My husband loves me very much, God bless him, and he puts a lot of energy into making me happy. Until he showed me his recent post, I had no idea how much he had dreaded our epic sabbatical trip.

I have walked all my life. With the exception of several years in small Midwestern cities, I have always depended on my feet (and busses and trains) to get me places. From middle school, when I walked a mile uphill to get home, to college in Seattle, and seminary in New York City, and a year in Costa Rica, where in each place I depended exclusively on public transportation, to Chicago, where my kids still don’t have drivers licenses, I have taken pride in my ability to self-propel without a car. Age and genetics, however, mean that I now need to wear compression stockings to keep my legs from swelling up. Heat makes it worse.

But the Camino had been on my mind for ten years. And as I thought about what I needed from a sabbatical, the idea of having no agenda any day but to walk—no cat herding, no demands on my limited and inconsistent executive functions, no one depending on my wisdom or asking me to make complicated or important decisions—that seemed like heaven. I had never spent time in Spain, but a 24 hour layover Madrid in January of 2020 had clinched my desire to go.

So, yes, this was my idea and I enthusiastically embraced it. I was delighted when John agreed to go with me. (He was never going to let me go alone, it turns out, which was for the best.) But seriously, I had NO IDEA what we were getting into. We read the books and blogs and made multiple intersecting lists of what to pack and attempted to train on the flat streets and sidewalks of Chicago, but like any significant decision—marriage, ordination, school, having kids—you do your best to comprehend the commitment and the consequences, and in the end you still HAVE NO IDEA.

The heat did become a problem and, while I am slow but steady, my body did eventually raise objections. And I will never walk as fast with a backpack as my husband. But y’all. Y’ALL. In those first few days on the Camino, I walked across the frickin’ Pyrenees. Where Napolean crossed with his army and cannons and sh*t. And then we walked some more.

Carrying my own damn backpack the whole way.