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INTRODUCTION...
He seemed abundant with life, almost glowing. His manner of speech was quiet, yet alive. He was tall, slim and very agile, his eyes were like little sparks. His grey beard was long and locks of white hair were resting on his collar. His face and hands were sunburnt, his nose was peeling, new skin grew underneath. The first time he spoke, his face was all smiles, yet he wasn't smiling. You had to be there, see him and hear him. His words were not really words, but music in syllables. Listening to his voice was pure entrancement and not to hear him was impossible. He sure was beautiful and I liked him instantly! I had just arrived at the airport. My flight from New York had been delayed and I had missed my plane going home. I was annoyed, a six hour delay, imagine. After four weeks of assignments in Europe, a man had the right to be home for a week. I am a reporter for a large newspaper in New York and I have traveled to just about every place in the world. So here I was, stuck at the airport. My holidays shortened by six hours and maybe even more. Who knows? I phoned home and told my wife Karyn of my delay. "Well, honey," she said, "the time does not really matter, as long as you come home, we'll be here and love you". It was summer and the four of us were going camping, boating and mountain climbing. Being off for a week was a relief already, let alone a week in the wilderness. The kids were just elated when we told them. While I was on the phone to Karyn, I became aware that somebody was watching me. When I put the phone down and turned my head... there he was! An old man. And then he spoke to me. "Why don't you sit down for a while my friend and we'll chat a bit. I like to chat. Tell you what, you pick the subject and we'll talk about it. I can talk about anything. Well... what do you say?" I told him that my work was talking and that I had spoken to just about everybody but God. He smiled and smiled, but never said a word. Then I asked him why he was smiling and he said. "Well, my friend, you are talking to God right now! So, why don't you sit down and keep me company. God doesn't mind." Then he smiled again. His face was full of playfulness, yet sincere. Before I knew it, I sat down beside him and became a different person. I started to ask questions about God. As a matter of fact, I was full of questions, they just came tumbling out. It seemed as if I wasn't even there, yet I could hear myself speak. His answers were most surprising and it seemed as if he drew his words from the very source of wisdom and poured them into your ears. This man knew everything about God. Who the hell was this man? Completely flabbergasted, I switched on my recorder. And if you ever read this book, you will know what we talked about. A discussion like the one I had with this old man, well... they are very rare. It all seemed like a dream... He never told me his name, I never told him mine. Somehow it didn't matter, we knew each other anyway. We talked for hours and before I left, I asked him, if I could type out what we had talked about. "My friend", he replied, "do what you feel like. For what you've got on your machine, is fit to be heard by the world. You can even print it if you like. Here, take these poems and put them in the book, they fit anyplace". He pulled a few sheets of paper from his pocket and gave them to me. "These poems are pure inspiration", he said, "read them often... and by the way; thank you for your participation. Without you, the tapes on your machine would be empty. Have a good time with your family and look me up sometime. This is my airport, I'm always here." I shook hands with him, almost embraced him. He towered over me and his eyes were moist, he almost cried. He whispered, "I love you." It seemed as if I had known him for years, yet I felt embarrassed and awkward. It felt good to be with him and I was sad to leave. I still felt entranced and I never thanked him for our discussion. I left him there, all alone, no luggage, not even a cane. I knew that I would see him again. Yes, I'm sure of it. I often wonder about this old man... what a beautiful person. His smiles were miracles and every time I go through his airport, I look for him. I haven't seen him since, but then, I only had minutes to look for him. Someday I'll meet him for sure, I know it. To see him again is worth any delay. And the next time we meet, I will give him his book. It has been printed in the same free style as his poems. Yah, the book.... Is it really his? Well it certainly isn't mine. I really don't know whose book it is. It's anonymous for now... Stephen Steward
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