This weekend my twins are stepping into a pilgrimage. The Camino de Santiago is a route that has drawn travelers since the 10th century. People who apply for a passport must commit to walking at least 100 km, and have partially religious reasons for the trip. The document gives them the gift of free shelter in the hostels along the trail. 

 

I can do nothing to support them, as they step into the Spanish sunshine in the bottom of summer. If I could have sent a care package of water and power bars, I would have. But that season of mothering ended quite some time ago. 

 

Instead, I sent a fistful of letters, not heavy enough to burden their backs. Yet it is my hope, my prayer, really, that the affection written in those brief sentences will quench their spirits in another way. 

 

What can we actually do to buoy up those people we love who are journeying? Sometimes words work, or a sandwich. A pittance, is the overall trudge that is a health struggle, or acclimating to parenthood. Yet I can remember those offerings that fed my heart, or stomach. The bunny salad made of canned pears after one of our babies was born. The flowers that appeared when my mother died. A gathering of dear women when Benjamin got his diagnosis. 

 

Those gestures were fleeting, if you measure them in real time. Yet here I am holding them in my mind as if the blooms are still fresh.