creation was not a stationary act.

In the beginning, the earth was formless and empty. Darkness was hovering over the lack of creation, as the earth waited patiently for the voice of a Maker to come and speak, to come and fill and shape and mold. 


“Let there be light!” He said, and instantly the world became color-blocked. The black of the night sky in stark contrast to the yellow of the day. It was only the beginning of the picture He was painting. 


I would give anything to be there at the creation of the world, to stand and watch it fall into place slowly, yet all at once. It is one of my favorite parts of scripture because it reads like poetry. My overactive imagination can see the way the blues and greens and reds and oranges and all the colors of the world rose and fell over the earth, the greatest paint-by-numbers ever completed. I can see Him standing, turning and waving His arms in different directions, each one appearing and going where they are told.


I can see Him jumping from the tops of mountains down into the valleys to check their heights and depths. Soaring up into the sky with a needle and thread to stitch the stars into their places, playing a game of connect the dots as He went. I sometimes wonder if it is His face on the moon? I wonder if He used a ruler to measure our distance from the sun? Or did He walk the full length of the galaxies until it’s warmth felt just right?


Creation, at least in my mind, was not a stationary act. The beginning was full of movement and life as the world was being awakened by the power of God’s own creativity. When I read the story, I see our Maker running about from one end of the earth to the other, from this galaxy to those we will never behold, creating passionately, furiously. A Maker so intimately involved with the world that was unfolding, so in-tune to its rhythm and beat. I can’t help but imagine it sounded like a symphony as all the different notes and melodies came together to form something they could have never been on their own. 


I laugh picturing God sorting through a box of animal noises, trying to find the perfect one for each of the creatures of the earth. Was there a time when lions meowed instead of roared? I think about the sound of water flowing in rivers and streams, the steady drum of rain on pavement, and the gentle inhale and exhale of ocean waves all over the world. Who knew water could have so many pitches and tones? Who would have ever thought to make the unseen wind whistle, to make a stomach growl, to make a tea kettle sing? What about the crackle of fires, the tick of a clock, the beat of our own hearts, or the clink of champagne glasses on nights of celebration? What about the chatter of teeth in the winter, the crunch of dry leaves under our feet in fall, the new birdsongs of spring, or the squeals of young children playing in the summer heat. 


Do you hear it? The symphony of the beginning still playing in the mundane.


I have always been in awe of the ways He intricately wove this world together. I find that when I lack inspiration in my own work all I have to do is look at the work of His own two hands and find it again. How can I not? Especially when I remember that the earth is still expanding, still growing, that creation is still happening right under our noses—that the work of His hands, the power of His creativity, has never stopped and will never end. So neither can mine. 




I watch the smallness of ants building castles under the ground, airplanes flying high with people inside, the sunrise in the morning exploding with light. I remember the taste of my favorite coffee, the smell of my mother’s perfume, the way it feels to fall in love. How do we so easily forget that we were created to be a witness to it all?


He is a potter working with clay. A painter moving colors across a page. A dancer spinning wildly on stage. A writer grappling for the language to express His heart. A singer unable to stop from belting His song. 


If every great artist has a muse, would you believe it if His was you? 


Can you believe He did all this, created all this, to experience it with you?


I can just see Him on the seventh day, finally standing still, finally taking a well-earned rest.


His eyes are closed, listening closely to the symphony around Him continue to play. 


There is a smile on His face as He thinks to Himself,


“Yes. They will love this. 

This will show them my love. 

I declare that this—this is good.”