There Was a Cross

You will have to be proud, as they say. While my hands carry my backpack on what will become sore from time, rain, and heat, I watch the people I love be proud of my departure. I look at myself from above and like to believe that if it becomes too difficult, God will be there. I reassure my parents, as we will all reassure someone at the airport dock. We leave as a group, even though deep down, we know we will carry our silence and endurance, ardently trained. I still know that in the moments when God will be more silent, I will understand that there will be a bit of “us” in this world of “I.” We will know how to offer each other a very personal wisdom.

There it is, I turn around one last time. My newly worn-out walking shoes, on the slippery ground, pivot, and I understand that now, there will be a “before” and an “after.” From the first run in my neighborhood to buying my walking stick, which I will trade for a symbolic branch, I am truly too committed to turn back and say: one day, Compostela.

This day, I touch it by tightly holding my fear and my plane ticket in my hands. I have read all the books, from Paulo Coelho to the little dictionary of Compostela. I have hardened my body to allow myself, on the way, to harden my mind and soul. I do not know the smell of Spain, but I know one thing, that this cross I wear around my neck will serve. This little piece of string dragging a piece of metal with no monetary value, this patched-up symbol on which one can read: Pax and Assisi. This thing I’ve dragged along longer than I’ve been alive, I got it from my uncle, who made the choice to join the brothers. He was a great traveler, both as a pilgrim and in words. In fact, it was while walking this famous path that he had to return home urgently. Two weeks later, on December 23rd, he joined the heavens. My child’s head understood that one more star would shine on Christmas Eve. Already, I had made a promise. Me and my 4 foot 5, in front of what was left of him, surrounded by red and green, I promised that one day, I would finish the journey for him.

Over time and with habit, my memory of his presence changed. Even though he was no longer flesh, he spoke to me often; he transformed by imbuing the sacred objects he had left us. I began to carry a little bit of him every day. From my first pilgrimages to the little school, through my brother’s wedding, and up to the birth of his daughter. I walked with him to one day allow myself to walk for him.

I get off the plane with my backpack and the memory of this man who, without adoption, would never have been here with me. I soak in the place and the smell. I change every day and my fear turns into strength. Every day, I taste the insatiable greed of my faith. This thing that, for so long, made me unique and exotic, because they repeated: “You’re young to be into this.” This thing that allowed me to turn the other cheek to everyone except myself. It is today that I submit to the temptation of being proud of myself.

I finally arrive at the place I had imagined, drawn, conceptualized; it is a small, ordinary church that stands at the center of a village. The children play there and the adults gather. It is not the end of the path. I will talk about my adventures to my uncle later. In the meantime, I stop here because it is necessary to approach where, instinctively, I know he rested. I will learn at that moment that the pause in a life is earned by the road traveled. I will leave at the foot of a crooked and weak tree a small remnant of him. This bent figure will finally be able to rest, for I will finish the journey in his name. I will leave a little string adorned with a piece of metal with no value. A small piece of peace and a remnant of Assisi. It is here that I will rise.

There was a cross, and I will finally be standing. Standing to live, standing to return, more faithful to what I have always wanted to find in myself. Faithful to what all these steps have offered me. Faithful and proud, as it should be.

By Anne-Sophie Poisson