A Santiago Pilgrimage Reflection

Faith is often less about movement and more about stillness. Today, my second day in Santiago de Compostela, I discovered this truth through four hours spent within the cathedral walls – a masterclass in pilgrimage patience that no amount of walking could have taught me.

Small Graces and Gentle Transitions

Last night, I had worried about switching from a hotel to a pilgrim hostel, but those small anxieties proved to be whispers of grace in disguise. The hostel, beautifully maintained and perfectly situated about twenty minutes from the cathedral, welcomed me with the kind of quiet hospitality that speaks of Saint James’s gentle smile. Sometimes our worries are just invitations to recognize blessing when it arrives.

The First Lesson in Cathedral Patience

This morning, after a precious phone conversation with my husband Ken (who works clearing wartime ordinance from the seabed – dangerous work that makes every connection between us feel like a gift), I walked toward the cathedral heart of Santiago. The queue that had snaked through multiple streets the day before had shortened, and I saw my chance.

At 9:30, I joined what I discovered was the line for the noon mass. But this wasn’t the gentle queuing of a country church – this was pilgrimage patience on a different scale entirely. For the first half hour, we didn’t move. Not one step. Just standing, waiting, learning the first hard lesson that even arrival in Santiago doesn’t mean the journey becomes easy.

When they finally began letting us into the cathedral, I found myself seated close to the front with my small notebook in hand. Following an old tradition that perhaps grows rarer with each passing year, I began writing a letter to Saint James himself.

In 2019, when I first walked the full French route of the Camino, I had written seven simple points on a piece of paper. Today, those intentions filled four pages. The growth wasn’t just in length, but in intimacy. Through these weeks of walking, through my recent reflections on who Saint James truly was – that apostle always present in Jesus’s inner circle yet rarely quoted in scripture, the one I’ve come to know as having a sense of humor – I realized I was no longer writing to a distant saint.

I was writing to a friend.

Two Hours of Sacred Chaos

But then came the real test of pilgrimage patience. Two full hours sitting in the cathedral, waiting for the mass to begin. This wasn’t the contemplative silence you might imagine – security guards constantly reminded everyone to keep quiet, but the space buzzed with restless energy. Pilgrims shifted, whispered, checked phones. This wasn’t a place for deep prayer or spiritual connection in those moments. This was pure waiting.

For someone who has spent weeks with landscapes constantly changing, where every step brought new vistas and fresh encounters, this forced stillness felt almost jarring. No movement forward, no sense of progress, just the discipline of being present in a space that felt more like organized chaos than sacred sanctuary.

The Dance of the Botafumeiro

What happened next can only be described as gift upon gift. During the post-communion adoration, the massive Botafumeiro – that ancient incense burner – was lit and swung high above the congregation. In 2019, renovations had prevented this experience entirely. Today, unexpectedly, it danced over our heads like a celestial pendulum.

I watched in real presence while others watched through phone screens, and felt both lonely and blessed in that choice. The smoke rose like visible prayers, carrying the intentions of countless pilgrims toward heaven. Those strong men operating the ropes, the precision required, the ancient ritual unchanged – it felt like another smile from Saint James, another unexpected grace.

The Final Queue: Forty Minutes More

After the mass concluded, another queue awaited – this time to visit Saint James’s tomb. Another forty to fifty minutes of waiting, but this felt different. Each step downward toward that sacred space carried weight and anticipation. As I descended toward that sacred space, something shifted within me. Every Sunday in church, I recite the words “I believe in the communion of saints” as part of the Creed. But today, those words took on flesh and breath and presence.

Saint James wasn’t just a historical figure or theological concept. He was there – present, real, available. The moment of embracing his statue, of thanking him for everything he has accomplished in my life, moved me to tears that continue even as I write these words.

The Gift of Incomplete Journeys

My pilgrimage had to be cut short – urgent matters calling me back to Poland after only two weeks of walking instead of completing the full route. But perhaps completion isn’t always about distance covered or boxes checked. Perhaps it’s about the depth of encounter, the authenticity of connection, the willingness to receive grace in whatever form it takes.

Four hours in Santiago’s cathedral taught me something no amount of walking could: that pilgrimage isn’t just about movement through landscape, but about learning to be still, to wait, to find the sacred even in the midst of chaos and impatience.

In 2019, I walked every kilometer of the French route but barely thought about who Saint James actually was. This year, with fewer steps but deeper seeking, I found not just a destination but a friendship. Not just a pilgrimage completed, but a relationship begun.

The landscape changes constantly on the Camino, but arriving in Santiago forces a different kind of journey – inward, downward, into patience and presence. Today I learned that sometimes the most profound encounters with the divine happen not while we’re moving, but while we’re learning to wait well.

May your own sacred waiting, wherever it finds you, be filled with unexpected grace.