You created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
The result of God’s baby-making grace doesn’t take up much space. It fits comfortably in the crook of an arm. It’s not very heavy or strong; in fact, it’s surprisingly dependent and helpless. A God-wonder in your arms. In the words of the psalmist, a newborn child is the result of knitting grace, weaving grace, secret-place grace. This is the way we all started—even kings and queens, princes and princesses, nuclear scientists and brain surgeons.
Babies—we stare into their eyes, watch them stretch, count their sneezes (they often come in bunches), observe them breathe (their breath takes our breath away), revel when they sleep on our shoulder (the burden is light). We kiss their cheeks and noses and foreheads and ears and necks and hands. We pray over them. We cry over them. We smile over them. Hours and hours and hours. We can’t get enough of the wonder of baby-making grace.
The same psalmist writes elsewhere, “Many, O LORD my God, are the wonders you have done” (Psalm 40:5). The world is indeed a glittering gallery, a teeming exhibition hall, a spectacular pageant of baby-making grace. And the best displays are in God’s human creatures. No wonder Jesus “took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them” (Mark 10:16).
God of all grace, we know that to look into the face of a baby is to see your baby-making grace. Bless young children everywhere today, we pray, for Jesus’ sake. Amen.
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