Pilgrim

Every day, our social media feeds present a curated gallery of arrivals. A friend posts a photo from a tropical beach, the caption celebrating a hard-earned vacation. A colleague announces a promotion with a crisp, professional headshot. A family member shares ultrasound pictures, marking the beginning of a new life. These are the highlight reels, the destinations, the moments we are taught to strive for. They look like the end of the journey, the prize at the finish line. Yet, we know, even in our own lives, that the moment the photo is taken is not the end. The vacation ends. The new job brings new pressures. The baby arrives, and a new, much harder journey begins. We live in a culture that celebrates the destination but has very little to say about the road itself—the long, often difficult, and frequently unremarkable stretches in between the milestones.

This tension between the celebrated destination and the unglamorous journey is what artist and author Ruth Chou Simons found herself wrestling with. Known for her bestselling books and her beautiful, hand-painted floral artwork that adorns everything from Bibles to home goods, Simons appeared to have 'arrived' by every external measure. But she felt a deep disconnect between the public's perception of her life and the private, daily reality of her own spiritual walk. She realized that the Christian life is a long, often winding pilgrimage. She wrote Pilgrim as a field guide for the journey itself, a way to find grace and beauty not just at the scenic overlooks, but in the dusty, ordinary miles of the path.

Module 1: The Journey Begins with Failure

The story kicks off with a public humiliation. The narrator, a student of a mystical tradition, is about to be ordained as a Master. It's the culmination of years of disciplined study. But at the final moment, he reaches for his new sword with too much eagerness, with a sense of entitlement. His Master stops him. He has failed the test.

This sets up the first critical insight. True power is a gift to be received with humility. The narrator's pride and avidity showed he wasn't ready. He saw the sword as an external object of power he could own. His Master’s rebuke is swift and clear. This kind of power is worthless because it is shared by all. It’s not an exclusive club.

So what happens next? The path to redemption is a physical, grueling journey. The narrator is commanded to walk the ancient Road to Santiago. This introduces a second key idea. The spiritual quest is a journey of rediscovery through simplicity and struggle. He must leave behind his complex, intellectual understanding of spirituality. He has to find his power again among simple people, on a dusty road.

Initially, he’s resentful. He’s an expert, forced to perform a beginner's task. But as he begins the drive toward the Pyrenees, a realization dawns. He thinks, "Even if I were not able to find my sword, the pilgrimage... was going to help me to find myself." This is the pivot. The goal shifts from retrieving an object to achieving self-understanding. The journey itself becomes the purpose.

And here's the thing. The Road to Santiago isn't just any road. It’s a path traveled by millions over a thousand years—kings, saints, and commoners. This historical weight is important. It means historical pilgrimage routes are timeless metaphors for human transformation. The narrator isn't just on a personal errand. He's tapping into an archetypal human adventure. He is joining a long line of people seeking something more. He is reliving the great human adventure of traveling toward the unknown.