Let There Be

And It Was.

In the beginning, God created.
Light, water, earth, firmament, fishes, mammals, man — me, you.

That was His first act: creation.
Not domination. Not power. Not judgment. Creation.

Maybe that’s the clue we keep missing; that to be made in His image means to create.
To look at emptiness and fill it.
To see disorder and bring forth order.
To take something raw and shape it into meaning.

It’s easy to forget how divine that is.

As children, we built worlds from sand and stories from air. We painted, hummed, imagined, and dared. But somewhere along the way, we traded wonder for worry. Replaced curiosity with caution. We started scrolling more than we dreamed and analyzing more than we created.

If we were truly made in His image, then to create, in whatever form, is not just talent; it’s worship.
It’s how we echo that first, eternal whisper: “Let there be.”

Tolkien once called us “sub-creators,” reflections of the original Artist. In The Silmarillion, he wrote of a world sung into being. Maybe that’s still true. Maybe our songs, our designs, our kindness, and our innovations are all part of that same divine music.

Madeleine L’Engle said, “We co-create with God every time we bring beauty into being.”
Perhaps that’s why true satisfaction feels so rare today.
We were made to create, yet we spend our days consuming.
We’ve mistaken participation for presence.

I think about this a lot.
God didn’t just hand us existence; He handed us spirit. The same breath that hovered over the waters, that sparked galaxies into light, now whispers through our minds and hands.

We are not merely creatures in His world; we are co-creators in His story.

Maybe that’s why I feel most alive when I’m building something: a CAD model that finally makes sense, a design that comes together at 2 a.m., a sentence that suddenly feels right. There’s something sacred in that process; the way ideas are born quietly and then demand room to breathe.

Fear still visits. Doubt still whispers, “Who sent you?”
But you move anyway, and somehow, God meets you halfway.

Creation isn’t limited to art. It happens every time you make something that wasn’t there before; order where there was disorder, laughter where there was gloom, healing where there was brokenness, meaning where there was none.

The baker kneading dough at dawn.
The teacher explaining something for the hundredth time, and smiling when understanding flickers in a student’s eyes.
The mother humming as she braids her daughter’s hair.

It doesn’t have to change the world.
It only has to change you.
Because nothing fills the soul quite like making something. That’s where joy hides, in the act, not the applause.

Maybe that’s what the Spirit within us truly is — creativity.
The same breath that hovered over chaos and said, “Let there be light,” now invites us, every day, to do the same, to bring light into the places we touch.

Sometimes I sit before a blank page, cursor blinking, and wonder if it’s worth it.
But then I remember even God started with nothing.
And still, He said, “Let there be.”

Maybe the closest we ever get to understanding Him is when we, too, dare to make something out of nothing.
When we take the raw clay of our days and shape it into something that breathes.
When we look at the void before us and whisper:

Let there be a movement.
Let there be an idea.
Let there be light in someone’s darkness.

You already carry the divine spark.
The question is, what will you say to your life today?

Let there be.

And maybe that’s all heaven ever wanted — that we’d dare to say, ‘Let there be,’ and mean it.

With love and light,
A Growing Man