37 Steps

"One of these days, letters are going to fall from the sky...

telling us all to go free.

But until that day, I’ll find a way to let everyone know

that you’re coming back...

coming back for me." - Civil Twilight (Letters From the Sky)

There is quiet space between sin and grace. I know, because I’ve been there. It’s a “still” sort of silence. A little over two years ago I walked 37 steps surrounded by it. I know, because I went back the other day and counted them. 37 steps exactly between the spot where I said, “This is really bad. Am I really going to do this?” and the spot where I said, “Yes, I definitely am.”

I never got to the 38^th step because God said “No.” Plain and simple. I don’t care if that challenges some people’s notions of free will because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was Him who intervened and firmly turned me away. I felt it. Love for my shame. Patience for my willfulness. Grace for my sin. The universe just sorta sighed and said, “Oh. Anthony. Has it really come to this?”

Devastation. It was 37 steps away. I look around me and I see a lot of folks hurting and hurting others these days, for beliefs or prejudices that not a single one of them was born with. You come into this world full of love and boundless curiosity. It starts with your mother’s touch, your father’s voice and those bizarre figures dangling from the mobile over your crib. You reach out, for all of it, and you never really stop reaching, do you? For something to catch your eye. For someone to love you. 

Here’s the thing I learned while taking that 38^th step on that hot day in July when all the fissures in my soul had finally joined together to form a massive crack that I was about to fall into head first. The greatest love and curiosity of all is our creator. Yes, He has set us free to bump into walls and in His wisdom, he will not always intervene. But, like any good parent, he’s only one step away from those moments when we’re about to make a really big mistake.

What was my sin? That’s not important. What was your sin? That’s not important, either. Nor is sin “contemplated” much different than “sin committed”. Because, let’s be honest, some of the most despicable crimes of our lives are committed on the mean streets of our minds. Don’t believe me? Go check out Matthew 5:21-48. Tough stuff. Regardless, what is important is that we realize that every step we take in this life is just one more on the journey.

And Thank God, we’re not alone.

Walking "The Way"

I have a dream of walking “The Camino de Santiago” (a.k.a. the Way of St. James) one day. The commonly agreed-upon route begins at Saint Jean Pied de Port, France, and travels 500 miles through four of Spain’s 15 regions, ending at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. The journey takes hikers over the Pyrenees Mountains, past vineyards, and through lush eucalyptus forests. It takes about 30-40 days to complete, depending on your pace.

If you know me (aka The Claritin Kid) you may be rolling your eyes right now. But bear with me. First off, the route is hardly remote. With a "Pilgrim’s Passport", you can access basic lodging and hot showers every 5 miles or so. You pack very light, eat from farm stands and restaurants, and can take more comfortable breathers in some of the rest stop towns along the way. It’s all very budget friendly, as you enjoy some of the most beautiful countrysides in Europe.

More importantly, to me, is that over and over people say that it is hands down one of the most spiritual things they’ve ever experienced. No cell phones. No computers. Just you, the walk and the magic of meeting random people from all over the world. “You just follow the path and whatever comes up is there,” says the guy in this video (Six Ways to Santiago). I imagine on the lonelier stretches it’s just you and God.

When you finally make it to the Cathedral (where tradition has it that the remains of St. James are buried) you get a special certificate, which I guess is cool for hanging on the wall when you get back home. But then? You can push on for two more days (and 50 more miles) to get to Finisterre and the “lighthouse at the edge of the world” where you can have lunch looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. I love lighthouses. Always have. There’s something solitary and yet hopeful about them.  

My amazing wife has given me her blessing to go but already told me to count her out. Lol. As have two of my most rugged buddies (one from South Africa and the other from New Zealand, both with plenty of hiking and outdoors experience). I dunno. Maybe I’m crazy. Or maybe I’m just meant to do it alone. But, God Willing, I’m going to find out someday. Mark my words.

The Blue Bible

"...in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us" - Romans 8:37

There is a blue bible that sits on my nightstand. It is tattered and worn, the way a good bible should be. It once belonged to my mother-in-law, Carol.  I don’t read it much because in it there are notes, upon notes, surrounding highlighted bits of text and scripture, amidst a sea of personal comments and reflections. She had this bible a long time. I imagine it escorted her through the many challenges of being a good wife, mother, daughter, friend and sister.

It also escorted her all the way through the battle with breast cancer that she would eventually lose. And this is where you will find me leaving the bible there, on my nightstand, untouched. Because to open it is to find so much faith that it will either drop you to your knees or bring you to tears. Often, it’s both. One can read the reflections of C.S. Lewis, Henri Nouwen, Billy Graham or others and still not find the same value of wisdom in words written by someone whom you knew, personally, and loved…as they fought the good fight all the way to the end.

Irony is a constant companion. For me, this bible recalls a girl in Hermosa Beach back in the summer of 1990. I worked as a parking attendant back then in the booth on 11^th Street, and one day I found a bible…worn, tattered, torn…that someone had accidentally left on a fence post nearby. I grabbed it, opened it and scoffed. Inside?  Notes upon notes, surrounding highlighted bits of text and scripture, amidst a sea of personal comments. “What a nut job!” I thought. I was going to leave it until I noticed that on the inside cover there was a name and a phone number. I sighed. Oh, brother. Now I had to call and meet the nut job, or I’d feel guilty.

When she appeared an hour later, overjoyed and beyond relieved to get her bible back, I got exactly what I expected. Younger than me, in her early 20’s, she was dressed like a hippie and wearing sandals. We chatted briefly. She invited me to her church, Hope Chapel, and I smiled – an arrogant, condescending, ignorant smile – and told her thanks, but no thanks. I bid her goodbye. She left with her bible and I never saw her again.

Over 25 years later, here I am again, with a bible of utter and complete testimony. Except this one wasn’t lost. It was left behind. Not as a farewell, but as a constant introduction. Not as an example, but as an inspiration.  It belonged to a woman of great faith and insurmountable love…my mother-in-law...Carol Arriola.

Who once went to Hope Chapel.