I held two babies on a recent Sunday.
They were both under three months old – tiny, exquisite, perfect.
One was all things brown. He was velvet, melted chocolate, hot cocoa. His eyes were coffee no cream and bottomless. One thick inch of soft curled hair capped his head, and his expression was classic opinionated-old-man-at-the-barbershop. He took in the cacophony of women at a baby shower, never squirming or protesting, while his attentive mother allowed him to be passed around over a slate floor, too gracious to shriek like her hormones urged her to. I rocked him in my arms and wondered if he was thinking, “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you just look different somehow from my Mama.”
The other baby was milk white, fine flax hair stood straight up, her eyes like jewels. Her young father and tender mother were both still riding the overwhelming awe of it and were weak with love. She wiggled in my arms and made the little irresistible noises that mute all other sound and shelve all other worries. What can I do for you, Baby? What do you need?
No surprise to my own children, I held each baby and marveled that any sane person could believe there is no God. And not just a God, but one who smiles and enjoys Himself. He knit both babies in their mothers’ wombs, and He delighted in the curls and the flax and the cream and the cocoa.
Explain it how you will: there is a God, and He is the happiest Artist.
“Your way, O God, is holy. What God is great like our God?
You are the God who works wonders.”
Psalm 77: 13,14
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The Pen of a Ready Writer 