What sorrow awaits those who argue with their Creator. Does a clay pot argue with its maker? Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying, “Stop, you’re doing it wrong!” Does the pot exclaim, “How clumsy can you be?” How terrible it would be if a newborn baby said to its father, “Why was I born?” or if it said to its mother, “Why did you make me this way?” [Isaiah 45:9-12 (NLT)]
Writing about my granddaughter yesterday made me think about birth defects. In actuality, all of us have what could be called birth defects—it’s just that some are more obvious than others. While all of God’s children have defects, none are defective. I consider a young man at our Florida church. Cerebral palsy keeps him strapped into a wheel chair and his physical limitations are immense. There is, however, nothing defective about this bright young man. I ponder the enthusiastic grocery worker with Down’s syndrome. She may have an extra chromosome, but there is nothing defective about her. I think of a fellow at church who has no ears. He may be deaf but there is nothing defective about him, nor is there anything defective about a friend’s grand born with only a partial arm and hand or my grand, with her heart defects and learning issues. They are all marvelously made—different from others, but no less wonderful.
Have you ever given any thought to how you were made? From biology 101, we know that a sperm and an egg met. That egg, however, was one of about 1 million your mom had at birth, one of some 300,000 she had at puberty, and one of the 300 to 400 eggs that she’d ever ovulate. So on your mom’s side, you were one in a million. As to that tiny sperm that won the race to the egg—there were about 150 million (or more) other sperm that could have fertilized it if they’d been stronger swimmers. If your conception had occurred in another month, it would have been a totally different egg and another one of 150 million or more sperm and you wouldn’t be you—you’d be someone entirely different! Apparently, the odds of you existing as you are about one in 400 trillion…and I don’t think that takes in the probability of your parents ever meeting let alone loving one another enough to make a baby! There is nothing haphazard about the way we got put together. We are, indeed, marvelously made.
I had a friend who called her son “Oops!” because he wasn’t planned. My mother-in-law responded that in her day, before effective birth control, most babies were “Oops!” While pregnancies may not be planned, there is nothing accidental about the way we are made. When I was little, I asked my mother why I had a belly button. She told me that babies were assembled in heaven and, as they moved along the assembly line, God inspected them before sending them to their earthly mothers. After carefully looking over each baby, He gave a poke to its tummy and said “You’re perfect!” Our belly buttons were His stamp of approval. Her explanation, while neither biologically nor theologically correct, reminds me that God makes no mistakes—there are no “oops!” on His heavenly assembly line.
You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it. You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb. You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed. [Psalm 139:13-16 (NLT)]
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I have a small wooden box on my desk—my “God box.” It’s where I literally give my concerns to God; right now there are three items in it. The first is a photograph of a little girl. It is my grand, a sweet child with three congenital heart defects—none of which is going to disappear and all of which promise more trouble in the future. She also has learning issues—none of which will dissipate and all of which will cause more difficulty as she progresses into higher grades. The second item is a medallion from a sobriety program. It represents several people I love who have battled alcoholism or addiction—a battle they will continue to fight daily for the rest of their lives. The third item is a laminated card on which is written Reinhold Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer. That one is for me.
Back in 1765, Dr. John Fawcett became the pastor of a small church in Wainsgate, England. Although his congregation of farmers and shepherds paid him a modest salary and donated wool and potatoes to them, the growing Fawcett family struggled to make ends meet. When a prestigious London church extended a call to him, Fawcett accepted and preached his farewell sermon. The family’s belongings were loaded on their wagon when parishioners gathered around him and begged him to stay. When his wife cried, “Oh John, John, I cannot bear this,” the pastor agreed. He ordered the wagon unloaded and remained at that parish for 54 years. Tradition has it that Fawcett wrote the words to “Blest be the Tie” in commemoration of that day.
Upon receiving an invitation from a business acquaintance to a “Celebrate Life” picnic, my first response was “Who died?” The words “It is just for fun!” along with the promise of pony rides, moonwalk, magician and games seemed rather odd for a Celebration of Life. That this was the 19th such picnic further confused me. Fortunately, accompanying the invitation was a brief note explaining that nineteen years ago his son had overcome serious health issues and every year since his family has gathered with friends and family to celebrate. Rather than celebrating the life of someone who died, they were celebrating that he lived!
