You can't always get what you want...

It has been almost three weeks since I got back from Spain, I have really just finished processing the narrative.  I have told and retold the stories of things that happened, but I'm still fumbling a little bit when it comes to explaining exactly why pilgrimage is such a powerful experience.  And there's also this thing that happens at least a couple times a day, where I want to just load up that backpack, which I spent four days sincerely resenting, and just start walking again.
I'm back in the swing of things, I've been through two weeks of "normal" church stuff, I've been in my office, I've had a Session meeting, I've preached and counseled and cared for people.  Everything is rolling along just like it should, except when I get that little itch, except when I notice that I'm losing that pilgrim's balance where I knew when and what I NEEDED to eat and drink; where I knew exactly what to do with myself at all times: walk, walk, walk.
It's rather difficult to explain why that sort of balance and clarity is such a blessed experience.  A lot of people sort of smile and nod when I describe the experience, and I can tell they're being nice and polite, but I'm not really sure they get it.  It's one of those things you have to experience for yourself.
By my nature, I want to explain it.  That's why I'm writing this, that's why I keep talking about it, even when my own understanding of what I experienced fails to translate well into words.
I was fairly critical of some of the books I read in advance of pilgrimage; either they were too theoretical, or they were just too full of squishy emotion.  Now, I'm discovering that pilgrimage really lives in tension between those two chasms.  There were times when I thought profoundly about the nature of my journey, with such focus on the spiritual walk that unfolded with every physical step, and there were other times that I lived in a cloud of intense emotions.  There were moments of indescribable beauty and moments of nearly crushing suffering, and several times those moments overlapped.
There were times when I needed to put my burden down, and times when I needed to pick it up, and that's what I think I miss the most about the simplicity of the journey, knowing what you need and when you need it, and knowing the difference between what you want and what you need.
I've thought a lot about that over the past several years; what you want and what you need.  I suspect that somehow or other, the difference is more than just the subject of a Rolling Stones song.  I have thought about all the times when I have faced a challenge that I did not want, but somehow found that it was what I needed to go through.  I thought about the times I prayed for something and ended up getting something rather different.  I thought about all the times I prayed for comfort in grief, but ended up having to go deeper down into the pit.  I remember the times I prayed for the storms to cease, but ended up with more wind and waves.
In those moments, I thought I needed to put my burdens down, but God was telling me to keep carrying them, not because I needed the burdens, but because I needed to get where I was going, and the burdens needed to get there with me.  That was the rather unexpected, sacramental aspect of carrying my physical burden into the cathedral of St. James and plopping it down in a pew in the cool, dark, incense tinged sacred space.  I have written already about the sense of finally being able to put things down, but the more I reflect on the whole process, the more I realize I have not so much put those things down, as I have learned how to carry them much better than I did before.
Just like my body got a little bit stronger and tougher as I walked, I think too, my soul grew into the burden as well, though I would not describe it as a toughening.  Rather I would say it was the opposite, where my legs and feet grew harder, my soul grew more supple and able to absorb the beauty of the Way.  Lifelong protestant though I am, my spirit was ready to hear the songs in Latin and soak up the smell of the incense, and understand that I was present in a holy moment despite all the barriers that would have normally kept me at arm's length as an interested bystander.
For the first time in my memory I was able to watch as other's approached the altar to receive the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper in a Roman Catholic Church, without feeling the slightest bit offended that I was not welcome.  I probably could have gone, I could have set aside the differences and been safe in anonymity, but  I didn't.  I didn't feel I needed to, my whole life had been a sacrament of sorts for several days.  There was none of the sort of grumpy bitter taste that I had felt at Catholic services where I knew I should not receive the Sacrament.  There wasn't even really any inclination to just go.  I knew where I was, I knew who I was, I didn't feel at all left out or excluded, they were not excluding me from the Presence, I was choosing what I needed, and I didn't need that.
It's rather amazing how quickly that sense of balance and peace begins to fade.  I think that's why I keep wanting to go walkabout again.  When I'm surrounded by food, I eat when I don't need to.  When I can drive wherever I want, I go places that aren't important.  When I have all the comforts and conveniences, I quickly settle in and forget what's really important.  When I have too much of what I want, I loose track of what I really need.