I approached a small church at the edge of town. It looked more like a large shed with concrete walls and peek-a-boo stones of the original structure. Shabby sheik in all its religious glory. A man walks out of the small creaky doors pinned open. He gathers himself, sets his gear and mounts his bicycle.

I enter Jesus’s tool shed to a small elderly woman in a habit. She and a Spanish man with wind spun curly hair are conversing in a meaningful tone. I walk past the peaceful depth of their conversation and approach the altar painted in the most stunning shade of cobalt/royal purple I have ever seen. Most altars I have experienced on this journey are gold, a few wooden, but this was a superior spectacle of color. Inside the center chamber was Mary and her son. Large eyes that look like they were painted by a ten year old, perfectly almond shaped and outlined in the lumpy black lines of a young unsure hand. Mary’s face is a blend of a primitive queen and tribal grandmother wearing the faith clad garments of the royal religious order. Jesus is small, like a child’s toy, placed on her lap, pale faced with blush painted on his round cheeks and eye lashes that look like they blink like the dolls of my youth.

I take off my pack and place it on of the chairs. There are no pews. Just 20 or so chairs, most wooden, all different, and a few metal folding ones. I kneel before the alter and express my gratitude for the day, for the color, for the reminder to pray, for peace, for guidance, for my son.

 I replace my pack, fine tuning the weight balancing with a lift, pop, cinch at the waist straps and a release refresh at the chest latch in front of my shoulders. I walk past the only table in the tool shed church and gather a few pieces of religious paraphernalia. As I head toward the door, the nun’s worn and deeply wrinkled eyes glisten and she approaches. Wordless, she puts her hand on my forehead, the other is holding an amulet of Mary strung on a light pink string. For the next few minutes, I stood there, eyes closed, breathing. Her small fragile hand remained on my forehead as she recited a prayer in Spanish. She paused at the end. I opened my eyes, she smiled, revealing even more of her faith creviced face with grace, and she reached up with the pink string necklace, I dipped my head to a more suitable level for her miniature size, and she placed it over my head and rested it around my neck. Our intermingled hands in prayer, held each other for a moment. I bowed to her in gratitude and walked out the door, back to the dirt road that lay before me, with a lightness of love in my heart and the acceptance of my journey in each step.