Ode to Man

Influenced by C.S. Lewis d...:p Sorry if it's a bit deep or obtuse...enjoy!

The first thing that strikes me is his voice, before his face or hands or hair or garb: that sing-song voice that ebbs and falls and tickles my ears like the tinkle of rain on the windowsill; that earthy, sincere voice that forcibly transports me to the days when, contented and secure, I leaned against my father’s strong chest after a quiet bedtime story. His voice rings with confidence and makes me smile. It is possessed of that melodic quality peculiar to the Indian dialects and has an effect on me not unlike that of strong, stirring music, of pulsating drums and rhythm and piercing strains of woodwind. My lips involuntarily curl into a smile, and my heart seems to be unaccountably lightened. His presence seems to fill the cold room with the warmth of the sun, the song of the birds, the coolness of the sea-breeze, the brilliance of colorful flowers, and the laughter of children all at once. It is as if the very air, that dead and stifling air that occupies the room, is quite suddenly sucked out from the room and replaced with Real Air, Air that God intended us to breathe, that fills one’s lungs and lends vigor to the limbs and mind. A profound freshness and earthiness seems to hang about him.

And then his head: it sways and bobs and cocks with the music of his voice, accentuating the rhythm, pronouncing the melodies of his words, alien though they may be to me. His kindly eyes grab hold of your gaze. Guileless they are; for only those whose hearts have been cleansed of deception can withstand the fire of holding the gaze of another human being beyond a fleeting glance. When he speaks to you, he speaks to you with his voice, his head, his heart, his hands, his eyes…all of him goes into every word.

Presently, he raises his right hand in a salute to me. I observe the energy and reliability that rests in that arm, quite certainly accustomed to hard work, its sinews hardened by years of toil. The skin of his palms have a sort of leathery, rough character about them. They inspire confidence and invite one to trust them, to trust the owner of those hands, to rest assured in their reliability and safety.

I raise my right hand in reply, and my eyes meet his as my face lights up with a smile much larger and brighter than I intended, as if he, by his mere presence, makes one laugh deeper and more heartily and smile with more heart. His face! It shines with peculiar beauty! And those eyes! Deep, fathomless eyes; eyes that pour forth rivers of tears in times of sorrow, that laugh and flash and dance in delight when Joy is entertained as a guest, eyes that have seen so much, and that look upon others with love.

Some have spoken of how the spirit shines forth through the thin veil of our fleshly bodies, for good or for ill. Those who choose the paths of Darkness and the servitude of the Powers of this Realm emanate a deathly, sickly air that stifles and suffocates and excites dormant battle instincts. In their presence one is hard pressed to suppress one’s revulsion, repugnance and disgust and has to keep one’s fists firmly pinned to one’s side for fear of losing control of it, yielding to their repeated entreaties to batter his face into a jelly. But those who submit themselves under the Hand of the Master Craftsman, who live in obedience and love toward the Highest Good, whether they wit it or no, cannot but imbue serenity, good-will and life into the air that surrounds them. Such is the manner of this man. Looking into his eyes, I see the image of God, for the Creator said before he fashioned us from the dust of the earth, “Let us make man in our own image”. I catch a glimpse of a shadow of the beauty of the Lord: his faithfulness, his grace, his perfect justice, and above all, his all-encompassing, all-conquering, all-consuming Love. If I had lost confidence in the words of God at the end of the Genesis of this earth: “It is good”, I find it again in this man.