I was reading the creation story this week, rewriting the story for a younger audience, marveling at the orderliness of it all. I realized in my efforts of doing this that a singular word kept popping off the page.
Let.
Let there be light.
Let there be land.
Let there be vegetation.
The command is so frugal, curt, forthright, and productive that all I can say in reply is: DANG. More like this, actually: DAAAANNNNNGGGGG.
I sat with the word for some time and marveled at the simplicity and power of it. How can someone talk into nothing and say "Let this happen" and their ideas perfectly mold into the shape made in their head?
The clearest communication I have in my house is with my dog. When I say "Crate," she obediently walks to her crate every time. Seriously. That is the only power I have. It's pitiful how little power I have over my words.
I'm a little jealous at the ease of God's ability to create. In my design work, I noodle over a shape or color for long periods of time, often with mediocre results. It's just mesmerizing to think of creation with such ease.
The word "Let" suggests that these things were already created somehow, that they were being held back until the one syllable was uttered. Can you imagine being the great Creator, holding back the hot, eager, pulsing sun, like a horse snorting and stomping at the starting gate of the Derby, smiling at its enthusiasm, telling it to wait until day four?
That's the power of God. A single syllable and entire universes emerge, erupting and twirling, perfect and swirling, pulsing with life and planets and movement.
My dance with words is far more complicated. I stutter over how many words to say, what volume, what choice. I question if I needed to say something with more softness or more cold, hard truth. Or maybe nothing at all. I never communicate perfectly. And to make matters more difficult, the receiver has their own set of problems in hearing what I say.
It's such hard work, being a human on this side of Eden, the side where words are twisted or crescendoed or hardened more than they're supposed to be.
Our hearts tell us that it was mean to be easier. We were meant for such ease. We long for it.
For now I take my conversations, hard and soft, and I offer them back to the Genesis story, to the God who made goodness out of darkness. I say, "Let there be light again."
And because he loves creating still, he says, "Yes. Let."
