Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord and the fruit of the womb is his reward.—Psalm 127:3
I was visiting a grade-school classroom recently, talking about prayer and mercy and miracles. A girl raised her hand and said, “Mister, you’re talking a lot about miracles, but have you ever seen any?”
I said, “Yes, oh yes. I saw new people emerge from my wife one after another like a circus act, wet and wary. These three people were never in the universe before, and they will never be repeated in the billions of years to come, so, yes, I have seen miracles. Although now I think the miracle would be if my daughter ever let any of the rest of the family use the bathroom, like that will happen in a billion years.”
Well, they laughed, or at least the boys did—the girls didn’t laugh, for some reason—but since that day I’ve thought a lot about miracles. We swim in an ocean of them, and they are everywhere waiting for us. Pretty much every moment and every breath is a miracle, but the most astonishing miracles of all are children.
Yes, they drive you insane, and the prospect of their being hurt makes you mad with fear, and their education and clothing and feeding and insurance make you poor, and their peculiar music and bizarre dress make you want to live quietly in a desert cave, and their snippy tones and chaotic bedrooms make you want to pull out the few remaining hairs on your pate, but there’s nothing more madly miraculous than a child. You know it and I know it, and if my kids ever get out of the bathroom, I will tell them so and hope they know how madly I am in love with them.
Dear Lord, for these wild human mammals in my house, thank You. For their brains and humor and kindness, thank You. For getting my daughter out of the bathroom once before she goes to college, thank You.
