After much and much thought, after imaginings of biggest bangs and destructions and creations, and even still being quite unable to describe my progress through this issue, because it’s an indescribable process, I have come to the absolute conviction (two words I am careful as a miser with) that existence had to begin by Will and Design almost completely intact, de novo. With great apology to skeptics and scoffers and even a few spiritual scallawags, and after circumnavigating the universe like Magellan, seven days for creating the whole thing seems close enough to me. I just don’t see any other way for it to occur by the existence I see in front of me right now. Everything I see has a birth and a death. And the birth implies the death just as much as the death implies the birth. The evolutionary theorist seems to try to deny this fact by his theory. Any plausible theorist, any sophisticated thinker, cannot deny the destination or the end or the death of things; claiming, as the evolutionist does, their pointless or endless or deathless progress into oblivion; while at the same time admit they had a beginning, and a birth.
It just seems absolutely clear that things have an ending, in the sense of a destiny. Their existence reaches towards becoming what it is they are always supposed to become. In something as simple as a blade of grass or a tree or as complex as the most complicated creature—man—every existing thing is reaching towards what it is at all times. There is no evidence to me, in the existence around me, that there is a slippery slime and smearing of creation into an ever blurring and stretching of what things are into a vast blob of gray-greenness, of short things becoming endlessly taller and taller until they fall over, or expanding everywhere, until they simply fill in the endless shapelessness of the universe. The universe has a shape and a form or we could not speak of it or describe it, for our very language would be as ever-changing, as formless and void, as the shape-shifting mouths that spoke it. Our tongues should fall off or elongate to drag on the floor before we could finish a sentence. It simply takes opening one’s very own round, doubled, and crystal clear eyes—eyes that aren’t slowly becoming rounder or squarer, or coalescing into one or dividing into three, or progressing towards some impossible state beyond clarity; seeing through pupils—pupils that aren’t forever dilating to swallow the eye whole at twilight or forever constricting to blot out the sun at dawn—this very obvious thing around you: Things are. And always are. And although it is an obvious fact things change and grow, it is just as obvious a fact every growing thing reaches out, not forever into blind oblivion, but for something: to be what they are, to be a final thing, not a thing with no end, which is to say, a thing with no future. But a thing with a definite future and a particular end, which is to say a thing of hope and eternity.