Clip, clop, clip, clop. High heels on concrete. I hustle into church, because the wind beats wicked.
So does my heart.
Inside, we observe Sanctity of Human Life Sunday. The day centered around moms considering abortion, right? And me … I’m just a mom of three who has never had an abortion, and should probably help those poor, distraught souls who are (wittingly or unwittingly) considering killing their babies.
Right?
Wrong.
It’s Sanctity of Human Life Sunday. Not Sanctity of Unborn Babies Sunday.
The abortion holocaust in America is in the front of my mind as the service begins. But the sermon … it’s not merely about the vexed souls at Planned Parenthood. It’s about me. How I view life. The life of the unborn, yes. But also the life of my children and husband and friends and extended family. Every human being on the face of the earth that I have ever ~will ever~ come across.
My own life, too.
All human life is a reflection of sovereign God, our Creator.
Do I sense that? Believe that? Live that?
My heart constricts with conviction, because the respect-o-meter for my own feeble life runs low.
You want me to respect my life, Lord?
My life … with heart that failed me as a child, required the skill of a surgeon to go on pumping, and will always require the help of a pacemaker to keep steady, adequate rhythm? The one with insides too ill to eat properly? This malnourished, bone-brittle, arthritic life, dependent on the IV drip for nutrition and sustenance?
Yes, He whispers. That body. That life.
See … the change. It always starts here. With me. And if I do not view my life as sanctified … holy … sacred … how will I view other “broken” human beings as carefully sewn, hand crafted masterpieces who were fearfully and wonderfully made by the greatest Knitter and Potter of all time?
How easy it is to look on tangled threads and fractured ceramic pieces scattered about the very dust I was created from, and in my frustration, deem them as rubbish.
But God …
He looks on the thread mess and broken ceramic and sees a work that will one day be complete and perfect. Because my life ~all human life ~ is not just any work. It’s His handiwork … His reflection.
The service ends, and I beg Him to help me see my brokenness ~ the brokenness of others ~ through His eyes. For grace to live in this cracked pot that so often disquiets me.
In song, I ask Him to …
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
Until my heart is pure,
Until my will is one with Thine,
To do and to endure.*
He answers, and my will – it begins to run parallel with His. Sight clears, and I behold a Creator who doesn’t make mistakes … or rubbish …
only beautiful reflections of Himself …
crafted by His own hand …
brought to life with His own breath.
*2nd stanza of Breathe on Me, Oh Breath of God, written by Edwin Hatch, 1878
