Through a mirror dimly

I meet him in the half-light, you might say, the long shadow of a dream. A substantial presence and notable appearance, not to be ignored and not to be announced. He's there. You know it. With dodging glances, I retain peripheral view. I dare not stare.

Makes me think of a Roman centurion of a thousand battles -- won some, lost some, remembered and forgot some. Survived. Or an old sea captain who'd been around the horn a time or two, knew shipwreck and rescue and set sail for more. Sun-leathered, wind-bit, salt-cured and all-weather fortitude, he smells of campfire. Physical features that Michelangelo might have chiseled from a marble block. Hooded, decisive eyes, a jaw line you couldn't break with a mallet, missing a partial digit on one hand, and down the left side of his face -- the coolest scar ever. Only an eye patch could make him look any tougher.

I don't want to say stoic, but he's steady as a preacher, without haste, like he's never unsure. Immune to worry, though privy to burdens of the world, like he knows its hazards and yet resolved to live in it, taking his place as it comes and owning it like a duke -- not of today's perennial, pubescent stock. With no dread of death, he's fully alive. Thoroughly authentic, and absent of hate 'cause he has no fear.

There's instant affinity on my part. I'm supposed to know him, or I do, or did, or I can't quite remember. A missing part, familiar, forgotten, a clue maybe, and I want to ask if he's real, but he entertains no such question. Like most dreams, my part is scripted, and I know things without knowing how. Beneath the intimidating façade, there's a deep kindness. This is no predator, no oppressor. I gather courage for conversation. But does the daunting man want to talk? And what in mankind do I say? As it turns out, nothing is verbalized, just a given knowing.

The duke does not do all. He's content with his part and does his part in the world decisive with confidence, nothing more or less. Like it is assumed, something always precedes, preparing the way, bridging the gaps. Like doubtful halting would be a disappointment to angels. Confident in what cannot be seen, fretting does not figure. This solitary figure in fact is not independent and never alone. And he knows this.

When awake I'm a little ashamed, weighed and found wanting, called out for tentative movements, acts of hesitation and vexation uncalled for. I pray for grace to equal the faith and courage of my forebearers. I could pretend and start wearing an eye patch, but that would not be authentic. So, I content myself to remember a dream and hope for a dream come true.

ROD PARCHMAN is a minister in Cunningham, Tennessee, with ties to Bollinger County.