Camino II — Day 9

Meet Sabina

Sabina is from Germany. She’s is stalking me — she admits it. That means she is reading this post. Hi Sabina. We connected several times on the journey. Our group likes Sabina. I’m honored she is following me on this little blog of mine.

Sabina and I have some things in common, which is true, by the way of most people you take the time to get to know. Her father was a soldier during WWII. So was my Dad. Of course the difference is that her father and mine were not on the same side. Now we could dwell on that, Sabina and I, but we don’t. Instead we talk about the common experiences we had being children of men and women who served in WWII.

”My father hardly ever talked about the war,” Sabina said. Neither did my Dad. Her father was captured. I don’t remember by whom. He was a cook in the prison camp, which meant he was in charge of distributing food. “He survived because he was the cook. And he was fair in who he fed.” She is proud of her Dad’s service.

My Dad was a medic. He followed the combat troops from Omaha Beach all the way to Nuremberg. He was at the liberation of Dachau Concentration Camp. I’m proud of my Dad’s service as well.

The War’s Over

Sabina and I are not enemies. The war is over.

Bob and Susanne, our traveling companions, told us today of their trip to Viet Nam and Cambodia. Bob told of the kindness of the Vietnamese woman guide they had on this trip. “When I asked her about her feelings about us, she said that ‘We only fought you for 30 years. We fought the French for 200 years, and the Chinese for a thousand years. We are over you.”

The war is over.

And yet …

We can’t seem to stop fighting — others, each other, ourselves. We just can’t stop. God I wish we could.

Sally is standing by a memorial shrine of some kind. Someone started this at one time. They put up a symbol to remember something or someone, to honor something or someone. Maybe they just wanted others to know they were here, that they exist. Who knows really? But it caught on, because there is this deep human need to be noticed.

Others added their own ribbons, or pictures, or a scallop shell with a message or a name.

I love this picture of Sally. She’s not just looking, she’s pondering what this all means. And what does it mean? I think it simply means that people want to be acknowledged for simply existing, or they want to remind fellow pilgrims that someone they loved once lived and now doesn’t. And that their passing matters.

Shrines like this one are markers on the Camino.

A Scallop Shell Wall

I’d love to know the story behind these memory markers. Who was the first to put a shell or a patch or a ribbon on this fence — and why? One of our group said that they were told to bring something along to hang on a marker like this. That would have been a good thing to do, I think. I’m thinking about what I might do if we come across another. What would I leave behind on this trail? It has to be something that costs me. We’ll see.

I have no way to tie this all together — Sabina, me, a pair of shrines with shells and ribbons and pictures.

I need to be seen. So do you. And so does everyone else. I remember when I was the chaplain for Grand Valley State’s football team — a role that I loved. One player, a free safety, would see me standing on the sidelines during practice or even once or twice in a game. And he’d bring his index and middle finger to his eyes, and then he’d point them at me — “I see you pastor” is what he was saying. You are important to me — “I see you.”

Now, how hard is that?

We See You

Buen Camino!