Hero

I see him everywhere. He falls with the snow that graces the tops of the trees. He flies with the wind that kisses my face, the type of wind that wants you to inhale and exhale so deeply that it becomes you to sigh and let your burdens loose upon it. He glows in the thumbprint of the moon that gives light even when it shines as a sliver. He appears in the darkness when it's lucent in its ideas of fantasy, bringing with its dimming scenery the drowning of an eerie sun that wisps its feathery fingers of fuchsia against the black ocean of dusk. He's even in that darkness, when eyes can't see him. Like the very sun, the evidence for his existence casts a shadow; when the sky of your life drowns in overcast clouds, the brief slices of his heavenly rays precipitate into your heart-when you find that he's real in the midst of your hurricane.

Life without him is not possible. Nothing, not even words with their symbols and small denotations, defines him. Thus, when something tries to capture him, it fails almost unutterably into a state of diluted meaning, boxing him in as if he were as small as that container.

He walks on water . . .

. . . calms storms . . .

. . . speaks so clearly . . .

. . . died . . .

. . . and rose . . .

For you and for me, he performs all these things. He even creates the sunny licks of light that spill upon your face in the morning. He is, in essence, life itself. And, he defeated all of the fears of this world that tie us down with broken promises and enticing dreams of life and fluttering fantasies. He broke the strains of death, the tear-filled eyes of the past. He reined the stallion of worry and bucking, beguiling bereavement. He broke that wild horse of death . . .

I strolled through the house today, watching the fleeting pictures of snow every so often that filled my sight, and I asked God Almighty, "Lord, who in the world is my hero? I have no idea . . ."

Then, it struck me. God was silent. I was silent.

Finally, he spoke, "Who in the world . . ." My hero spoke of himself.

He walks on water . . .

. . . calms storms . . .

. . . speaks so clearly . . .

. . . died . . .

. . . and rose . . .

He sacrificed for me . . . everything. He gave himself.

My God, my Jesus, is more than a hero to me. He defines my everything, where "every thing" speaks to me of his acts of courage, his desires of life, his call to death, his bold readiness to sacrifice, his righteous beauty that reigns over the world . . . All these things speak of a hero greater than heroism can imagine-someone of whom the characteristic "hero" can't even hold a candle to because he is, in fact, the sun.

If the world were parchment, the stars quills, the ocean a pool of ink . . . "no way in this universe" fashions itself fit enough to portray to you how I believe, how I know, how I see Him as my hero. For, "hero" is too small a word. Do me a favor - look at my life, for that is my paper to you on how my hero lives.