Yesterday we attended my husband’s grandparent’s church for Homecoming/Decoration Sunday. It’s one of those “little mountain church-houses”, still alive and thriving with 4th and 5th generations attending. Everyone who goes there is related…from the oldest to the youngest. Every member is a descendant of my husband’s grandfather’s family. He was one of twelve children, and there are still five or six of them alive. It’s one of those rare situations when you can peer into a generational legacy and observe the rich heritage of family.
As my husband and I were discussing it on the way home, he mentioned a rather profound observation: most of the people that filled that little church would not have been there had “Papa’s” parents limited the size of their family. Many of those children and grandchildren were born to the fifth, eighth, or twelfth child of the family. And then we realized that my husband’s mother was fourth-born–a rare occurrence in this culture. If her parents had stopped at the “normal” number of children (two), not only would my husband not be born, but none of my precious children.
I know many people don’t look at things in that way. They would say that if my husband had not been born, I would have married someone else and still had precious children; and they are right. But on the other hand, I’m in awe of the fact that allowing God to give us precisely the number and timing of our children assures me that I have not altered history. I have not tampered with the supernatural. I can rest in knowing these are the people that are supposed to be here, and there are none that I have robbed of life.
Deep thoughts….
