By Stephanie Evelyn McKellar

“It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain or labour in vain. But even if I am being poured out as a libation over the sacrifice and the offering of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you— and in the same way you also must be glad and rejoice with me.” - Philippians 2:16-18

“The Camino comes for us all.”

I keep hearing these words when someone encounters injury; loses something; breaks a tooth; experiences delay, misfortune, or discouragement.

Walking the Way of Saint James, this ancient pilgrim path across Spain, has a certain mystical lore surrounding it: it provides, it knows what we need, it nurtures us as we go.

Need, in this case, is about transformation.

A prayer we were given for our Camino journey: Grant that I may be given the appropriate difficulties and suffering this day, so that my heart may be awakened and my practice of compassion and liberation for all beings be fulfilled.

What is it that awakens my heart, nurtures my compassion, and equips me to participate fully in the active liberation work for all beings? What certain small humiliations, losses, setbacks, graces, challenges, risks, invitations, hospitalities, interruptions does my soul require to move me towards my unique necessity of transformation?

I’m not necessarily sure, but I’m told the Camino knows; God knows.

When Abraham received a blessing, he was to be “blessed, so all the families of the earth could be blessed” through him. What we receive is for us, and also for beyond us. What we become is not for isolated independence, but rooted, boundaried, life-giving and life-honoring interdependence. For us, for all the families of the earth, for all the other lives and life on this planet with which we coexist.

What comes our way may surprise us, unnerve us, and dismantle our notions of the world as we know it. But it may also blow down our barn, and equip us to now see the stars. It may also enable us to cast a wider vision, embrace a larger scope, and equip us in richer understanding of our interconnectedness.

I am not quite how to join Paul when he says, “even if . . . I am glad.” I approach him with skepticism, refusing to release mindfulness of my own privilege (and its potential blind spots), my own social context, and an awareness that sometimes theology employs a shame narrative that stresses gratitude when prophetic lament is more appropriate and just.

I know that sometimes my losses, setbacks, and griefs have opened up more space in my heart and soul. I know that in struggle I seek, in struggle I listen, and in struggle I have met others whose hearts also know struggle. I know that sometimes my struggles have shaken me free of my grip on some dreams, and, in time, new ones have formed.

I can only speak for myself—my journey—and when my struggles and setbacks have been appropriate for my transformation. I would not impose my voice onto your story to claim what is for your transformation.

Perhaps, then, this brings us to our common table, where together we discern, we sift, we listen deeply and without judgments, we hold space and honor the stories of one another, and we trust that the God who begins the good work in each of us brings it to completion. At our common table we arrive not with advice, or opinions to impose, but a confidence that grace abounds and meets us, and we are each walking our own journey. At our common table we nurture unity, jointly explore a missional imagination for our time and place and whatever work we share, and continue to pray that the Spirit transform us, giving us gratitude and growth and grace, in whatever ways we need.