Gorma Tales of the Camino: Song of the Cathedral
Gorma finished her morning coffee in the streetside cafe, then walked through the narrow cobblestone streets of the City of Cathedrals until she turned the right corner to find the largest cathedral of all, sparkling from being washed in the night’s rain, each raindrop reflecting the soft morning sun.
She stepped inside the huge wooden doors. All was cool, and dark, and quiet. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw arches of stone, forming long hallways, more arches joining across from one hallway to another, arches overhead for a ceiling. Everywhere, the walls curved to join hands in high arches, with colored glass pictures in all the windows, birds and animals carved into the stones of the arches themselves, flowers and vines carved around the doorways.
Here rested dark wooden benches, smooth as glass, lovely for sitting and looking. At the front of the cathedral, from floor to ceiling, rose a carved and painted wooden masterpiece of images of saints (who are the best of people), and heroes (who are the bravest of people), and great teachers and philosophers (the wisest of people). It was gilded, which means it was painted all in gold, so that even in the cool darkness it glowed, warm and inspiring, with all the great figures of all those great people. At the center of them all, a tiny baby was painted. For saints and heroes and the greatest of all teachers ever born were all once born as babies sweet, and played as little children do, so Gorma knew: great oaks from little acorns grow.
Beside the great cathedral hall were many smaller chapels, each as ornate and as fine, each different and special, so that many churches were contained within this largest cathedral in the City of Cathedrals, like a gift within a gift, each box smaller until you find the prize inside the final one. So it was within the cathedral, and as Gorma wandered from chapel to chapel inside, she heard a great bell, and saw people all entering one small door, and so, curious, she followed.
She found a seat on a smooth bench near the back and quietly sat down. A priest in beautifully embroidered cape and collar said some words in a language Gorma did not know. Then the people, like a living drum, recited back some words in this same language. Their faces shone, and Gorma knew they said words of love back and forth with the priest, as he encouraged them to be good, and kind, and work hard, being good neighbors to each other, and they in turn agreed to do their best every day, and then they said, “Amen,” which means “the end of these words makes a good beginning.”
Next, the people turned to each other, and with smiles and soft words, shook each other’s hands, offering peace and friendship all around. Gorma smiled and shook hands, and received many smiles and handshakes in return, especially a beautiful, bright smile from the young woman sitting behind her on the very last bench in the chapel. Her smile made Gorma feel very happy, and at last Gorma sat down again, with all the other people, feeling friendly and gentle inside.
Then, to her surprise, a voice began to sing, just one voice, alone and full of grace. And from the last bench in the back of the chapel, the young woman sang a song of hope – for we know the song, even when we do not know the words or the language. A song of hope is so special, so pure, so sparkling in the morning sunlight after a night of rain, that it swells your heart with joy, and your eyes fill to the brim with its beauty, and words will not come…because all you can do is listen, happiness rising inside like the arches to the ceiling, bright and beautiful as the stained glass windows above, warm like the sun coming from behind the clouds at last.
After the song ended, and the last echo of her perfect voice finally faded, the priest led the people from the chapel. Gorma turned to look back at the last bench, but no one was there. And Gorma knew that sometimes, there are great people right here among us today, on their way to becoming saints and heroes and teachers and philosophers, whose images have yet to be carved into the great, gilded altars of the great cathedrals. But their voices and their hearts sing out in the small chapels of the world, unseen, unnamed, precious and holy as angels.
Gorma walked out of the cathedral, quiet and smiling. She and Saint Thomas, her walking stick, left the City of Cathedrals by a minor road, and arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, the church bells in the little villages rang out the hours, softly in the warm night, so as not to wake anyone from sweetest dreams.
Buen Camino, beautiful Song of Hope.