No picture today. I’ll let Lisa’s sketch when she posts next give us a visual feel for this part of the road. I have written and re-written this post – tried to write it a a letter to my Father, who’s been on my mind. There is a series of blog posts coming sometime in the future, in the form of letters I never got to write to him, though this one didn’t turn out to be one of those. So here we go, this evening, stepping back onto the dusty road, slanting sun falling once again across our path.
I feel very much like a pilgrim here, as I walk. I suppose it’s not surprising; everywhere I turn, symbols of faith dot this countryside. They’re like seeds on a strawberry. They seem to fall naturally into the landscape. Just here, on this little stretch of road, there are three stone crosses. I’m fascinated by how some look so old and worn, yet they continue to stand, unbroken. Not one has been run into by a car, or beaten with a hammer. They’ve not been tagged with paint. In other areas, there are delicate metal crosses, strands intertwined to form intricate patterns. All are beautiful, unbroken, with nothing overgrown.
It’s not something we’re used to as much in our country, this care taken of symbols, care taken by the community. Because really, that’s the only way they would have survived so long. They’re all so different, each on a different pedestal. Some are poured concrete. Some are stacked stone. They differ like their makers, their eras. Someone, sometime, brought chisels, grinding implements, or other tools. They mixed mortar there by the road, or loaded a finished piece into a truck. Someone put muscle and sweat into the humble task of making and placing these symbols. I can see them, toiling in the heat and the dust. I can see them take care. Can you?