A Feast in the Time of Fear

I can still see her face, that soft glow in her eyes cutting through the chill of a world unraveling. It was March 13, 2020, and we’d been walking the Camino de Santiago—my family and I—chasing some whisper of meaning along those ancient trails. But meaning twisted into survival when we reached one of the loneliest stretches of Spain. The news hit like a gust: coronavirus spreading, businesses shuttering, panic tightening its grip. The Spanish government had just ordered everything closed—shops, restaurants, albergues—everything. Yet the orders were a mess, muddled and conflicting. One village shouted stay put, the next urged move on. We were stranded, miles from anywhere, our packs heavy, our stomachs hollow. We needed food, just enough to reach a town with a bus, a way out.

The dust clung to my boots as we trudged through a tiny cluster of houses, the silence oppressive—not peace, but fear holding its breath. Signs glared from shop doors: Cerrado. Windows shut tight, streets deserted. The world was locking up, and we were slipping through the cracks. Then there she was, standing outside her home. Carmen. Her presence a flicker of light in the dusk. We must’ve looked desperate, because she called out, her voice warm, unguarded. I hesitated, my throat dry as I explained we were searching for something to eat, anything to keep going. I braced for rejection, for doors to stay closed like everywhere else. But she didn’t flinch. She swung open her albergue—her sanctuary—when the world was slamming shut.

The smell hit me first: ribs roasting, Favada simmering, rich and earthy. She laid out a feast—plates piled high—and I sat there, fork trembling, feeling the weight lift with every bite. Relief washed over me, warm and sharp, but guilt gnawed too. Why us? Why now, when she was risking so much? I glanced at her, searching for the fear she must’ve felt, wondering what it cost her to let us in. She didn’t speak of the virus, but her hands moved with quiet resolve, like she’d decided kindness outweighed the consequences.

Then I heard it—her voice, hushed, slipping through the kitchen door. She was on the phone, words tumbling fast, her tone taut. “Sí, lo sé… la orden del gobierno… multas, tal vez más…” I pieced it together: the government’s orders, the threat of fines, maybe worse—sanctions from local authorities breathing down her neck. My chest tightened. She wasn’t just risking her health; she was defying the law, her livelihood, her safety, all for strangers. “Están hambrientos, solos…” she said—they’re hungry, alone. Her heart was bigger than the fear, bigger than the rules. I wanted to stand, to tell her we’d manage, that she didn’t have to do this—but my legs stayed rooted, pinned by gratitude and shame.

She returned, her face calm, but I saw it now: the worry flickering in her eyes, the smile that didn’t quite reach them. She was scared, like us, yet she chose to reach out. That meal wasn’t just sustenance—it was strength to keep walking, to find a bus, a plane, a way home. But it was more. It was a quiet, unshakable lesson in courage, in humanity, when the world seemed to forget both.

Three years later, I went back. I’d rehearsed it—the words I’d say, how I’d tell her her bravery had sewn itself into me, held us up when everything crumbled. I pictured her smile, maybe softer with age, still radiant. But her daughter met me instead. A look, a gentle shake of her head, and I knew. She was gone. The air vanished from my lungs, and I stood there, clutching a thank-you I’d waited too long to deliver.

Now, with this letter she’ll never read, I keep asking—did she know? Did she feel how her kindness rippled, how it carried us? I trace her memory—the laugh, the clink of plates, the warmth of that room—and I wonder what it cost her to open that door. I think of my own hesitations, the times I’ve held back, afraid of losing something. She didn’t. Her heart was bigger, and that’s lodged deep, a challenge I can’t ignore.

But it’s not just a memory—it’s a call. I’ve started looking for ways to be brave like her, to reach out when it’s easier to retreat. Last week, I saw a man on the street, his sign begging for food. I nearly kept walking, but her face flashed in my mind. I stopped, bought him a meal, sat with him. It wasn’t grand, but it was something. And in that moment, I felt her—her spirit, her heart—still alive, guiding me.

I imagine her somewhere bright, her spirit free, watching the paths she helped us walk. I can’t say thank you the way I planned, but I feel it—pouring into this letter, into the way I see strangers now, seeking that same spark of grace. She taught me what I didn’t know I needed: that even when fear grips tight, there’s power in sharing what little you have.

We’re all connected. her hand stretched to us, and now mine stretches too, because of her.

So, thank you, Carmen—wherever you are. You fed us, yes, but you gave more.

You showed me how to be brave, how to be kind, how to be human when the world forgets.

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