It bears the caption, “Mountains.” In fact it features a trail that winds between mountains, towards a gap that itself leads to more, bluer mountains. It marks, as it moves from side to side, the middle of a valley.
A photograph that depicts a path— any route or course that suggests a journey—almost always catches my attention. Such as this. Aside from being a means of travel, the path has charms of itself. In the picture it lies slightly to the right of a field of grass that slopes down from the mountain. The trail curves to the left, then to the right, bordering as it does a mound that has on it a brownish yellow patch, suggesting flowers.
What makes this path unlike other paths is a crucifix in the foreground, standing a few yards from it. The crucifix has a cement footing and a roof that forms an inverted V, and stands like a mailbox on the side of the road.
I find the scene captivating. I wish I myself could take the path and pass by the crucifix, which speaks of peace and home, and to keep on walking, past the mound and its offering of yellow flowers, until I disappear with the path. I know that another part of the landscape will present itself— perhaps a farm, or a village with its houses and church, or just more fields and an occasional river and grove of brooding trees.
I have been thinking of Rembrandt van Rijn’s painting, “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” It depicts Luke’s account of the parable of Jesus about a young man, who, having got his share of the estate from his father, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. This, and a famine that hit the land, reduced him to working in a pigsty, craving to eat the pods that the pigs were gobbling. When even this was denied him, he decided to go back home to ask for his father’s forgiveness and to be allowed to work as one of his helpers. But when the father saw him coming, he ran towards his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.
Rembrandt’s rendition of this scene impressed the writer Henri Nouwen, who particularly noticed the father’s hands on the shoulders of his disheveled son. The left hand, strong and muscular, holds him with gentle firmness, while the right hand does not so much hold or grasp as caress and stroke him, offering consolation and comfort. Nouwen remarked that God is both father and mother— “He touches the son with a masculine hand and a feminine hand. He holds, and she caresses. He confirms and she consoles. He is, indeed, God in whom both manhood and womanhood, fatherhood and motherhood, are fully present. That gentle and caressing right hand echoes for me the words of the prophet Isaiah: ‘Can a woman forget her baby at the breast, feel no pity for the child she has borne? Even if these were to forget, I shall not forget you. Look, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.’”
The sandals of the kneeling son draw my interest. One sandal lies beside his foot, while the other barely hangs on by a strap. The sandals tell of the journey that the man has taken – and the fact that they have not completely left his feet proves that repentance is a journey, whose end is not yet reached. The man still has roads to travel, and the hands of the father support and reassure him as he continues on his way.
The crucifix beside the mountain trail tells me that every road can be a road to grace. And that I can travel it with the assurance of encountering God – the Father who daily stands by the road, scanning its length for signs of my coming, and not giving up even if so far nothing approaches except the rain.