Born to die - His Breath in me . . . | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Born to die - His Breath in me . . . | Previous Challenge Entry
By Judith Gayle Smith-Owens Vitouswykegardinerclark
08/06/13
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She lies absolutely still, oddly motionless. She is unlined, unfinished, incapable of passion or grief; exquisite, but cold as marble.

No mere words will satiate this desperate demanding man, this greedy selfish tyrant. I've failed him – his Igor does not satisfy. I hate myself for still loving him . . .

Hark. The master bellows “What‘s wrong here? You have unlimited access to everything you need to complete this vital project – why can’t you animate her?”

Red-faced, choking with suffocating anger, I turned sharply from him for fear of his undesired reaction to my now frantically beating heart.

It was a highly improbable theory – to create a perfect, complete and desirable woman from a pinch of that, a snip of this – well, actually donated organs, skin and bones. The medical field, so marvelously advanced and self-sufficient, dares to create a . . .

Create? Animate? She limply lays like an urchin’s floppy Raggedy Ann doll, longing for her Andy.

The skin grafts were perfection – no pretty porcelain doll could surpass her loveliness. Every wisp of her flowing blond hair caught by sudden drafts glowed golden, dancing softly.

She has very shapely dancer’s legs, slim ankles and delicate feet. Mechanically, they should dance, kick and prance, but, without Life they are indeed lifeless.

What a delight to uncurl her exquisitely manicured fingers – fun to splay her delicately smooth hand over her unlined creamy brow to express and echo my troubled, disconnected thoughts.

I realize and somewhat respect the arrogant impatience of this sculptor who thought to create the perfect woman. Ha. I have worked with him on all his maniacal escapades for more than twenty years now. A sad, silly thought that he might look at plain Jane me . . .

He chose each delicate glowing eye, molded voluptuous lips, tucked the soft, delicate organs in oh so tenderly.

He has dared to name her Eve – the mother of all living. Living? I stare into her exquisitely lashed green eyes and see my own, furiously green with hopeless envy. How can I hope to compete with such quietly magnificent non-breathing perfection?

Unclenching my white-knuckled fingers, palm slashed by jagged fingernails, I put my wrinkled hand to my now blazing forehead – I do this often, drawing deep gulping sobbing breaths. I cannot hate this poor lifeless thing. However, I come close to hating her bellicose creator.

The tubes meandering in and through and over Eve are snake like. Flowing fluids suggest soft human-like motions. Did she just inhale? Her graceful unclothed form almost seems real.

What would she say if she could talk? She has the whitest teeth and sweetest tongue. Would she grace our lives with her beauty and holiness? Holiness. That’s a crock. What does this crafting of an idol – a goddess, have in common with God Who is our just, holy, loving, forgiving, revealing, omnipotent, omnipresent Life Giver?

Well now, that’s the rub. We have, just the two of us, from assorted nuts and bolts, created a monster worthy to be affianced to Frankenstein’s creation. Come to think of it, Dr. Frankenstein had some bad problems with his creation. Uncooperative, surly, downright dangerous I hear.

Well, we need not fear her. She is not breathing, she has no life. Everything we attempt proves futile. She is no threat. Funny, really . . .

Head and heart churning, I allowed my jealousy to push the Holy Spirit from me, convinced I had every right to feel this angry and miserable.

Whoa. Slow down. I profess to be a follower of Jesus. Where is my compassion, my Christian love?

Composing my thoughts and my features, I turn to this oh so hopeful fellow scientist, take his work-roughened hand and we rest awhile. Loving him, feeling his pain I gently open God’s Word and show him, precept upon precept where, when and why his foolish pagan desires would end in utter abject failure. He doesn’t need a divine dead doll, he needs a loving Father to bring him to Life in Him.

Without God to inspire, we are doomed to expire. Oh dear heavenly Father – thank you for the breath of Life you breathed into me, and your Holy Spirit Who animates Your Children. Let me not be like this poor soulless doll, beautiful in appearance but dead nonetheless. Help me learn to be a true helpmeet. I need not fear nor be jealous of false images that man creates for worship. I have life – I have You . . .

KJV I John 5:21, KJV Exodus 20:3.4, Isaiah 44:13 - 44:19

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