I am in love with his face in this minute.  

I am also in love with these words:

"Images, I must suppose, have their use or they would not have been so popular.  To me, however, their danger is more obvious.  Images of the Holy easily become holy images-- sacrosanct.  My idea of God is not a divine idea.  It has to be shattered time after time.  He shatters it Himself.  He is the great iconoclast,  Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of His presence?  The Incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins.  And most are 'offended' by the iconoclasm; and blessed by those who are not.  But the same thing happens in our private prayers.

All reality is iconoclastic.  The earthly beloved, even in this life, incessantly triumphs over your mere idea of her.  And you want her to; you want her with all her resistances, all her faluts, all her unexpectedness.  That is, in her foursquare and independent reality.  And this, not any image or memory, is what we are to love still, after she is dead. 

But 'this' is not now imaginable.  In that repect H, and all the dead, are like God.  In that respect loving her has become, in its measure like loving Him.  In both cases I must stretch out the arms and hands of love-- its eyes cannot here be used-- to the reality, through-- across-- all the changeful phantasmagoria of my thoughts, passions, and imaginings.  I mustn't sit down content with the phantasmagoria itself and worship that for Him, or love that for her. 

All of this time I may, once more, be building with cards.  And if I am He will once more knock the building flat.  He will knock it down as often as proves necessary."

C. S. Lewis, "A Grief Observed"