"How beautiful upon the mountains, are the feet of him who brings glad tidings, announcing peace..." Isaiah 52:7

It was a chilly August evening. The sun was gathering up its last rays from among the trees so it could sleep peacefully, leaving the moon to do the watching.
He came, steadily and slowly. We saw him from a distance as he stood out against the bleeding sky. It was not often someone decided to wander-or I should say climb-up this tall, steep mountain. If they did, it was for us. There was nothing, absolutely nothing else, up here.
This was our mountain. Our home. My grandpa was born here, my great grandpa was born here. My mother, my father....and this was home. This steep and rocky mountain, with its tall pines and powerful moaning winds. This high forsaken place, so high but alone. Alone with us and the running streams, rushing away to softer places. Frozen in the winter, and wet. Wet and muddy. But beautiful.
The stranger drew closer. His shoulders rising and falling as he breathed deeply of our fresh mountain air. He came up to our family’s doorstep. His eyes were shining, and he smiled from somewhere way deep in there, as if from his very heart. A light that I never thought you could see in someone's eyes, ever. He was clothed simply; Sandals on his feet and cloak over his shoulders. Browns and grays; Rough clothes in texture. He blended with us.
It occurred to me strangely that someone so new, could feel so familiar and so a part of our village.
When he spoke, his words were those we could understand. But his voice was rich, and he spoke in a gentle accent, a little different from ours. He didn't say much. No explanation of who he was, or where he was traveling from. When asked he simply smiled and looked at you quietly, down to your soul....
I looked away.
He knew I had. Even, somehow, before he had come.
I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I thought my heart was too broken for him to see. Something in me must have been afraid to let him see.
His eyes scanned the horizon. He breathed deeply, and I thought his heart would burst with the beauty he soaked in. But somehow it seemed less of him soaking it in, more of him letting it out. It added to the brightness of his eyes.
Peaceful. That was what he was. His dark brown eyes, always peaceful. Watching you, but not to find something wrong. Watching you, but not looking for anything. Because somehow they gave one the impression that they already knew.
As much as this sounds disconcerting, it was not. Somehow. And it wasn't long before even papa had welcomed him in.
It was only a day before he was in the fields, working as hard as any of our men. His dark hair among the lighter colors of our mountain.... His sleeves, rolled up to his elbows. His hands, dirty and working hard. He planted and fought with the rocky soil. He fed the animals, and milked the cows. He helped thatch our roofs. He played with the children. They loved him. He told them stories. He taught them how to build a trough for the animals' food to go in. He played soccer with the boys. I was surprised he knew any of their games. Whether he did before or not, he did now.
He fit right into our lifestyle. He welcomed it as if the work fulfilled him somehow. It was not long before he knew everyone in the village. And not by face, but individually.
Patrick was getting into a mess again. He was our rebel. When anything went wrong, he was first to be suspect. He was up to no good again. The stranger found him. I’ll never forget the way he grabbed Patrick’s arm. There was a sort of gentle strength to him. The kind of noble strength that leaves no room for anger. Patrick was too weak to fight him, but he was stubborn. He tried to pretend he didn’t care. But when he looked into the stranger's eyes, whatever he saw there made him cry. I had never seen Patrick cry before. He begged forgiveness. I couldn't believe it. The stranger took him by the shoulder and squeezed it. His knuckles were white. Something passed between them. Whatever it was is still there today...
The stranger sat by the fireside in the evenings, and he talked with mama. She asked many questions. The questions, I think, that all of us wanted answers to. He had a strange way of answering things. He didn't answer outright, but rather pointed you in the right direction so you could find the answer yourself. I liked that. But it made me think he was a great deal more intelligent than one might assume.
He didn't eat much. Mama commented on this a few times. He praised her good cooking to change the subject. Maybe he knew our shortage....
At night, he bounced Marcus on his knee, and Marcus fell asleep in his arms. I'll never forget how peaceful they looked together, and he breathed slowly, in and out with my little brother. It was strange, for Marcus always fought against sleep. It was as if there was peace and security that poured over you from this man’s very presence.
Once, when little Teresa fell and scraped her knee, he gathered her up and spoke to her soothingly. He wiped her tears away, and kissed her on the forehead. She laughed. She did not often laugh with such joy.
