By any standard, the VANSPEC Alumni Association’s rainy pilgrimage to Vancouver’s Holy Rosary Cathedral wasn’t lengthy — a total of 30 minutes if everything went well: five wet blocks to the bus stop, 10 minutes on transit and another five damp blocks to the cathedral.

It wasn’t the Camino, but the pilgrimage was more than enough for a tired father to participate in the Jubilee Year of Hope. It was also a reminder that God’s gifts are sometimes disproportionate to the effort you put into your spiritual life.

The journey began at VANSPEC (Vancouver Special Catechetical Program) on Venables Street, where the organization provides catechism and religious formation for individuals with developmental disabilities. Our companions were members of the VANSPEC Alumni Group, and it was a merry band in spite of the rain.

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My son, Thomas, was walking with us. He has autism, although he doesn’t know it and most people can’t tell. He was merry, too, and even though he sometimes cries when his pants are too scratchy, he kept a brave face and weathered the downpour well.

I wish I could tell you my participation was prompted by religious zeal, but alas, I was there because VANSPEC’s director, Sr. Mary Margaret Delaski, FSE, had cornered me at a buffet table the day before. VANSPEC needs more promotion, she told me — I agreed enough to get wet. 

At the outset of our journey, Thomas received a blessed crucifix and hugged his mother like someone going on an adventure. She would be meeting us at the Cathedral with the rest of the family.

Later, on the bus, Thomas and I played ‘I Spy’ while the Downtown Eastside poured by, the window separating two conflicting visions of mental disability. Inside was the friendly, well-cared-for company of the VANSPEC alumni, many accompanied by parents even in middle age; outside were the drug-rattled lives of the Downtown Eastside residents, many of whom had been victims to misfortune and mental illness long before the drugs ever found them.

I never know how much Thomas notices or understands in these situations. He can be quick and attentive when something piques his interest, but that focus often distracts him from the ordinary happenings of life. He clearly noticed the people outside. 

The Jubilee Year of Hope has come as I’ve been struggling with what hope means in today’s world. People are stressed and angry about things they can’t control and often don’t fully understand. They have become obsessed with the here and now. For me, here and now is Canada, where a decade of political misconduct has left a crumbling social fabric amid an astronomically high cost of living.

 Then there are the people we passed on the street, tucked into corners and doorways, trying to get away from the rain.Perhaps the answer lies in the pilgrimage itself — a material prefiguration of the spiritual journey we will all take one day — or perhaps one we are already taking. First, we trudge through the misery and rain, then we sit in a bus,  finally we emerge out of the world into the vaulted halls of God’s house.

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It's honestly not the answer I want. I don’t want hope directed towards intangible reality — one I can only accept on faith. I want the Church to tell me groceries will get cheaper; that everything will work out here and now. Instead, the Jubilee Year of Hope — with its emphasis on pilgrimages — tightens its belt, laces its boots and taps its walking stick, reminding us this isn’t our home. 

We aren’t meant to be here. We are sojourners in this valley of tears, not permanent residents. Is that good news? I should say “yes,” but it’s hard. Lately, life East of Eden has felt as cold as Vancouver rain.

When we arrived at the cathedral, Sr. Mary Margaret Delaski, FSE, read a prayer under the shelter of pilgrim umbrellas and told us we were passing from the physical into the spiritual world. 

“That is always a special thing,” she said.

Sacramentalism is beautiful. Under the graceful umbrella of Church understanding, the world and everything in it becomes the poetry of God. Even Holy Rosary Cathedral, a soaring structure of stone and glass, melts away, turning into nothing more, or less, than a tiny cosmic representation of Heaven itself. Stone becomes immaterial … or extra-material … I can go either way, depending on my mood.

It didn’t feel that way during our pilgrimage. Sometimes you get a burning bush, and sometimes you just get wet. But reuniting with our family inside the cathedral offered a lesson. If pilgrimage takes us through the struggle of the material world toward the highest good, towards Christ and His Church, then having my family waiting for me inside the building was a reminder that real flesh-and-blood people are essential. The material world is essential.

To be fair, it’s hard not to feel hopeful watching your two-year-old daughter tear around a near-empty cathedral. But this is one of the things marriage and children are for. Much like a Church or a pilgrimage, family takes you out of the world and gives you companions on the path to God. 

The revelation is more than I expected from the short trip. I thought I would take a walk in the rain, take a few photos and show my kids the Cathedral. What I got instead was a reminder that God works through all things. The pocket-sized pilgrimage showed me that no matter what happens, the world will always reflect who God is and where we are meant to be. 

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All signs point to God, even Vancouver rain, and if that isn’t something to be thankful for, I don’t know what is.

(Elbers reports for The B.C. Catholic. This article ran in the BCC and was adapted from the original published at The Hollow Whale Substack.)