
Eventually, they trickled in to Rome, as a group, to apply to the Vatican for ministry...
------
'Butterflies are beautiful, and flowers smell nice, and cows have pretty eyelashes, and wow it´s hot! I mean, that´s a really cute slug, and it is on a camino of it´s own and I send it lots of love - shit! really! Gahhhhhhhhhh' There was another hill, with a trail winding it´s way up to nothing, before me. I was crossing the Pyrenees, with barely mustered grace and very little ease.
I´d been talking myself into enjoying things for at least an hour. The thinnest my cheer had been was when an Italian man carrying what had to be a 10 pound dog practically ran past, with no apparently effort. He smiled and waved 'ciao!', his massive pack clunked a little like a cow bell...I hadn´t seen him again.
Staring at, what had to be, the sixth endless ascent of the day, I was a bit discouraged. I wasn´t sure that I wanted to make it, and I´d just run out of water...
'Hola!' said a bright male voice from behind me. I pasted on my smile, and was prepared to return something polite.
'Bloody Hell, not another one,' said the voice.
´That´s exactly what I was thinking!' I turned, truly amused.
Kal. Kal from Nottingham. Kal who gave me his orange juice. Kal who, in a very fatherly way kept reminding me that this wasn´t a race, and that I could go slowly. Kal who said, 'Did you see the Italian? With that dog? Do you think he´s planning to take it all of the way to Santiago?' I laughed, I smiled, I rested, and at the top of one particularly gruelling uphill climb I threw myself dramatically upon the grass and just lay there.
'You really do pick the best spots to rest, my dear!' I cracked my eyelid and looked toward the foliage overhead. Kal was taking a seat, unhurriedly, about 3 feet away. He gestured in the direction from which we´d come.
Through a break in the trees a narrow valley peeked at us from below. Mountain overlapped mountain into infinity, and there was even an eagle (or perhaps a vulture) soaring beyond.
The rest of the day went very well indeed, and as we parted at the abbey of Roncevalles that night I had made my first camino friend.
'Blessed are you, the pilgrim, who realize that to find the way slowly together is to find what cannot be found quickly alone.' (from Beatitudes for the Pilgrim).
--
Lindy
Eager to minister and to preach, Iggy gathered a group of his buddies from seminary. They wanted in on some of that ever popular Holy Land action. There was a crusade on, and money was flowing out of Europe as the tides off the coast of Normandy (proper reaction: whoa! That´s pretty fast!).
Iggy and his fellow priests were poor (he´d given all of his money away during that incident with the nakedness at the shrine to the Virgin Mary). They had no sponsor. So they waited...and they waited...and two years later they were still waiting for some money, or a kindly ship´s captain, to help them make the passage - no dice.
Eventually, they trickled in to Rome, as a group, to apply to the Vatican for ministry...
------
'Butterflies are beautiful, and flowers smell nice, and cows have pretty eyelashes, and wow it´s hot! I mean, that´s a really cute slug, and it is on a camino of it´s own and I send it lots of love - shit! really! Gahhhhhhhhhh' There was another hill, with a trail winding it´s way up to nothing, before me. I was crossing the Pyrenees, with barely mustered grace and very little ease.
I´d been talking myself into enjoying things for at least an hour. The thinnest my cheer had been was when an Italian man carrying what had to be a 10 pound dog practically ran past, with no apparently effort. He smiled and waved 'ciao!', his massive pack clunked a little like a cow bell...I hadn´t seen him again.
Staring at, what had to be, the sixth endless ascent of the day, I was a bit discouraged. I wasn´t sure that I wanted to make it, and I´d just run out of water...
'Hola!' said a bright male voice from behind me. I pasted on my smile, and was prepared to return something polite.
'Bloody Hell, not another one,' said the voice.
´That´s exactly what I was thinking!' I turned, truly amused.
Kal. Kal from Nottingham. Kal who gave me his orange juice. Kal who, in a very fatherly way kept reminding me that this wasn´t a race, and that I could go slowly. Kal who said, 'Did you see the Italian? With that dog? Do you think he´s planning to take it all of the way to Santiago?' I laughed, I smiled, I rested, and at the top of one particularly gruelling uphill climb I threw myself dramatically upon the grass and just lay there.
