THE FIRST LIGHT
I EVER SAW

The quiet after everything feels heavier than the noise that came before it. I stay still, as if movement might break something already cracked. The others keep a respectful distance. They speak softly. No one tries to cheer me. They know better. The sorrow from what just happened still presses against me like a weight I can’t shift.

Michael stands nearby. His presence is steady, warm, never intrusive. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. I sense his concern the way I sense light around me.

A gentle voice approaches from the side. “Angy,” someone says, “you don’t have to stay in this feeling alone. You could… revisit something bright. It might help you steady yourself again.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Maybe re‑living a joyful memory would ease this feeling.”

Stepping back into a moment that still exists inside me exactly as it was. It always feels strange at first, like entering a place that already contains me. But the joy in those early memories is real. Pure. Untouched by anything that came later.

I hesitate. The thought of joy feels almost disloyal to the grief still fresh in me. But the ache within me doesn’t ease, and I’m tired of holding it so tightly.

Michael meets my gaze. “If you choose to recall,” he says softly, “let the moment carry you. Don’t fight it.”

I agree. My voice comes out small. “I’ll try.”

I draw into a brief calm. I let the present drift a little farther away. The sorrow doesn’t vanish, but it steps aside just enough for something else to surface.

I draw in a quiet sense of calm.

And I engage the memory.

***

[recalling engaged]

Light surrounds me. Not shining on me—shining with me. I don’t know what I am yet, only that I am. Awareness rises like dawn. I feel warmth before I understand the word. I feel presence before I know the name.

Others appear beside me, forming out of the same brightness. One of them turns toward me at the exact moment I turn toward him. His expression mirrors mine—surprise, curiosity, delight. We laugh without knowing what laughter is.

“Hi,” he says, as if the greeting is something he’s always known. “I think we just… started.”

I grin. “Yes. I think so too.”

He looks around at the others. “Do you know your name?”

I pause. The answer comes to me as naturally as a gentle rhythm. “Angy.”

He brightens. “I’m Lighty.”

We stand there, two new beings in a realm that feels endless and safe. The surrounding atmosphere—if it can be called that—moves with gentle purpose. Everything hums with meaning I don’t yet understand.

Lighty leans closer. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” I say. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “but it feels… good.”

A presence approaches—vast, unmistakable, loving. Yahweh’s nearness fills us with a joy so intense I almost fall forward. Lighty steadies me, laughing again.

More spirits gather. We’re all new, all filled with wide, open wonder, all trying to understand the wonder of simply existing.

Then Michael steps forward. He is distinct—older than us, though not old; confident, though gentle. His voice carries easily.

“Welcome,” he says. “You have been created for joy, for purpose, and for work that will unfold in ways you cannot yet imagine.”

Lighty whispers to me, “He seems important.”

I whisper back, “Very.”

Michael continues, “Soon, the creation of the physical universe will begin. You will have a share in assisting. For now, learn. Grow. Ask questions. Everything ahead is good.”

Lighty’s expression opens in astonishment. “Physical universe?” he murmurs. “What’s that?”

“No idea,” I reply, unsure.

He grins. “Then we’ll find out together.”

We stand side by side, two brand‑new spirits, watching the first hints of a future we can’t yet picture. I feel excitement rising in me, simple and bright. Lighty nudges me lightly.

“Angy,” he says, “whatever this physical‑universe thing is, I bet it’s going to be amazing.”

I agree. “Yes. I think so too.”

[The memory glows around me, warm and whole]

***

Light fills everything around us. It feels like the natural way of being—open, warm, steady. Lighty and I stay close as the first days of our existence unfold. We explore the spaces Yahweh prepared for us, moving through them with the excitement of children who don’t yet know what questions to ask.

Soon, Michael gathers us again. “You will begin schooling,” he says. “There is much to learn before the next stage of creation.”

Lighty nudges me. “School,” he whispers. “I hope it’s fun.”

I whisper back, “I hope it’s simple.”

He grins. “If it’s not, I’ll explain it to you.”

I laugh, because even though we’ve only existed for a short time, I already know he means it.

***

Our first lesson takes place in a wide hall that seems to form itself around us. The walls shimmer with soft color. Rows of seats appear, and we settle into them. I sit beside Lighty, who leans forward with eager anticipation.

A teacher—an older angel named Serel—steps to the front. “Today,” he says, “we begin with the basics of the physical universe.”

