Eden

In my meditation today, I found myself reflecting on the very beginning: “In the beginning… the earth was void.” Then God spoke: “Let there be light.”

But what happened to the darkness when light entered? I began to sense that the darkness did not vanish but was contained, perhaps embodied in the one tree God told Adam and Eve not to touch. That tree seems to represent the knowledge of shame, judgment, and blame — realities that had no place in Eden, a place of nakedness with pure peace and harmony.

Why would God set such a boundary? Perhaps it was not a trap, but protection. By placing that darkness in one tree, God preserved Eden as a world free from guilt. And yet, because love requires freedom, God gave humanity choice. The serpent’s lure was not only about disobedience, but about opening a door to judgment and separation.

When Adam and Eve ate, shame and blame entered their relationship, and Eden could no longer hold them. It wasn’t merely punishment but a consequence: the harmony of Eden could not coexist with shame, blame and judgement. God’s boundary was both love and protection.

Still, even in exile, God’s command was, “Be fruitful and multiply.” This suggests that life itself continues as God’s gift, and through our offspring, through generations, the invitation remains open. For God is love, unchanging. Those who turn back, who recognise that truth, are welcomed again into His presence.

When I think about God’s command to “be fruitful and multiply,” I can’t separate it from my own experience of carrying life inside me. Three times I have felt a child grow within me — taking in what I ate, what I breathed, even what I carried in my spirit. My choices became theirs. Pregnancy showed me a kind of selflessness I didn’t know before — that life was no longer mine alone, but shared.

And even after birth, that dependence didn’t stop. It continued in the sleepless nights, in nursing, in the constant giving of my body, my time, my energy. Those first years of a child’s life almost demand that the mother lays herself down again and again. And yet in that surrender, I also caught a glimpse of something bigger — a reflection of God’s love. A love that protects, that sets boundaries not to control but to care, that gives even when it costs.

So maybe that’s part of what it means to multiply. It’s not just about bearing children, but about that ongoing rhythm of pouring yourself out so that life can keep going. Just like Eden was kept by God’s boundary of love, children are kept by the sacrifices of their parents. To bring forth life is also to learn love in a deeper way — to be shaped by it, to practice it daily.

And then I ask myself: what about the father? If the mother carries life in her body, then what is his part in this call?

A father can’t carry the child in his womb, but he carries in another way — through his responsibility to protect, to provide, to create the space where love can grow. Where the mother gives through her body, the father gives through his strength — not to dominate, but to shelter. His role is also selfless, though it looks different. He is invited to be that steady presence, that trustworthy shelter, so the child can grow without fear.

In Eden, maybe this balance was natural. Adam and Eve naked, unashamed, living in harmony. But when shame came in, blame followed — “the woman you gave me…” — and that balance cracked. Yet God’s command to multiply was given to both, as partners. Fruitfulness needs both kinds of giving: the mother’s surrender in the body, the father’s surrender in his strength and presence. Together they reflect something of God’s image — not just male or female, but the unity of love expressed in different forms.

So the father, too, is called to selflessness. He may not nurse or carry the child in his body, but he is called to carry them in his heart, to set aside his own ease for their future, and to love the mother so the children grow up rooted in love. That, too, mirrors God’s nature — a love that protects, that provides, that stays steady no matter what.