'You really do pick the best spots to rest, my dear!' I cracked my eyelid and looked toward the foliage overhead. Kal was taking a seat, unhurriedly, about 3 feet away. He gestured in the direction from which we´d come.
Through a break in the trees a narrow valley peeked at us from below. Mountain overlapped mountain into infinity, and there was even an eagle (or perhaps a vulture) soaring beyond.
The rest of the day went very well indeed, and as we parted at the abbey of Roncevalles that night I had made my first camino friend.
'Blessed are you, the pilgrim, who realize that to find the way slowly together is to find what cannot be found quickly alone.' (from Beatitudes for the Pilgrim).
--
Lindy
26 May 2011
On Iggy, and waiting...(numero tres)
Alright, now Iggy was crafting a plan. A plan to bypass the whole priest thing, a plan to do things the easy way. Now this plan was less crafty - more crazy, or perhaps just to do with the follies of youth. You judge:
------
Whhhhew! 619 steps and then a hill!
The sun beat down upon my unprotected head, and a trail of sweat was making it´s way down my back. Squinting at the valley below, nerves took a seat at my table. If I couldn´t handle a climb to the citadel of St. Jean Pied de Port without tiring, how was I going to do 27k and a 1430m pass over the Pyrenees tomorrow?
I decided to find a tree and sit for a moment. Sitting in the shade of a tree is an age old method of solving problems. I rounded the citadel, found a grove of trees, sat down and unpacked some food.
<A few hours before, I´d asked a shopkeeper to help me find a meal to eat with the cherries she had sitting in a big barrel on the floor. What she handed me was a bag filled with delicious Basque fare: dry ham, sheep´s cheese, dark soft bread, the fresh cherries, and a bar of chocolate - 'my best lunch for the sun!' she said smiling brightly.>
I rolled the stone of a cherry in my mouth and stared at the grasses, the flowers, the river, the sheep whose bells echoed through the hills. The balmy air ruffled my hair. I closed my eyes.
Later that evening, in the deep cool passage of the farmhouse where I was lodging, I tried to relate my plan for the next day to the innkeeper. She nodded her silver-haired head quite a lot and said many things in Euskara that were lost to me.
I gathered that I should heed her advice. The key should be left on the table next to the front door. I was to be sure to drink all of the coffee and eat all of the bread that she left for me before I departed, and I was to take my time and have courage on my Camino...
--
Lindy
- He gave up on the ladies! He gave up on gambling!
- There was an incident where a donkey showed better judgement than he - actually not so surprising considering the superb judgement displayed by the donkeys of the day.
- There was an embarrassing incident near a shrine to the Virgin Mary during which he removed all of his clothes...
- He spent some time in a hospital tending to the sick, and during his breaks he went down to the river to 'have visions' and write his 'masterwork.'
- And finally, in an effort to achieve saint-like behavior he tired to out-do all of the saints who had come before - extreme penitence. It never really took off as a spiritual practice. It also left him with many chronic health problems.
------
Whhhhew! 619 steps and then a hill!
The sun beat down upon my unprotected head, and a trail of sweat was making it´s way down my back. Squinting at the valley below, nerves took a seat at my table. If I couldn´t handle a climb to the citadel of St. Jean Pied de Port without tiring, how was I going to do 27k and a 1430m pass over the Pyrenees tomorrow?
I decided to find a tree and sit for a moment. Sitting in the shade of a tree is an age old method of solving problems. I rounded the citadel, found a grove of trees, sat down and unpacked some food.
<A few hours before, I´d asked a shopkeeper to help me find a meal to eat with the cherries she had sitting in a big barrel on the floor. What she handed me was a bag filled with delicious Basque fare: dry ham, sheep´s cheese, dark soft bread, the fresh cherries, and a bar of chocolate - 'my best lunch for the sun!' she said smiling brightly.>
I rolled the stone of a cherry in my mouth and stared at the grasses, the flowers, the river, the sheep whose bells echoed through the hills. The balmy air ruffled my hair. I closed my eyes.
Later that evening, in the deep cool passage of the farmhouse where I was lodging, I tried to relate my plan for the next day to the innkeeper. She nodded her silver-haired head quite a lot and said many things in Euskara that were lost to me.
