Creator has finished his greatest work.
Making has become a great joy for him, to see life burst forth from nothing. He has been at work with all matter of splendid things, a myriad of wonder and diversity. Where patterns have formed, they have all led to this: his greatest creature, held lovingly in his hand. Where echoes and reflections of the creator are seen in many of his little ones, this final one is his true image. Love expressed to its fullest, spoken into perfect being.
And the creator breathes.
The breath is too much for the little body he holds, some spills out onto the emerald green grass below and flowers instantly bud. The creator smiles, so full of joy he is nearly crying. He waits for the breath to do its work. It does. The little body is breathing.
Breath does its own creating. Face fills with color, eyes blossom a brilliant expression. The Little One is looking at his Creator. Creator cannot contain his joy. He gently sets Little One down on the emerald grass, wondering how it looks when you see it for the first time.
Little One learns to use his eyes by soaking them in wonder. The colors are so plentiful.
Creator sees that Little One needs another who is little, another who will learn what it is like to be Little. Creator cannot join Little One in this pursuit, Creator cannot become Little. Creator makes another little one. Creator makes Little Two.
Creator sees Little One and Little Two together, joyous among the spectacles he has given them. Creator cannot speak all his words to his Littles, it would destroy them. He can only speak in Little language, tiny messages of love and guidance which soak into their brains. Pictures of what he feels for them.
Creator wishes to say more. He will give them something. A great gift, something from his own world. Something which could never exist here, only there. Something which gives light and dazzles beyond Little language. It is Creator speaking in a way they can fully understand: where I am you will also be. I will bring where I have always been to where you are now.
And he plucks it. From the very street of his own home, he plucks it. It is so full of life it cannot die, the purest gift. Creator tenderly gives its roots to the soil he created for the Littles. It is a tree. It was made for him, made for his own pleasure, but it has become his pleasure to shower love on them. It lives with them now.
Their eyes are new, they have not seen everything. Their world has never held a thing like this, never again will. They cannot stop looking at it. Creator is jubilant, so deeply does he share their joy in their gift.
It is dangerous, he says. It is not from here, you must let it live on its own. Littles are not made for such as this.
Creator kisses them goodnight. They cannot stop looking.
A spirit is among them now.
Surely not, it says. Surely Creator would never.
Surely not, she says. Surely not, he echoes.
So they taste. They take, consume. They waste.
Creator knows something has changed.
He finds them, looking different. Eyes no longer blossoming, brightness faded, in a pile of leaves. They could not be merely Little. They wanted to be Creators. Or maybe they just wanted to consume.
What is this? Creator says. I have never felt such as this. It is the breaking of my own heart.
He sees the consuming will kill them. It is too much. They cannot endure its taste. It will be their very end.
He takes them in his hands, strong but still gentle. Creator siphons the poison, light meant to be love, too twisted around their souls. It cannot be healed. It must be killed or they will be.
He kills the light they have eaten. It was too pure, too holy. It wanted to spread through them, pure creation, made for another place. They could not bear it. They could not survive. Creator kills the light. Some of their own must follow.
The life I gave, you keep. I could never leave you, but this light cannot return. You cannot return.
Then the angel showed me a river with the water of life, clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb. It flowed down the center of the main street. On each side of the river grew a tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, with a fresh crop each month. The leaves were used for medicine to heal the nations. – Rev. 22:1-2