You were more than a priest – you became a pathfinder. In O Cebreiro your breath still lingers, mixed with mist and prayer. You painted arrows so that lost feet might find their way. You brought light into the silence of forgotten trails.
I walk along your lines, feeling your hand in the dust. The wind carries your whisper: rebuilding, memory, grace. You were no dreamer without labor – you were a man of color and map. You called back the roads that had vanished, so pilgrims would not remain lost. And yet your road is no monument. It is an open breath, forever unfinished. An arrow that belongs to no one, yet guides everyone.
You stood by the roadside, with a bucket of yellow paint. A car stopped, a policeman asked, “What are you doing here, Padre?” And you said, “I’m preparing a great invasion.” Perhaps you smiled — that smile that knows, not mocks. You meant no army. You meant us.
I still see you in my mind’s eye, in the mist of O Cebreiro. A priest with brush and patience, making the paths visible again, stone by stone, direction by direction. And yet you wanted no monument. You wanted motion. That people might set out again — from I to We, from today to forever. And for nearly four decades now, you’ve watched us from above.
You did not preach, you drew. Yellow on grey, hope on forgetting. Your arrows were prayers in paint, a gospel of dust and faith. I see you in every yellow sign. In every step that goes on without knowing. Your life was a bridge, your legacy a home. I walk your path, follow your lines across bridges, valleys, time. Your brush was prophet, your heart a compass. You painted the roads so that we might find heaven.
Thank you for giving us direction with nothing but paint and faith.
Buen Camino – Good Way, Steffen
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