I gathered that I should heed her advice. The key should be left on the table next to the front door. I was to be sure to drink all of the coffee and eat all of the bread that she left for me before I departed, and I was to take my time and have courage on my Camino...
--
Lindy
25 May 2011
On Iggy, delay...(numero dos)
When we last spoke of Iggy he was reading the Bible...okay, I think that he´s had time to finish. Now, Iggy was inspired by the life of Jésus Christo. The minute he finished the good book he wanted all of his friends to be moved by it too! Pronto! So he went out and started talking about it, as if it were good wine and swine conversation, which it might have been, if it were not the purview of THE CHURCH!
His place at court kept him from the Inquisition - for now, but just a pointer: 'Spain' circa Iggy´s day was not really about talking when it came to God, it was more about listening and hiding, or maybe...changing venue!
Iggy was rich, so he moved and decided that priesthood was for him. The problem is that all of the seminaries were like: 'dude, you´ve got no Latin!' and 'Your marks in Ancient Greek are truly deplorable!' and 'We regret to inform you that your previous education does not qualify you for admission to our institution. Might we refer you to one of our fine smithing apprenticeship programs?' (These are not the sorts of things that any hopeful academic is glad to hear - especially if they´ve been coasting on their dad´s name, looks, and battle glory for most of their lives.)
He was at a loss. Becoming a priest was not easy. So he was patient and crafted a plan...
------
'I´m sorry senorita, it has departed.'
'Yes, Sí, I understand. When does the next bus depart?' I asked quietly.
'I´m sorry senorita, it has departed,' the man at the ticket window repeated.
We´d been doing this dance for a while. Sometimes, a language barrier is like the mountains in winter - no getting through. 'Sí, sí, gracias.' I smiled and walked away to stare at the time tables on the station wall.
Thus far I had missed a plane, a train, and two buses. I had lost my Castillian phrasebook sometime during my rushing about the Madrid metro system. I had arrived just 5 minutes after the departure of each mode of transport, and the sky was becoming the warm early evening yellow that brings out the birdsong and dims the hum of the post-siesta traffic.
It was time to find a bed for the night.
Boarding the metro once more, I made my way to the center of Madrid´s old town. I found a hostel, made a friend, and accosted a tapas bar until I was ready to fall asleep. I had planned to be in the heart of Basque country by the next day. I had a reservation at a hotel and a plan to start the Camino from St. Jean Pied de Port on the 17th of May. It was the night of the 16th and I still had a full day´s travel ahead of me to reach St Jean. I decided to give in to Spain´s cheerful relaxed pace.
The next evening, weary from many a ride on many a train, I arrived in St. Jean Pied de Port, France. The sun was setting quickly, as it often does in the mountains, and the humid air was loosing its tack just a bit. Walking uphill from the station, I encountered a very strange old woman. (My travels yield many encounters with strange old women, who say things in cryptic languages, then disappear, this was no exception.) She was dressed in a widow´s black with hair that had been dyed brown. She threw her hands above her head as if to bring something down, but the something must have been her words - the only one of which I understood was 'courage,' repeated several times. As she lowered her hands she turned and was gone.
I walked forward and thought that I´d better find a place to rest for two nights. My travel weary body wasn´t going to scale any Pyrénéan peeks for at least another day...
--
Lindy
His place at court kept him from the Inquisition - for now, but just a pointer: 'Spain' circa Iggy´s day was not really about talking when it came to God, it was more about listening and hiding, or maybe...changing venue!
Iggy was rich, so he moved and decided that priesthood was for him. The problem is that all of the seminaries were like: 'dude, you´ve got no Latin!' and 'Your marks in Ancient Greek are truly deplorable!' and 'We regret to inform you that your previous education does not qualify you for admission to our institution. Might we refer you to one of our fine smithing apprenticeship programs?' (These are not the sorts of things that any hopeful academic is glad to hear - especially if they´ve been coasting on their dad´s name, looks, and battle glory for most of their lives.)
He was at a loss. Becoming a priest was not easy. So he was patient and crafted a plan...
------
'I´m sorry senorita, it has departed.'
'Yes, Sí, I understand. When does the next bus depart?' I asked quietly.
'I´m sorry senorita, it has departed,' the man at the ticket window repeated.
