My Aunt Sheila loves angels. She keeps them all around her -- hanging from rearview mirrors, on her lapel, around her neck, dangling from her ears, on keychains, in nooks around her house. I've given her a few over the years to add to her collection. But I’ve never believed in angels.
Today I am leaning toward belief.
It was yet another long, mostly uphill push. The ups and downs are hard. Especially the downs. My knees crack and bite, my hip too, and my pack sits not-quite-squarely on my shoulders so less than an hour into the 6-hour walk the straps were digging a fat bruise into my collarbone.
In the midst of this discomfort, I found myself thinking of Sheila and her angels. Like, who came up with the idea of angels? Why the wings? Can you be an angel without wings? You know, just the odd and somewhat giddy wonderings of a mind and body aching and wandering. Walk reverie.
When the reverie passed I found I was staring at my feet, jarred back to the reality of the road by the rocky terrain. There were a few pointy slabs of shale in the middle of the path. But even after I got around them I found I couldn't stop looking down.
Every few steps I noticed a perfectly heart-shaped rock meeting my toe. This one was a spot-on Valentine shape, that one an exquisite aorta. I saw heart after heart on the path. The question came to me: could these be angels at my feet quite literally leading me along the Way of St. James?
If angels exist, they must come in many forms. Within in three hours of noticing the first hearts, two more appeared before me.
I had to pee. Seriously pee. But I'd passed up the last cafe with a decent bathroom for miles earlier. That decent bathroom wasn't clean enough for this princess pilgrim. Not to mention there was a long line -- 11 Koreans, an Aussie and a Spaniard -- that wound out the door.
Now all along the road was open fields, no trees, no bushes. I'd rather get a bladder infection than pee in front of a bunch of strangers. I could imagine the spectacle of me squatting by the side of the road as the group of Koreans (there were actually 70 of them walking together) came whistling by. They were fast and close behind all day.
I was doing serious Kegel exercises when out of nowhere arose a Camino Angel.
It turns out, Camino Angels are people who support pilgrims by setting up rest stops along the less populated portions of the route. They usually have fruit, coffee, seats under shade, and create a designated place to pee -- either behind a bush or in a makeshift latrine. They set up the spot in the morning, leave a donation box banking on the trust system and head back into their own lives. They do this for free because they believe in the power of the Road to Santiago. Many have walked it themselves. This was my first Camino Angel.
The rest stop appeared like a vision with its basket of toilet paper, bowl of oranges and a thermos of coffee. I thought I heard wings beating for a moment. (In fact, they were birds, sitting in olive trees, the first trees we'd seen for miles). I found the designated "outhouse" and all I can say is what sweet release. You can bet I left a big donation. Even angels can't afford to feed and TP hundreds of thousands of pilgrims a year.
Not long after, when we arrived in the town we were to sleep in, the albergues, pensions and hotels were completely full due to a long holiday weekend in Spain. After knocking on several doors, I stepped into the Hosteria de Curtidores albergue on the edge of town even though the sign outside announced it had no beds. The hostel owner had caring eyes and jovial smile. An angelic face.
"You are couple, si?" He asked me in broken English and hand signals. That was after I asked him, in terrible broken Spanish and hand signals, if he knew of any beds anywhere in the city. I nodded vigorously to his question and gave him my most tired looking face.
"OK, I have special place for a couples," he said.
He picked up the phone and a few moments later his wife arrived and led Joe and I out of the hostel and down the street to their family home. She showed us to a top floor sanctuary of a room where we plunged into a deep sleep.
The kindness of angels. It turns out they exist, and they come in the form we need, just when we need them. Like my Aunt Sheila always has.
My part is to recognize them -- and then not talk myself out of their presence with logic or definitions or the belief they must have wings.
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