I walked the Camino in 2018. I flew to Spain alone, having spent maybe two weeks halfheartedly practicing my nearly non-existent Spanish on Duolingo, trusting that somehow God would take care of me despite my poor preparation. And take care of me He most certainly did. After a few rough, emotional days alone, I stumbled upon a fellow American pilgrim, a friendly, bubbly high school Spanish teacher from Illinois who was a clear answer to some desperate prayers of mine. We continued the rest of the way to Santiago together, delighting in good conversation, supporting each other through various aches and pains, and befriending other pilgrims from around the world along our way.
Though it’s been years since that blessed time, and I rarely think of it now, it impressed upon my heart the very nature of life as a pilgrimage—a sometimes joyous, sometimes painful, often mystifying journey through this temporary home to our eternal one, where our souls will be perfectly at rest. And a few weeks ago, as I sat in quiet prayer, it hit me—so, too, is pregnancy like a pilgrimage. It’s an unprecedented journey, a time mixed with joy and pain and longing and waiting, a season set aside for a particular purpose. It’s nine months of mysterious but evident growth entirely directed by the hand of God. A time that brings new life like no other. It’s a pilgrimage not marked by hours of walking many miles a day, or meeting people from all over the world, or tracking my progress on a map, but rather by an interior, intensely personal journey. I know my destination, but exactly when and how I will reach it or what it will truly be like when I arrive remains an utter mystery to me.
As I found myself caught up in this reflection, a beloved priest friend of mine asked, What is it like to love someone you haven’t met yet? I didn’t have the words for it then, and I don’t now. Yet a line from the psalms came quickly to mind: “When will I come to the end of my pilgrimage and behold the face of God?” (Psalm 42:2) That, above all, captures the spirit of this pilgrimage I’m on as a mother-to-be: I long to see the face of my baby. I long to come to the end of the journey and see him, face to face, as I nestle him in my arms. Yet what I feel on such a visceral, emotional level, I recognize that I experience on a higher spiritual plane: I long to see the face of God.
In a way, my priest friend’s question applies here, too: What is it like to love someone you haven’t met? Of course, I have met the Lord, I know Him, and I love Him. Yet I haven’t seen Him face to face. I haven’t heard His voice outside of quiet whisperings in my heart or lines from Scripture. I know Him, but I barely know Him. I love Him, but I barely love Him. He remains an incomprehensible mystery to me, one I could—and I hope I will—continue pondering for the rest of my days.
