Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Concentration (07/24/08)
TITLE: The Breath Of That Sixth Day
By wallacetrust watosen
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He skillfully arranged the fired ceramic-pieces that just came from the kiln. Although sculpting was easy for Him, this one was different. Beyond throwing, kneading, carving and baking alluvium, He had the most intricate figure to build—that was Himself. As such, He had to compact a network of veins that could stretch over 25 hundred miles into His six-foot sculpture.
Carefully, He reached for some grape branches that ran within that garden, combed off the leaves and succulent fruits, and meticulously began to wrap the thin vines around the 206 terracotta He had arranged. These baked-glazed ceramics were to form the bones; the vine-ways, the veins; and, the wet loess, the flesh.
Realizing this, His devilish critics cracked annoying jokes to break not just the ice, but His concentration. He had said He wanted to lord His image over this six-day-old kingdom, which He had recently spoken into being. But these devils caricatured horrible mock-up moulds of His mudwork, and could not help laughing at their slanderous innuendo.
He could… but He wisely resisted the urge to veto them into solitude. Instead, He continued crafting.
As He spun the mesh, He took clods of casted kaolin off His cherubim-driven pottery wheel. Then, richly plastered the intricate structure till it was completely covered in earthen greenware. Backing away slowly, He gently reeled out the vines. These had created numerous holes beneath the raw clay for body fluid and air.
By now, acres of angelic and demonic spectators had engulfed the sculptor. Side comments had helplessly escaped from the lips of those congregated. Courtesy fast became stampede. Stronger winged-beings dived in for better glances at the earth piece, while smaller ones scurried under to peek, poke and prod at each other in excitement. Even the demon-critics had thronged in to gossip. And… the sculptor’s concentration dwindled into the noise.
Quickly, smartly; He barked an order with His thundered baritone… the mob’s silence fell quiet.
Aside how stern it was, the rebuke had queried eternity to a standstill… and had compressed time out of existence. Now, He needed to concentrate—just Him and His mudself.
Assuming His office from sculptor to triune-God, He worked a miracle only He, His Spirit and His Word witnessed.
Caressing His clay-nose version, He bent over and kissed it. With one glorious breath, He blew into the holes in it and life forged through a path up to the stones He had placed within what was to become the chest. Promptly, the stones caught life and changed into 15 million alveolar airsacs.
With vigor, these alveoli pushed that live-breath into the vinework through out the mould. Each soil particle became one of the trillions of human cells as life passed by. 700 muscles soon jerked and squeezed excess moisture from their clay freshness as they formed.
It was amazing that wherever the moisture poured, it flowed as life blood. In no time, the vinework was flooded with blood that stormed into a receptacle with great pressure enough to kick-start a heart beat to life. Liquids that did not make it to any vessel became lymph and mucus and enzyme.
As everything calmed within the living earth, the excess of that living breeze was borne back to the airsacs to constitute the first breath to be exhaled.
Breathing out heavily, the image’s eyes popped open as the chest heaved to a finish. ‘It’ did not recognize anything for ‘it’ was yet better than mammals.
The moment, which the Maker-God had anticipated, had come. He had frozen time and space so that this being would recognize His Lordship first, and only—not angels, not demons, not anything, and not even ‘itself’. The way God had made it, whatever His image would concentrate on would fashion ‘it’. So, looking through 'it' was no bad God-Head counsel.
Suddenly, with an unveiled face, He pulled up His gaze to closely meet that of His make. Whatever the duration of this uninterrupted gaze was, the continuous out-of-time eye-contact sure lasted long enough to transform the mould from glory through glory to glory (2Cor. 3:18a).
At last, 20 billion nerve and brain cells had scaled up the image’s reasoning so much so high that the ‘it’ became an earthly ‘he’—a man…
… in that image he beheld.
Then, time returned, and life became what man knew it to be!
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