We´d been doing this dance for a while. Sometimes, a language barrier is like the mountains in winter - no getting through. 'Sí, sí, gracias.' I smiled and walked away to stare at the time tables on the station wall.
Thus far I had missed a plane, a train, and two buses. I had lost my Castillian phrasebook sometime during my rushing about the Madrid metro system. I had arrived just 5 minutes after the departure of each mode of transport, and the sky was becoming the warm early evening yellow that brings out the birdsong and dims the hum of the post-siesta traffic.
It was time to find a bed for the night.
Boarding the metro once more, I made my way to the center of Madrid´s old town. I found a hostel, made a friend, and accosted a tapas bar until I was ready to fall asleep. I had planned to be in the heart of Basque country by the next day. I had a reservation at a hotel and a plan to start the Camino from St. Jean Pied de Port on the 17th of May. It was the night of the 16th and I still had a full day´s travel ahead of me to reach St Jean. I decided to give in to Spain´s cheerful relaxed pace.
The next evening, weary from many a ride on many a train, I arrived in St. Jean Pied de Port, France. The sun was setting quickly, as it often does in the mountains, and the humid air was loosing its tack just a bit. Walking uphill from the station, I encountered a very strange old woman. (My travels yield many encounters with strange old women, who say things in cryptic languages, then disappear, this was no exception.) She was dressed in a widow´s black with hair that had been dyed brown. She threw her hands above her head as if to bring something down, but the something must have been her words - the only one of which I understood was 'courage,' repeated several times. As she lowered her hands she turned and was gone.
I walked forward and thought that I´d better find a place to rest for two nights. My travel weary body wasn´t going to scale any Pyrénéan peeks for at least another day...
--
Lindy
24 May 2011
On Iggy, and departure...(numero uno)
Do you know the story of Ignatius of Loyola? (Don´t worry, it´s not that long.)
He was the 13th son of a Basque noble, a very long time ago. He was a bit of a ´ner do well - got into the odd scrape with a local girl´s dad or a lad down the tavern. Usually his family name did wonders for smoothing things over, and he could get back to his charming misbehavior. Then came a scrape that his name could not bear away. Along came his father with some money and a first class ticket to the Castillian King´s court. Now as you all know, a parent swooping in and plucking their child from trouble doesn´t always work the way that is hoped. Fast forward about a year and Iggy´s charming misbehavior is not so charming. He´s wenching his way through the Castillian court, he is a degenerate gambler - in debt to his pretty eyelashes, he loves to fight, and perhaps worst of all: he is vain.
Now his penchant for fighting, and his useful 'diplomatic' abilities earned him a seat on a horse in a great battle somewhere in the kingdom of Navarre (which is where I now sit). In this great battle, known as the battle of Pamploña, Iggy was very badly injured. We´re talking two legs damaged injured, or 'whoa! Can´t fix that with the primitive butchery that passes for medicine these days!' injured. His legs were set, and he was told that he would have to convalesce for many months before he could walk.
(I know you´re all expecting a miraculous conversion story...but Iggy wasn´t quite there yet.)
He was a bad patient, but he got well. The problem was his vanity. The surgeons of the day had tried their hardest to fix Iggy - and they had, mostly. But there was not yet a cure for vanity! He could stroll with ease, but he could not wear the tight boots and leg-hugging pants of a soldier without looking all knobbly and stuff. Since he needed to look a certain way for the ladies, and we know that Iggy loved the ladies, he opted into an operation that involved some saws and lots of pain with no promise that his legs would still be attached afterward. Let´s fast forward to the part where he´s convalescing once more.
During this convalescence Iggy was a bit more humble. He now knew that he would never walk easily again - one leg was shorter than the other. He was a bit depressed, so he decided to read the latest Punch and Judy gossip rag...but all there was at the hospital was the bible...
----
'Lindy Cameron? Please, Lindy Cameron? Will you come to the Air France desk for an important change...'
I was still at Seatac and already, a change.
'Please, can your seat change for a family to sit together?' of course it could!
I found myself seated next to a rancher from Montana who was on his first international trip to...India! We had a wonderful flight. He showed me pictures of his family, told me their stories, and revealed to me that he is an evangelical protestant who would be doing mission work.
