This Pentecost Sunday, I found myself sitting on the dry grass of a field, turning my socks inside out for freshness, amid nine and a half thousand Catholics awaiting the celebration of Mass outdoors. It was about half past twelve, and we had been walking since half past seven. We were all pilgrims, en route from Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris to Notre Dame Cathedral in Chartres.
Over Saturday, Sunday and Monday morning we were to travel roughly 70 miles, entirely on foot. My girlfriend had invited her sister and me, but hadn’t told us the details beyond what to pack. I went expecting something like a mobile retreat. Retreats I have been on have always been reflective, but also, typically, relaxing. But that distance, in that time, was penance. Of course we prayed, and our chapter – a group of between twenty and fifty pilgrims, typically gathered from a parish, school or scout troop – had two priests, one to hear confessions and another to lead meditations. But apart from prayer, there was work, and pain. Offering it up – along with the gifts of the French sunshine, and the breeze rippling the wheat fields – made me more ready for the sacrament than I have ever been.
