There was a tinge of sorrow in the sculptor’s eyes as he hunched over the lump of clay. Just as a sparrow sped over head and brushed past, he wondered what he would do about this one.
He knew and saw it all. Quietly his fingers caressed the mold, stained with red dust they moved swiftly and assuredly. He bent and for what seemed like an eternity he exhaled…
”You shall be like me. Do not fret about the seconds that follow or the days hidden in the mist of the morrow. You are my child, born after my likeness.”
The angels watched anxiously. The sculptor had announced that an unusual event would take place. Something that would give sense to all the previous events. They had listened earnestly and patiently. The sculptor was painstaking with this last creature. They were to be this one’s servants. A creature of dust?
”I see you as you are. No one else will. I see you as you must be. Don’t let the trials that will come at you distort the image within. You are more than what lies on the surface.”
No one would understand why he loved this creature. They would call him, the red one, but he saw beyond the tawdry stretch of skin that hid his true form. Also he saw the seed within him, a teeming mass of possibility.
Adam was unlike any of the other creatures. The sculptor was happy, but it was just about the mass of clay that lay before him. This joy was tinged with sorrow because Adam would fall yet there was a greater joy ahead.
The sculptor exhaled. His eyes beheld the one who would rise to redeem their race. But there was one more person whose heart would enjoy the richness of his love. There was one more reason why this event was important.
This one was the reason why it would matter. Why the first of men would stumble in the dark and the first born from among the dead would come wrapped in flesh.
She would be the very image of perfection. She would be a light in the gross darkness of the Earth. Her smile would send the sun spiraling into a state of envy. The stars would stand embarrassed by her radiance.
He saw scores of poetry strung together with elegance and finesse; words throbbing with life and exuding otherworldly beauty. She would exist solely to give him praise. The angels would call her “Doxa”
The sculptor smiled as he exhaled. A thought stood across his mind…
“A seed within a seed… One born in sweetness to bring Me praise…”
Her parents would call her ‘Dunni’… He would call her his own.
Happy Birthday dear…
Written by @damilar3