I´m not always that tolerant of evangelism - So I had one of those, 'screw the family that wants to sit together!' moments, but it passed quickly. He was friendly, funny, and when I shared with him that I was not a believer he did not seem to mind. We talked about my family, and my upcoming pilgrimage.
'You´re traveling alone?' he asked, with surprise, 'that is very brave.' People often say this, so I just smiled, nodded and tried to shift topic, 'I don´t know how to be alone, so I usually want someone with me,' he finished.
I was surprised by his frankness. We ate some, chatted some, I told him about the Camino de Santiago that I was on my way to begin - 500 miles across northern Spain! (even I was impressed by my sense of adventure! Go me!)
Many hours later, two hours later than it was scheduled to be, the plane made its final descent into Paris. As we disembarked, my new friend said enthusiastically, 'I´m curious to see what the Lord has planned for you, my girl. Very curious. It´s bound to be something!'
Something indeed, I thought, as I ran to be the first in line at the customs booth...
(More...later)
--
Lindy
He was the 13th son of a Basque noble, a very long time ago. He was a bit of a ´ner do well - got into the odd scrape with a local girl´s dad or a lad down the tavern. Usually his family name did wonders for smoothing things over, and he could get back to his charming misbehavior. Then came a scrape that his name could not bear away. Along came his father with some money and a first class ticket to the Castillian King´s court. Now as you all know, a parent swooping in and plucking their child from trouble doesn´t always work the way that is hoped. Fast forward about a year and Iggy´s charming misbehavior is not so charming. He´s wenching his way through the Castillian court, he is a degenerate gambler - in debt to his pretty eyelashes, he loves to fight, and perhaps worst of all: he is vain.
Now his penchant for fighting, and his useful 'diplomatic' abilities earned him a seat on a horse in a great battle somewhere in the kingdom of Navarre (which is where I now sit). In this great battle, known as the battle of Pamploña, Iggy was very badly injured. We´re talking two legs damaged injured, or 'whoa! Can´t fix that with the primitive butchery that passes for medicine these days!' injured. His legs were set, and he was told that he would have to convalesce for many months before he could walk.
(I know you´re all expecting a miraculous conversion story...but Iggy wasn´t quite there yet.)
He was a bad patient, but he got well. The problem was his vanity. The surgeons of the day had tried their hardest to fix Iggy - and they had, mostly. But there was not yet a cure for vanity! He could stroll with ease, but he could not wear the tight boots and leg-hugging pants of a soldier without looking all knobbly and stuff. Since he needed to look a certain way for the ladies, and we know that Iggy loved the ladies, he opted into an operation that involved some saws and lots of pain with no promise that his legs would still be attached afterward. Let´s fast forward to the part where he´s convalescing once more.
During this convalescence Iggy was a bit more humble. He now knew that he would never walk easily again - one leg was shorter than the other. He was a bit depressed, so he decided to read the latest Punch and Judy gossip rag...but all there was at the hospital was the bible...
----
'Lindy Cameron? Please, Lindy Cameron? Will you come to the Air France desk for an important change...'
I was still at Seatac and already, a change.
'Please, can your seat change for a family to sit together?' of course it could!
I found myself seated next to a rancher from Montana who was on his first international trip to...India! We had a wonderful flight. He showed me pictures of his family, told me their stories, and revealed to me that he is an evangelical protestant who would be doing mission work.
I´m not always that tolerant of evangelism - So I had one of those, 'screw the family that wants to sit together!' moments, but it passed quickly. He was friendly, funny, and when I shared with him that I was not a believer he did not seem to mind. We talked about my family, and my upcoming pilgrimage.
'You´re traveling alone?' he asked, with surprise, 'that is very brave.' People often say this, so I just smiled, nodded and tried to shift topic, 'I don´t know how to be alone, so I usually want someone with me,' he finished.
I was surprised by his frankness. We ate some, chatted some, I told him about the Camino de Santiago that I was on my way to begin - 500 miles across northern Spain! (even I was impressed by my sense of adventure! Go me!)
Many hours later, two hours later than it was scheduled to be, the plane made its final descent into Paris. As we disembarked, my new friend said enthusiastically, 'I´m curious to see what the Lord has planned for you, my girl. Very curious. It´s bound to be something!'
Something indeed, I thought, as I ran to be the first in line at the customs booth...
(More...later)
--
Lindy
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