As the sun rose behind us, I felt reenergized as I charged up the hill with my legs fully rested. Anna laughed. “What’s your hurry?” “Nothing,” I answered between breaths leaving my companions behind. At the top of the hill, tall white windmills stood as guardians, dwarfing a steel sculpture erected in 1996 to honor the pilgrims of the recent and remote past. They were silent symbols that spoke about the pilgrims of different time periods. Some were on foot, others atop horses. One was pulling along a donkey. The peak was dry, a few patches of grass struggled to survive. I felt a connection to the many people who had walked in search of forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing, and perhaps that is what makes the name appropriate—the peak of forgiveness. Living with guilt and shame leeches the life out of us—and eventually dries a heart into dust. I touched the silhouette of a man walking with a woman pressing forward against the wind. Anna came up behind me.