Once I came upon him watching the sheep. I brought him lunch. He sat down on the stone wall, and motioned for me to follow. I jumped up, and swung my legs back and forth. He didn't say anything. Not for a long time, at least. Somehow I knew he understood me. As thought about it as I watched the clouds form different shapes in the sky. It was strange...but somehow, it felt right.
Suddenly, without being able to help it, everything rushed forward. All of my troubles, fears, desires, dreams, hopes.....and it gathered heavily atop my heart, and welled up in my eyes in tears. I wasn't surprised, somehow, that I was crying for the first time since I was a child. The tears rolled down, and I didn't care to wipe them away. I wasn't embarrassed like I thought I'd be. I was feeling understanding and that made all the difference. And that's what hurt. Somehow, love was drawing all of this out. All of this I had so carefully buried. I wondered if this is what Patrick felt. My broken heart was surfacing. The pain of loss, buried with the loved one. The hope, gone down with the setting sun. And slowly, love was pulling it all out. Like splinters, stuck in my heart. Pulled out, and they bled. Was it my heart that bled? Or was it his? Yes, he was still there. So present, so understanding, even though he hadn't said anything, or even moved. I felt his eyes looking into mine, even while I studied the waving grass, and the sky.
Slowly, his hand stretched out, and he broke the bread I had given him in two. He reached and offered it to me. "I want you to have this. I’m giving it to you," he said, quietly. My hand received it, slowly. And I ate it. It wasn't till then that I realized how hungry I had been. Not just in body, but in spirit. And somehow, something that went deeper than this bread, filled me. And I looked into his eyes. And he saw me. And I saw him. And somehow, I started to heal.
That evening, he stayed outside after us. With no discussion by the fireside, we all went to bed.
The next morning dawned, bright and sunny. I was glad it wasn't raining again. It was the first sunny day in a long time.
And then I heard a cry: a joyful cry. A surprised cry. I hurried down the stairs, and followed the excited voices.
On the doorstep, I stopped and stared. Where the broken down building for our animals had been, stood a brand new stable. It wasn't large, but it was sturdy. It wasn't elaborate, but there was something very striking and lovely in its simplicity.
I entered with our excited neighbors. The air inside was warm and lovely. New straw lay on the floor, and the animals slept peacefully.
I felt the peace of the place wrap about me. Funny that a stable could seem to bring you peace. Somehow, everyone felt they had to be quiet upon entering. I slowly took everything in. The fresh smelling wood, the woolly sheep, the gray donkey, sleeping in the corner… For some reason, no one once doubted who made it. Because standing in the center of the room stood a trough, built by him, empty. For some reason it seemed strange that it was empty. I didn’t really know why.
Maria thought so too, I guess. With a kiss and a gentle smile, her little curly head bobbled over to the trough, and she laid her little doll inside it. His little white blanket wrapped around him. She took my hand, and smiled up into my eyes. There were tears in mine, and I squeezed her hand back.
Then, running to her mother, she began to tell her what she had done. The rest of the children skipped about, petting the animals and laughing. And the parents stood by with awed faces.
I looked closer on the trough, and noticed finely carved letters on the side of it. I read them, and turning quickly, I fled out the door and down the road.
The stranger had disappeared. No one knew where.
I looked down the mountain, and far in the distance, I saw his figure moving slowly away. For a second I thought to cry out and stop him. Somehow I knew that, even being so far away, he would hear me. But something in me stopped it before it came out. Something about the way his shoulders rose and fell. Something about the steady way in which he walked away.... I knew this was right.
I raised my hand to wave goodbye.
As if he had felt it, he turned. And even from this distance I saw his eyes. They were smiling peacefully, joyfully. He did not say goodbye…because somehow, he had remained behind. In Maria's heart. In Marcus' hands. In Teresa's laughter. In Patrick's eyes. In daddy's spirit, and mama's kitchen. In the sunrise and the harvest and the bread. In the rushing waters and whispering winds, and in the stable. In my heart. In all of our hearts.

Around two hundred years later, this village no longer existed. But a stable still stands, and inside of it, a trough. And carved on the side of it, in steady letters just barely discernable now, reads "How beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of him who brings glad tidings, announcing peace..."