His Wife

My wife is not afraid of dirt.


She spends each morning gardening,


stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,


removing insects from her plants


and pinching them until they burst.


She won’t grow marigolds or hollyhocks,


just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas –


things we can eat. And while she sweats


I’m working on my poetry and flute.


Then growing tired of all that art,


I’ve strolled out to the garden plot

and seen her pull a tomato from the vine


and bite into the unwashed fruit


like a soft, hot apple in her hand.


The juice streams down her dirty chin


and tiny seeds stick to her lips.


Her eye is clear, her body full of light,


and when, at night, I hold her close,


she smells of mint and lemon balm.

— Andrew Hudgins

via among the pines

“Did you mark how naturally – as if he’d been born for it – the earth-born vermin entered the new life? How all his doubts became, in the twinkling of an eye, ridiculous? I know what the creature was saying to itself! ‘Yes. Of course. It always was like this. All horrors have followed the same course, getting worse and worse and forcing you in a kind of bottleneck till, at the very moment when you thought you must be crushed, behold! you were out of the narrows and all was suddenly well. … You die and die and then you are beyond death. How could I ever have doubted it?’

As he saw you, he also saw Them. I know how it was. You reeled back dizzy and blinded, more hurt by them than he had ever been by bombs. The degredation of it! – that this thing of earth and slime could stand upright and converse with spirits before whom you, a spirit, could only cower. Perhaps you had hoped that the awe and strangeness of it would dash his joy But that is the cursed thing; the gods are strange to mortal eyes, and yet they are not strange. He had no faintest conception till that very hour of how they would look, and even doubted their existence. But when he saw them he knew that he had always known them and realized what part each one of them had played at many an hour in his life when he had supposed himself alone, so that now he could say to them, one by one, not ‘Who are you?’ but ‘So it was you all the time.’ All that they were and said at this meeting woke memories … Only you were left outside.

He saw not only Them; he saw Him. This animal, this thing begotten in a bed, could look on Him. What is blinding, suffocating fire to you, is now cool light to him, is clrity itself, and wears the form of a Man. You would like, if you could, to interpret the paitent’s prostration in the Presence, his self-abhorrence and utter knowledge of his sins (yes, Wormwood, a clearer knowledge even than yours) on the analogy of your own choking and paralyzing sensations when you encounted the deadly air that breathes from the heart of Heaven. But it’s all nonsense. Pains he still may have to encounter, but they embrace those pains.

CS Lewis

screwtape letters, no. 31