I step into the chapel at the halfway house where I am covering for the chaplain who is on vacation. I genuflect toward the tabernacle and notice a sketch of the Sacred Heart hanging nearby. 

          The face is broad with eyes half-closed in a curious squint. Strands of hair cling to the brow, dangle alongside the cheeks and rest on the shoulders. The stance is casual and the overall impression is that of a close and cherished friend. 

          I kneel and reach for the rosary in my pocket. A middle-aged woman enters the chapel and kneels directly in front of the sketch. I try to catch her eye, but her attention is fixed on the gaze of Christ.

          Later, I learn that the woman is the mother of the artist who drew the picture. I also learn that the image was drawn inside a prison where her son died shortly after completing the work. The person who revealed this—a parishioner from the neighborhood—did not know the circumstances of her son's death. 

          In the following weeks, each time I visit the chapel, I find myself tracing the lines on the face of the image of Christ.      

          Does the artist’s mother do the same? Do the lines blur through tears, conjuring memories of her boy pumping the pedals of his bicycle to catch up with a group of friends down the block? Do the strands of flowing hair resemble currents in the creek where he used to fish with his dad? Does the Lord's open hand bring to mind her son's sweaty palm as she led him down an aisle at the grocery store?

           Today, I am alone in the chapel and all is silent. My fingers move across the closing beads of the Sorrowful Mysteries.

          I gaze at the sketch and imagine the mother’s ardent longing for the day when the Lord’s voice will drench the air like a cleansing rain: “Woman, behold your son. Son, behold

your mother.”