I can see Him there. Standing. Worn carharts and a wool plaid shirt with elbow patches to cover the holes from years of wear. Feet planted firmly in the dust, in work boots and thick wool socks, standing on the edge of it all before there was an edge.
His hair is short, graying, with plenty of salt and pepper. His hands are in His pockets, but you can see the wrinkles. And a split, bruised thumbnail on His right hand. I wonder how it happened.
And though I cannot see His face, there is the hint of a profile. Enough to see deep lines radiating from the corner of His eye, scored deep into skin from years in the sun, from years of smiling. Before there were years. Before there was sun.
“Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the deep and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.”
He pulls His hands from His pockets, brings them up to His face, and rubs them together, as though to warm them. As though it were cold on this morning before there was morning. Rubs them together in a moment of anticipation for all He is about to do.
He breathes deep, the soft wrinkles in His shirt flattening as air fills His lungs. He exhales, His breath visible in the dark as it would be were it cold and were it morning, the air condensing to vapor as His Spirit travels farther than I can see, traveling out over the darkness about to be transformed.
Raising His arms, His palms facing outward, He breathes deep again.
It is mere seconds between His inhale and His speaking, but the weight of those seconds, the gravity of those seconds before time existed to count seconds hangs heavy in the early morning before there was morning air. As though the dark and formless void, bathed in nothing but the Spirit, knew things would never be the same.
“Let there be light.”
His voice thunders across the empty space as light breaks over the horizon. A grin breaks across His face, revealing more creases at the corners of his eyes, and deep lines carved upwards from the corners of His mouth. He nods slow and deliberate declaring it, “Tov. Good.” He stands there long, grinning, nodding over the newness and goodness of it all. Breathing deep the light and dark, gazing deep into them both.
Arms still raised, He pushes His hand first to the right then to the left, as though He were brushing something aside, separating light from dark. Separating day from night.
As day changes to night, taking with it the new light that has been spoken forth He lowers His arms, His hands once again in the pockets of well worn Carharts. Looking out over all He has created, a small smile parts His lips as He nods and turns on His heal and whispers strong and quiet all at once, “day one.”