Lighty’s expression brightens. Mine tightens in mild panic.

Serel signals softly, and a model of something round and glowing appears. “This is a star,” he explains. “A source of light and heat. It will be essential for the worlds that will come.”

Lighty immediately asks for permission to speak. “How does it stay together?”

Serel smiles. “Good question. It is held by forces that—”

Lighty interrupts, “Can we adjust those forces later? For efficiency?”

Serel chuckles. “Let’s learn how they work first.”

I lean toward Lighty. “What forces?”

He whispers, “I don’t know yet, but I want to.”

I whisper back, “I want to understand why it’s glowing.”

He gives me a reassuring tap of encouragement. “We’ll figure it out.”

Serel moves on. “Now, imagine a cluster of stars forming a galaxy. Each star moves in relation to the others.”

Now it’s me asking for permission to speak. “Do they get dizzy?”

Lighty bursts into laughter so loud he nearly slips from his place. Serel smiles kindly. “No, Angy. They don’t get dizzy.”

Lighty tries to steady himself, still laughing. “Angy, stars don’t have anything that could even be dizzy.”

“I know,” I say, “but they move in circles. I thought maybe—”

He laughs again, softer this time. “You’re the best.”

Serel continues, “Movement in the physical universe follows patterns. You will learn to assist in maintaining them.”

Lighty whispers, “Patterns. This is going to be great.”

I whisper, “This is going to be hard.”

He nudges me. “I’ll help you.”

***

After the lesson, we follow the corridor of soft light side by side. I’m still thinking about the stars.

“Lighty,” I say, “how do you understand all that so fast?”

“Lighty,” I say, “how do you understand all that so fast?”

He answers with an easy, confident tone. “It just makes sense. Doesn’t it make sense to you?”

“No,” I admit. “Not yet.”

He stops and turns toward me. “Then we’ll go over it again. Slowly.”

As we settle, a bench forms beneath us. Lighty traces shapes into the space around us—circles, spirals, glowing lines.

“Look,” he says. “Stars don’t get dizzy. They just follow paths. Like this.”

I watch the shapes move. “But why do they follow those paths?”

“Because Yahweh designed it that way,” he says simply. “And because it works.”

That answer comforts me more than the shapes do.

Lighty smiles. “See? You’re getting it.”

“I’m not,” I say, “but I like hearing you explain it.”

He laughs. “Then I’ll keep explaining.”

***

A call echoes gently through the realm. All of us gather again before Michael.

“The time has come,” he says. “Creation of the physical universe will begin soon. You will assist according to your abilities. Your schooling will continue as you work.”

Lighty whispers, “This is it.”

I whisper, “I’m not ready.”

He grins. “You will be.”

Michael continues, “Your tasks will be guided. Follow the directives carefully. There is joy in this work.”

Lighty bursts with excitement. “Angy, we’re going to help build a universe. Isn’t that incredible?”

I smile. “Yes. Even if I don’t know how.”

He laughs. “You will. And I’ll be right next to you.”

We go forward together, ready for whatever comes next.

***

Creation day arrives with a kind of quiet excitement that spreads through the whole realm. It isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic. It’s more like a quiet stillness settles over everyone at once. Lighty stands beside me, swaying with a quiet, restless energy.

Michael steps forward. “We begin,” he says. “Follow the directives you receive. Assist where assigned. There is joy in this work.”

Lighty whispers, “Joy and efficiency.”

I give him a look. “Lighty…”

He grins. “I’m just saying.”

***

Our assignments appear before us as simple instructions. Mine is small: observe a cluster of forming stars and report any irregular movement. Lighty’s is more complex: assist in stabilizing the energy flow around a developing region.

He beams. “Angy, look! They trust me with something interesting.”

“I’m happy for you,” I say honestly.

He answers in a calm, reassuring way. “And I’ll help you with yours if you get confused.”

I agree. “I probably will.”

We move to our stations. The spiritual realm shifts around us, opening into a view of the forming physical universe. It’s still faint, like a sketch waiting for color. I focus on my cluster of stars. They swirl gently, glowing softly.

I lean closer. “Lighty,” I call, “are they supposed to wobble like that?”

He glances over. “Which one?”

“That one. The one that looks nervous.”

Lighty laughs. “Stars don’t get nervous, Angy.”

“You said they don’t get dizzy either,” I remind him.

He floats over to inspect. “It’s fine. That’s normal. It’s just settling.”

