Christina
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged.” -Joshua 18.7
(Today’s blog comes with a trigger warning or two.)
Meeting Christina, in the arched entrance to Obradoiro Square by the Cathedral, on her knees, eyes downcast, with a sign pinned to her chest, moved me to tears. You see, in order to use my travel miles to come on my pilgrimage, I’d left my brother, who was part of the street community, not knowing if he’d be alive when I returned. I was going to get a break from bearing witness to panhandlers on streetcorners, tent cities in parks, and the opioid crisis. It was all getting too loud and in my face - and I wasn’t even living it. But pilgrims don’t escape their woes on the Camino, we reframe them.
Christina’s humble posture and her simple words on a page felt more like a prayer than a plea, more a profession of faith in people and God than begging. The irony of being drawn to connect with the gentle Roma woman wasn’t lost on me. I watched as she remained still, showing no reproach as people walked by without giving. When I put money in her cup, she looked up, smiled, and blessed me. She wore a crucifix pendant and noticed my bracelet. I bought it in Mexico when I was there on a housebuilding mission. It said “Jesus Loves You” in Spanish. I asked Christina if she would like it and she got up, put her arm out, and waited patiently as I tied it to her wrist.
I’d worn it to Spain because I needed hope as I struggled through the tension of belief and unbelief. I sensed that she was in need of some hope as well. She had come to Spain for her father’s medical needs, temporarily leaving her children back home with her partner, but it was becoming financially unsustainable. Her story, told through a mobile translation app, was backed up by family photos. Not that I haven’t been known to be gullible, but I set aside any disbelief, just as some have done for my brother when he’s shared versions of his truth. Grace makes life’s journeys so much gentler.
My spiritual struggle was simple: I didn’t understand how any higher power could allow the kind of suffering we see on our streets - no matter the country. I can handle my own trials, disappointments, and losses fairly well most days, sometimes with prayer. But the pervasiveness of homelessness, addiction, and the numbing of physical pain and mental anguish was another matter. People with shorted DNA, like bipolar or schizophrenia - come one per hundred, like my younger brother, Sean. Or those with fetal alcohol syndrome that turns their brains to Swiss cheese, so processing is challenged - all for the sins of their parents. The systems that could have helped minimize symptoms and mitigate damage are broken.
Politicians pander to lobbyists and vote on cutbacks to medical and mental health and addiction care and then band-aid the dike. They close old institutions without opening alternative ones, long-term rehab with counseling and retraining, permanent shelters, and group homes with more trained support. Big pharma is such a massive part of the problem, too. They should fund the beds and the research for cures. By not taxing the rich equitably, not stopping greedflation, not ending corruption, and getting in bed with developers on for-profit housing, our government neglects “our least, our last, and our lost.” Taxing billionaires fairly could change the face of our streets worldwide. But the golden handshakes continue while homeless hands tremble from cold and/or the weight of a needle.
Did I even want to believe in a God that didn’t crack down on that? The weight of disillusionment and anger was all packed up to carry on my Camino along with my dream of Wayward’s success, and how it might open the door for my other screenplays, like Homing Instincts, inspired by my brother.
As life would have it, my compassion muscle had been through a few workouts before they were needed to help support my brother. I’d volunteered with the homeless before my brother was counted as one of their numbers.
I helped facilitate an art access program at one shelter, setting up a space and materials for artwork and writing. My daughter helped bake banana chocolate chip cookies, soft enough for those without teeth, and the coffee pot was bottomless. It was a nice place to get out of the weather and some came in just to be able to talk, to tell their story, and sometimes to grieve the artist they once were.
I helped organize volunteers and interviews for the Homeless Partners Christmas Project. It matches gift requests with gifters. We would interview those who were interested in receiving a gift or two and post their bios and wish lists for locals to donate. The requests were simple, based on needs as well as a few sweet wants, but the most amazing experience was having several of the applicants ask for gifts that would benefit others they felt were needier than themselves.
And then there was Street Café, run out of the Mustard Seed, where different organizations took on one Friday a month, rolled up their sleeves, and cooked meals with options - something that was a rarity for those living rough. The deserts were cut in large drool-worthy portions. The tables were candle-lit, and there were often a few musicians serenading.
This all went into training my compassion muscle so that I could better support my brother. His schizophrenia led to addiction and diabetes and wound care. I became his medical representative, getting calls when he overdosed, being at his side for meetings about infections, sepsis, meds, evictions, and scrambling to get him better care. While I was trip planning and thinking about blogging, he was refusing an amputation. I was asked to make the decision for him, one that he might hold against me for the rest of his life. I couldn’t risk that. Instead, I deferred it to a public guardian. His team, who valued my role and our connection, felt that would be best as well.
My brother urged me to go on my Camino, to follow my dreams, even if he couldn’t follow his own. He’d once been a talented songwriter and drummer. He was so happy for me to have my adventure. He had the capacity of wanting the best for others when he wasn’t able to have it for himself. He was my rock star Viking with battle scars and, after many unsuccessful overdoses, he didn’t believe in dying. I prayed that would hold true while I was gone.
So I left on my trip with a whole lot of anger and angst and survivor’s guilt because I was born with better DNA and more opportunities. I left, hoping for a Buen Camino to weave into a movie, and for the respite I’d need to advocate for him on my return. I needed Sean to be alive when I went home. I needed Christina’s humble hope to fuel my own.
When I returned to Santiago de Compostella, I found Christina right where I’d left her. Not homeless, but struggling. With wounds on the inside. We talked a lot more then. This experience, this chance encounter, would take on meaning along my “Way.” So much so that I decided to put her in my script, so she’ll live on.
I’ll write more about Christina and my brother Sean later in this Camino series and when I blog about my screenplay Homing Instincts. If you’d like a bit more information about it, please check out the pitch deck on my website home page. Until then, remember: our experiences are often the oxygen that breathes life into our characters and stories. For me, it’s also a way to keep the memories of loved ones alive - even the hard parts. The memories are still full of lessons and they help to build our compassion muscle.
What slices of your life do you share on the page and why?
What do you withhold?
Are you worried about oversharing?
Ultreia! Forward, together.
