I praise you because you made me in an amazing and wonderful way. [ Psalm 139:14 NCV ]

In our loneliest moments the One who formed our "inmost being and knitted us together in the womb" offers us a friendship, a nearness unlike any other. God created our inmost and our outermost beings. He knows us emotionally, physically, and mentally better than anyone else.

Our founders were committed to a belief in the importance of life and liberty, and we must fight to see those rights extended to our children still in the womb.

By the time we were knit in our mothers' wombs, our lives were like open books before Him--every sentence read, every paragraph indented, every chapter titled, every page numbered. He knew it all in advance--all the sin, all the selfishness, every weakness. Yet He chose to love us--lavishly.

So please forgive my self-loathing. Help me to praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful. I know that full well (Ps. 139:14).

I will praise You, because I have been re- markably and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful, and I know this very well. Psalm 139:14

The artist and the mother are vehicles, not originators. They don't create the new life, they only bear it. This is why birth is such a humbling experience. The new mom weeps in awe at the little miracle in her arms. She knows it came out of her but not from her, through her but not of her.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God who is our home.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God who is our home. In

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God who is our home.

From the moment a child is born, the death process, and the fight against it, begins.

My mother says I was writing before I was crawling. I wrote in the dirt with a twig.