I try to help anyway. I reach toward one of the stars, hoping a little guidance might steady it. Instead, the moment I get close, it spins—slowly at first, then faster, then suddenly it’s whirling like it’s trying to escape its own glow.

“Lighty!” I shout. “It’s spinning!”

He turns, sees the chaos, and bursts into laughter. “Angy, what did you do?”

“I nudged it!”

“That wasn’t a nudge. That was a shove.”

“I panicked!”

He floats over, comes close, and steadies the star with practiced ease. The frantic spin slows, softens, and finally settles into a calm, even rotation.

“There,” he says. “Fixed.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Anytime,” he replies. “You make creation entertaining.”

I groan. “I don’t want to be entertaining. I want to be competent.”

“You are,” he says. “Just… in your own way.”

I’m not sure that’s comforting.

***

We continue working. Lighty moves with confidence, adjusting flows, shaping patterns, guiding structures. I admire him. He seems to understand everything instantly.

But then he frowns.

“Angy,” he says quietly, “look at this directive.”

I read it. Maintain the current energy distribution without modification.

Lighty gives a small, deliberate shake of disagreement. “That’s inefficient. If we redistributed a little here and here, the whole region would stabilize faster.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but the directive says not to.”

He sighs. “I know. But it could be better.”

“Better than Yahweh’s plan?”

He hesitates. “Not better than His purpose. Just… better in execution.”

I don’t know how to answer. Lighty doesn’t sound disrespectful. He sounds thoughtful, curious, eager to improve things. Still, something about the way he says it makes me uneasy.

***

As we work, the physical universe grows clearer. Stars ignite. Galaxies take shape. Lighty watches everything with fascination.

“Angy,” he says, “do you feel it? Something special is coming.”

“Yes,” I say. “I feel it too.”

He smiles. “Good. Because I think the next part will be even more interesting.”

I agree, though I don’t fully understand. I only know that the excitement in the realm is rising, and Lighty’s confidence is growing with it.

Creation is unfolding. And something important is about to happen.

***

A new directive appears before us. Assist in the formation of a unique planetary system.

Lighty practically sparkles with excitement. “A planet? Angy, this is big.”

A knot of worry forms in me. “I hope my part is small.”

He laughs. “It probably is.”

We move closer to the forming region. A star glows at the center, bright and steady. Around it, matter begins to gather. Lighty studies the patterns with intense focus.

“Angy,” he says, “this one is different.”

“How?”

“It’s being shaped with more detail. More care. Look at the distribution.”

I look. I don’t understand the details, but I feel the importance. Something special is happening.

Michael appears beside us. “This world,” he says, “will serve a purpose unlike any other. Assist carefully.”

Lighty agrees, excitement shimmering through him. “Yes, Master Worker.”

I agree too, though a flicker of worry stirs inside me.

The planet grows clearer. Layers form. Oceans appear. Land rises. Atmosphere gathers. Everything about it feels deliberate, beautiful, full of promise.

Lighty whispers, “Angy… this one is special.”

“Yes,” I say. “I feel it too.”

The realm around us grows brighter. More spirits gather, drawn by the significance of what is happening. The excitement builds until the spiritual realm seems to pause all at once.

Then, suddenly—

The Earth stands complete.

Perfect.

Unique.

A joy rises in me so strong it nearly overwhelms me. Lighty bursts into laughter, radiant with pure delight.

And then it happens.

A shout of joy bursts from every spirit present. It isn’t planned. It isn’t commanded. It erupts from us like light breaking open.

Voices ring out together, bright and full — the morning stars in song, the children of God rising in one great, joyful cry.

Lighty joins the shout, rising with the others. I shout too, overwhelmed by the beauty of the moment. The joy is pure, unfiltered, complete.

For a moment, everything is perfect.

Everything is right.

Everything is bright.

***

The joy swells—

And I pull away from it.

***

[recalling disengaged abruptly]

I gasp as the present rushes back in. The sorrow I tried to escape returns instantly, sharper now because it contrasts with the joy I just re‑lived. The memory of Earth’s creation—so bright, so full of promise—hurts in a way I didn’t expect.

Lighty’s laughter from that day echoes in my mind, but it doesn’t comfort me. Not now. Not after everything that happened.

“I can’t… not that memory. Not today,” I say, the hurt settling quietly through me.

The others around me stay silent. They understand.

The joy of that moment was real.

But now, remembering it only makes the sorrow heavier.