imago dei

When we arrive, the rustic man from whom we rented the cabin waits, rising to lumber out to the door. His eyes are blue, cool and vibrant like the snatch of sky I glimpse above the mountains. In some ways, he is those mountains, sloped and capped in silver cloud, monochrome and rumpled in the late afternoon light. In his voice, I hear dust and cobwebs. He beckons to Kevin, distantly mumbling something about showing us around.

I’ll admit that after the long drive, I would prefer self check-in to the in-person kind. I sighed when Kevin mentioned the owner would meet us, the introvert in me descending a little into complaint. We will have to make conversation, and I can’t really “settle in” while he’s still here. In person, our greeter seems as indistinct and waning as my energy and patience. Zoe and I peel off from the tour when it meanders into the garage, deciding to take a tour of our own to check out the bedrooms. Riley stays, drawn to that quiet, gravelly man, her attention cheerfully his for as long as he rumbles. The house isn’t that big; I can hear her bright voice even as we wander away. “Mmm hmm,” she says, “ooh, that looks nice,” probably while he gestures to the electrical panel, the rusty dusty washer, the stacks of wood just outside the back door. He could show her the broom and she would remain warmly interested. But that would be because while I’m focused on the electrical panel, the washer, the wood, the broom, she’s focused on him. Riley cares more about people than places or things; I could tell her later she’s sleeping on the couch or an air mattress in that garage, and she would nod and have no complaint to swallow.

I swallow, pausing in the hall outside one of the bedrooms, listening to a new sound: that bent over man, laughing suddenly like a man set free. It’s a waterfall, rushing over brittle limbs, just after Riley says his name, a name she will not forget for years, after she thanks him for allowing us to stay in his cabin. She has this way of moving mountains.

I cannot imagine his smile nor conjure in my mind the curve of wrinkles along his cheeks. He had seemed somber and tired and unmoved, maybe even a little distracted, his chilly eyes trained on the floor and flicking up only briefly to meet ours as he spoke. Most likely, that man is used to people like me, people tired from traveling and unconcerned with him, people ready to move things along. Sometimes I forget that people always matter more than the details. Sometimes I miss the chance to glimpse the imago dei standing right in front of me, cloaked as He always is, in humility.

And then Riley stands there seeing him, and he raises his eyes to the glow of her face–those round cheeks, that smile, the stray brassy hair curling around her ears. Maybe he recognizes something in her eyes; maybe he sees that pure and honest affection. She wears a sunny t-shirt pulled down over her belly and the real-life rips in her shorts. Once and a while someone awesome comes along, her shirt says, and here I am. And here you are, her gaze says to the mountain. You are awesome.

So he laughs. And maybe he doesn’t know exactly why, but I think maybe it’s because he looks up into her wide smile and rapt attention and sees proof that Kingdom love shows up in humble people, that God shows up for humble people. Here she is, with undivided affection for a man she doesn’t even know, wordlessly testifying to the fact that God sets himself aside in favor of loving people, and that he does it for joy.

All the way up the stairs, I can hear that man smile.