He told me he was going on pilgrimage, too—to St. Michael’s, the church where we all go to Mass on our lunch hour. I felt a bit sheepish, even self-indulgent. After all, what greater destination is there than the King of Kings and Lord of Lords at the Eucharistic table? Why the extra expenditure of resources?

But this time I was powerfully drawn to go on a real pilgrimage, one where you walk a long, long way to a holy place, a special shrine.

On this pilgrimage, we walked for 200 kilometers from Brampton, Ontario to the Shrine of the Jesuit Martyrs in Midland. We slept in fields and had daily Mass by the wayside. We sang and prayed all day all along the way.

Some of the other pilgrims in our group were better equipped, but I froze every night in my thin sleeping bag, and my bones ached from my lack of sufficient protection from the hard ground. I was thus severely sleep deprived.

Plus my footwear rubbed. I couldn’t believe the blueberry-sized blisters popping up all over my feet—U.S. commercial size blueberries. They were quite raw by day’s end.

And this wasn’t all. I pride myself in being in good shape, more or less. But one morning, just as our group was heading out, my aching legs and sore feet cried out, "Stop!" That’s the day we were joined by another group.

We always followed a large crucifix, carried in turns by different pilgrims. The corpus faced forward, so we didn’t see it. But this other group carried their cross with the crucified Christ facing backwards, facing us.

As we were walking along, I was crying out, silently, "I can’t do this!" Suddenly I looked up at the crucified Christ. For a few seconds, tears streamed down my face but then, suddenly restored, I marched on unmindful of the mutinous members of my body. I don’t understand this at all. Mystery…

But here’s the real "rub." The joy. The sense of victory. Rather than envying those who had good bedding, cushioned comfort, and well-fitting shoes, I was happy to suffer.

I still can’t believe it. I’m usually selective and soft on the subject of penitential suffering. But this time I gave a deep, certain "yes" to it. God did it. I didn’t. Grace is amazing!

It’s hard to evaluate the usefulness of penance. It just is. It is simply faith that tells us that we are doing good and having an effect on poor sinners, of whom I am the first.

The overall intention of our pilgrimage was to pray for God’s mercy on our country for all the abortions committed here, and besides this, I had brought along a pocket stuffed full of intentions that people had asked me to pray for.

Other first-time pilgrims were praying for a handicapped daughter, relief from a dreadful depression, and the resolution of grief from a mother’s recent death. One pilgrim wanted to follow in the pilgrim footsteps of John Paul II, and two young men were discerning priesthood.

Lifting up sore, aching feet mile after mile while singing "Alleluia," and "Have mercy on us and on the whole world," you do feel like you are doing something for all the sins, sufferings, longings and needs in our poor world.

I came home exhausted and exultant.