Miracle

I have decided that it's a miracle that the human race has existed this long.  We are born as infants, with no head control, no ability to feed ourselves, no ability to defend ourselves ... nothing.  It is a wonder that we did not all get gobbled up by dinosaurs or cougars or snow leopards or something.

And the transformation, from baby to child to adult continues to boggle my mind.

 

It amazes me, from the tiny bundle that fit inside the crook of my arm, that was the length of my forearm, is now 30+ inches tall.  He now has spindly legs and arms which he can control and move at will.  He can walk.  He can talk.  He can understand a little.

We start off so helpless, so unable; but slowly and surely we develop skills and learn things, we slowly but surely gain new found independence with each new skill learned.

Our children are really "ours" for only a split second, then they are them.  They were always themselves of course but they are only totally dependent on you for a brief blip of time.  We harbor, we teach, we enable ... but what they will and won't do (sleep, eat for starters) is completely up to them.

The miracle that is the perpetuation of the species amazes me.  I stand in awe of the biology and greatness of it.  And we've done it for so long it's common place!  It's not that big a deal.  People have children every day, all over the world.  It's so common, we want to stop the miracle, end it, because it impacts our freedom as adults.  The sacrifice of caring for an infant is huge, getting them through the first year and their milestones is too great.  Costs too much.

In undeveloped countries children are a sadness because there's not enough food, not enough room, and the heartbreak of the parents is too big.  We can't care for the children we have ... can't bear to have anymore.

I think about the kids on the Horn of Africa. I've seen their pictures and their little bones, jutting from skin and muscles too thin and too weak to hold it all in.  I stupidly worry about my son and his weight, me, in the richest country in the world, with a grocery store on every corner, and money in my bank.

I see their pictures and my heart breaks.  I think of my son and how he's grown, can see the evidence of his excellence in every new task he tries, in the hash marks on the growth chart.  He is well nurished.  He is lucky.  He is blessed.

And I think of the poor babies in Somalia, and how unlucky they are, and how their mother's must be besides themselves with worry at how they will make it to their first or second birthdays.  Or maybe it's not even that grand of a dream.  Maybe it's how they will make it through tomorrow.

It crushes me.  It's immoveable, the rock that weighs on my heart.  And yet I'm helpless.  I can't send food.  It's not that simple.  Warlords and strife and mean men who don't care about a few million people and keep everything for themselves, block shipments, hold funds, stop food.  Maybe it's worse than all that.  Maybe it's a few thousand rich people, in a building in a capitol, thinking of how to protect their own families, their own children.  The resources are too few and the need is to great ... so 16 million people are triaged away, and left to rot in a refugee camp that can't possibly feed them all.

I can't do enough.  But I can do something.