The Pack of Fear

At the beginning of the Camino, I hated my pack.

It clung to me—a stubborn weight, always present, always asking something of my body. I thought it was heavy because I was not strong enough.

But it was heavy because it was full of fear.

I had packed for every what if, every just in case, every quiet doubt that whispered I would not be enough unless I carried more.

I am a mother. I am the one who anticipates, prepares, and provides. I carry the extra snacks, the medicine, the rain gear, and the things no one thinks they will need until suddenly, they do.

I am the just in case.

Also, I come from abundance, from a life in which there is usually more than enough. More food than we eat. More clothing than we wear. More belongings than we use.

Still, we gather more.

Excess has a cost.

What we carry, we must tend.

What we own, we must store, protect, and keep.

Too often, what we keep is never used at all.

Day after day, as we walked from village to village, I began to notice small cloth bags hanging beside doors and mailboxes.

At first, I did not understand what they were.

Then I smelled the bread truck before I saw it—warm, yeasty, alive.

The truck passed through villages without bakeries, leaving bread in the waiting bags. Each household received only what it needed for that day.

Give us this day our daily bread.

In the desert, the Hebrews learned that tomorrow’s provision could not be gathered in advance. Manna would not keep. It could not be stored or controlled, only received and used.

I had spent much of my life trying to gather tomorrow’s bread today.

I carried extra food because someone might get hungry. I carried things my children could carry for themselves. I carried the fear that if I did not anticipate every need, someone would go without—and it would be my fault.

Slowly, the Camino began to loosen my grip.

I did not need to carry food for everyone. They could carry their own.

I did not need to save yesterday’s bread. Today would come with its own provision.

Yesterday’s loaf only grew damp with rain—stale, heavy, and forgotten at the bottom of my pack.

And still, I carried.

Until I didn’t.

Little by little, I began to trust.

Trust that there would be enough.

Trust that my family could carry some things for themselves.

Trust that I did not have to be everything for everyone.

Trust that what I needed would meet me when I arrived.

The weight of my pack did not disappear all at once.

As I let go of what I did not need, I began to understand that the heaviest things I carried were never the things inside it.

They were my fear of being unprepared,

my fear of being dependent,

my fear that daily bread might not be enough.

The Camino did not promise I would never go without, but it did teach me

 that I do not have to carry tomorrow before it comes.