Uh Oh

Pilgrimage has a way of undoing me.

You would think by now I would expect it. You would think I would have learned that a pilgrimage is never only about the places we long to see, but also about the surrender we never intended to make. And yet, each time disruption comes, I am surprised.

Today, as we sat on the runway waiting to take off, I learned that two of our pilgrims—who had arrived in Istanbul a few days early for a bit of rest—had gone to their hotel only to discover that there was no reservation for them. Calls were made immediately. I contacted the tour company in Palestine, which reached out to the broker in Istanbul. Everything that could be done was being done.

But then the plane lifted into the air, and with it went any illusion that I could manage the outcome.

Once the phones were switched to airplane mode, I could do nothing more. I could not fix it, confirm it, oversee it, or resolve it. I could only sit there, suspended above the clouds, carrying my worry for these dear pilgrims who had traveled so far and were surely exhausted, longing only for rest and a place to land.

I was angry at first. Frustrated. Helpless.

And beneath that, I think, embarrassed that I could not make everything smooth and seamless for everyone entrusted to my care.

Of course, by the time we landed, it had all been sorted out. And, of course, the two pilgrims themselves were far calmer about it than I had been.

Grace often arrives that way: quiet, unhurried, unbothered by the storms I create inside myself.

A few deep breaths helped. Even more, prayer helped.

This pilgrimage has already carried more sorrow and uncertainty than any of us expected. A few weeks ago, sadly, one of our pilgrims died unexpectedly. The war in the Middle East has cast its shadow over every plan. Our four-night cruise was canceled at the last minute. There has been one unwelcome turn after another.

So when I left home this morning, I told myself the hardest part was over. I imagined that my four days alone in Athens might be a kind of threshold—space to breathe, to reset, to recover after the fullness and fatigue of Easter season.

But God, I suspect, must smile at all the ways I keep trying to declare the road settled before it is.

Pilgrimage is not an itinerary to be mastered. It is a path of relinquishment.

And perhaps that is the invitation before me now: to let go of embarrassment, to loosen my grip on control, to release my expectations of how this journey should unfold. To trust that God is at work not only in the sacred sites and carefully planned moments, but also in the inconveniences, the unravelings, the things I would never have chosen.

Sitting in the lounge before boarding the flight to Athens, I finally prayed - not for perfection, but for vision. I asked God to help me notice moments of grace. I asked for an open heart to recognize and receive gratitude instead of feeding frustration.

And less than thirty minutes later, a small kindness appeared.

My seatmate asked if she could move, leaving me with both the aisle and the window seat for the overseas flight. She turned out to be a retiree from Cincinnati now living in Santa Fe, and our brief exchange felt like one more reminder that even in the midst of weariness, God slips in companionship, spaciousness, and unexpected gift.

Small graces.

That is what I am praying to notice on this journey.

Not the absence of difficulty, but the presence of God within it.

Not a smooth path, but a faithful one.

Not control, but surrender.

Not certainty, but grace.

And surely that, too, is pilgrimage.

God is present.