The
Maker
The maker stood in
his workshop, stooped over his table. Ever so tenderly, he finished uniting
together the pieces of the form. Thoughts rushed through his mind as he
imagined what his making would become, how all the intricate details of his choosing
would be displayed. One part which reminded him of the sea—the sparkling blue
calm and the effervescent tide. Another of the oak—the deep, rich brown
embodied in flowing mane. Some of the
stork, with stark white, lengthy limbs. And on the inside, a passionate
fierceness. He breathed something almost of himself into his creation, imbuing
it with some ethereal quality and imparting the very love that he had within
himself. The maker took off his spectacles and gently wiped the fingerprints
from the glass with his garment. Then he returned them to his nose and examined
his creation one last time. He was transfixed. Captivated. The warmth from his
face shone like the sun as he gazed upon perfection that reflected his own
image. And he thought to himself, “It is very good.”
###
She wasn’t
thinking. She was just feeling. It just happened because he made her feel loved
and mattered and not alone. And then she panicked at the consequence. A life.
But what about her life? Fear gripped her, and she felt more alone than ever.
The counselor tried to come to her, but she resisted. Scared, she pushed him
away. She didn’t trust him. And she kept her growing secret for as long as she
could. And the heartbeat made her heart stop cold. And the pushing from within
made her push the counselor further away. The guilt was too much. Time was
growing short, so she just did it. She numbed her mind and did it. Separated.
Isolated. She did it.
###
The maker watched
in agony and horror as his creation was torn apart. Nauseated and grief
stricken, he looked on as his handiwork was ripped limb from limb.
“No!” he cried out
in pain—from the deep pit of his stomach. It was as if he felt every tear
himself. “No, no!” The crushing and the ripping of tissue and bone were sharp
knives in his side. The extermination of life. Annihilation. Massacre.
He mourned as he
pined over what would never be. All the planning and the deep affection that he
had poured into his making—destroyed. In one instant. There would be no
crawling to walking to running and playing to growing and maturing. It was
finished.
The parts were
laid out to examine. All were there, but separate. And he wept.
###
The maker brought
the pieces, bloodied and broken, back to his workshop. He sobbed over them,
tears falling like rain over his beloved. Then the healer carefully began
mending and reviving the life that he had loved and still loved. The life with
the soul that was part his. He restored it, not just to its former stature, but
to a glorified form that he marveled over all the more.
And he said, “Today,
you will be with me in paradise.”
