The Face of Love

Painful was the voice of childhood as it screamed from his entrails.

Commitment is like a knife whose blade is sharp and whose point cuts deeply. Treat it with care, avoid it when necessary. When unavoidable, keep the blade at a distance, and never run with the knife unsheathed.

Afraid was the voice of manhood as it echoed in the caverns of his mind.

Fear has shredded you like a hungry bear seeking food after a winter’s slumber. Approach it knowing its nature is never to injure, but in its hunger the frenzy devours whatever it must to survive.

Hopeful is the voice of love cascading through the waterfalls of his soul.

Remember that hand tightly, yet tenderly, holding your own? Remember her eyes as they lovingly turned your walls of stone to dust? Forget what you’ve seen before her. Forget what has hurt you. Discard those weapons you’ve used to keep the heart of love at a distance. Invite that divine serenity into your encampment, and see what words will spring from that union.

A man without his voices can feel lost for the moment. A man ignoring all that he once believed kept him safe trembles in the face of the vanishing-yet-false security. He simply seeks to dive into those eyes and feel that hand again. He feels lost yet not forgotten, afraid yet filled with courage, needy yet secure in his own space. Confusion tells the tale of some wondrous, pending transformation. It is now, in this light, that his shell can become a most dangerous place. He just wants to be warmed in her arms, yet he feels bitter cold at the height of a beautiful Spring morn.

The onslaught continues.

Loud is the voice of memory, shaking both the flesh and the heart of a warrior who’s left his sword and shield out beyond the gates of his Thermopylae. He feels naked, unarmed and unprotected as he faces the hoards of his despair, the very beasts who are sure to trample him in the mud beneath his feet.

His dreams pierce like a spear pressed firmly against his chest, a crimson teardrop runs freely down his skin. The ground is fertile with such tears, and there he has found a willow tree whose branches caress his heart as the winds shred the last veil adorning his tired soul. Love is the sweetest refreshment, yet his chalice has been blown to where the Sun shall kiss the Sea, that place where the sand cleanses his feet and the waves are poisonous to his lips. Still, he would gulp the ocean dry to have both her cup and his wine on the same table, in the same place they both call home.

The demons advance, and he reaches for his sword. He’s left it back there, beyond the gates. He reaches for his shield, and remembers his sword leans up against it. In their absence he will face the hoards with no means of offense or defense. Fists clenched and with a will wavering yet strong, he braces for battle. In a moment of insecurity he closes his eyes to die with a vision of his choosing. There, in the darkness of his final fear, glimmers a beaming image imprinted somewhere beyond his grasp. On the clouds of heaven he sees her, the image of his beloved smiling with eyes that changed everything. He is ready to surrender and meet her there, somewhere beyond the walls of eternity where all angels go to rest.

Suddenly, the ground once shaking calms. The sound of the hoards pouring from unmoored ships just beyond the breaking waves goes silent. The air once choked with dust from the hooves and feet of suffering, settles. All that is left standing is a man, alone in the sand, tears spilling down his face cleansing the dirt from his skin. Naked, alone, yet clothed in the truest togetherness he has ever known, the man has seen something he was certain few have ever seen before.

He has seen the Face of Love.

Though others would torment him in his smile, smile he would. Though others would not understand the depth of his soul, he would bathe in the deepest parts he could find. Though others would not seek the wounds that led him toward the smile saw during his moment of surrender, he has blessed every scar. The willow tree that had sprouted despite the salts of his despair knew something even he did not. The willow knew his depth, his healing, and the blessing of his smile. In return he just wanted her near, a blessed reflection of the truth he had spent a lifetime uncovering; the embodiment of the promise made through him at the moment of his conception.

“Please, come back,” he said to the image flying East as it rose to greet him.

“I will,” came the reply.

“Now…” his voice trailing off in the absence of a will to demand anything of her.

Silence.

He closed his eyes tightly again, praying for a return to the beauty that saw the weaponless man victorious in battle. There she was, as if she was standing before him, teasing him in the darkness with a light he wanted to be eternal. His tears flowed when she smiled and the thirst returned as he bent to kiss her. He was there, wherever she was, home. They were there, wherever they stood together, safe at last.