The blue-green of his eyes reflect the agitated waves, which reflect the churning sky. Reflection upon reflection. An imitation of origination. See, the storm only mirrors—and that, dimly—the raging paradox of beauty and fury that composes his identity. I see it in his eyes, in the swirling colors. And when he laughs, the sound breaks beyond the thundering of the waves and the dark clouds overhead, because he rules over it all. His joy is the tool, the means by which I can see the mystic elements that compose this colorful storm. The beauty in the sound of the wind, and the varied colors in the water, with pieces of light and dark sparkling and shadowing each wave. It is by the cadence of his laugh that I inhale the invigorating scent of fresh oxygen which accompanies the misting rain. By his eyes that invite me into a security and enjoyment I’ve never known, I see that the storm offers something to me that safety never could: an opportunity to embrace abundant life. An opportunity to choose wild courage in the face of darkness and instability.

A chance to discover a facet of this man whom I claim to follow that I’ve never known before.

He wants me to join his laugh. It is a laugh that tells me he will never leave my side. It is a laugh that says: “This? This is nothing compared to the joy of walking with me.” It is a laugh that invites me to come, taste and see how good this is. So I look into his eyes, and a smile breaks out on my face, instantly fielding relief to my pores. My own laugh unites with his, creating a sort of mad melody that is swept up in the wind rushing around us. His joy instantly floods my limbs with strength, and I can breathe again.

I can see again.