The Fellowship of Suffering

There is a rare and special sort of camaraderie that grows out of shared suffering. The place where I’ve experienced that deep connection most dramatically was on an eight-day pilgrimage from Guelph to the Martyr’s Shrine in Midland that a friend and I signed up for back in 2009. She was doing it to honour the memory of a dear friend who had died in an accident. I was doing it to prove to myself that I could. There were as many motivations as there were participants.

It was a diverse group, from teenagers all the way up to senior citizens from varying backgrounds and walks of life. We didn’t know each other when we set out that first morning from the Ignatius Jesuit Centre in Guelph. My friend and I were two of a number of non-Catholics who were participating, and I have to say we were certainly made to feel welcome right from the start. Everyone was excited and eager to begin. I was also a bit nervous as I had never walked the kind of distances that we would be covering day after day. The most I’d ever managed was 20 km and we would be covering an average of 28 km or so with some days even going so far as 32km. The first day was one of the easier ones, being only 26 km.

The plan was that our support truck would meet us at pre-designated rest stops with water and snacks as well as setting up to serve lunch when the time came. After the last break they would go ahead to the place where we would be camping for the night. When we ‘walkers’ finally arrived at that spot we would need to set up our tents before collapsing into a lawn chair for a good foot soak in a basin of cold water. Supper would be served by volunteers, a different group each night, and we would help with the cleaning up afterward. There would be a time of reflection and sharing before we crawled into our tents to rest. The next morning we would be up at the crack of dawn to take down our tents and pack everything up to reload the truck and start all over again, beginning with worship and a morning mass.

By the time we trudged into the churchyard where we would be camping on the first night, I was sweaty, exhausted, very footsore, and triumphant. I walked the entire distance! I managed to get my tent set up in a respectable time and joined the others in the soaking ritual that was to become my favourite part of the day. Cold water never felt so good. It was hot so most of us left our tent flaps wide open to catch any breeze there might be. The volunteers were setting up a couple of tables under a canopy to serve out supper which we would eat sitting in our lawn chairs. While they were doing that most of us went into the church where we would be doing the Stations of the Cross together. For my friend and I this was a new experience and we were keen to participate despite our fatigue.

Unbeknownst to those of us inside the church, things were not going so well outside. In a matter of minutes billowing storm clouds rolled in and the skies opened to pour out a veritable Niagara of rain. Those who had remained outside ran around frantically zipping up tent flaps and throwing lawn chairs into the back of the truck. Supper that night turned out to be a dismal affair with all of us crowded under two small canopies where we had to eat standing up. It was chili so we could manage it with only a spoon and a bowl to contend with.

By the time I got into my tent I was thoroughly drenched. There was a good-sized puddle just inside where the rain had got in before the flap was closed, but my air mattress and sleeping bag were still dry. Everything in my duffle was bagged in plastic so I had no worries there. I struggled into dry clothes and tried to settle in for the night. My tent has an excellent fly with coverage all the way to the ground so I was reasonably sure that apart from the puddle on the floor, I would be safe from the storm. Rain sounds so much louder from the inside of a tent. At first I thought I’d never get to sleep but I soon got accustomed to the noise and began to find it soothing. The sky was just beginning to grow light when I was startled awake by the clanging of pots and calls to “Rise and Shine” the next morning. It was still pouring rain.

We had no choice but to pack up our tents soaking wet. I shuddered to think what it would be like to set it up again in that state. We ate our breakfast standing up in the same way we’d eaten supper the night before, crowded and chilled under the two canopies. It was not an auspicious start to the day, and it didn’t look like it was going to change any time soon. We filled our water bottles and geared up, making one last trip to the outhouses provided before lining up to begin our soggy march.  None of us were looking forward to having to squat in the bushes in the pouring rain.

When the line started to move I wondered if anyone else was questioning their sanity in having signed up for this. Then one of the ladies at the front of the line started singing. It was that old chorus “This is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.” It wasn’t long before other voices joined in from all up and down the line. I realized that by singing those words I was making a choice about my attitude. I wasn’t the only one. Our backs straightened, our steps quickened, and our voices rose louder than the rain. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves smiling as we marched. We were a fellowship of sufferers, and it felt good. In a mere 24 hours we had gone from a collection of strangers to a cohesive unit all connected in some mysterious way on a level much deeper than we would have imagined possible. That feeling was one that continued to grow throughout the course of the remaining seven days and it was the best part of the experience for me. I learned that hardship knits hearts together like nothing else can, and that every new day is a gift no matter what wrapping it comes in. That’s something to remember in these times we are living in.