Note
Now that we are home, we can fill in thoughts and memories we were not able to share while on the Way.
Cruz de Ferro
After visiting the iconic Iron Cross, Mom, a fellow German pilgrim, and I began our descent to the next town. Very quickly we found messages written in pebbles left on the path. We found the typical arrow pointing us in the correct direction; we found positive messages encouraging us to continue and relaying the joy of a visit to the Iron Cross; and we found one word--f***.
I am often struck by how one bad experience or comment taints tens or even hundreds of good experiences or comments. An anonymous pilgrim, who passed before me, had the audacity to rob me of the ability to process the power of the Iron Cross. Four letters distracted me from feeling Mom's hand in mine before we approached the cross symbolic stones in hand. One word redirected my emotion from absorbing the simple power of watching a stranger and a loved one cry at the foot of a cross to harboring anger toward someone I haven't met. But, I couldn't touch the pebbles. Everything inside me wanted to kick the word, return the pebbles to their natural, random order.
Why couldn't I touch the pebbles? I wonder if our right to free speech is so engrained that I cannot hinder another person's right no matter how much offense his words cause. I wonder if I will reach a point when my anger will fuel the courage I need to change someone else's message. I wonder... in silence.
Mom cut my contemplation short when she turned sharply to return to the one word. The German pilgrim and I watched in thick silence as Mom picked up the stones and calmly arranged them into another word. Before she returned to us, I knew there was only one word she could have written
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