A tender shoot, now a mere 18 inches off the ground, reaches toward the sun. The slender stem is fragile, its protection merely a thin, golden layer covering tender green veins that flow with life-giving sap. Tiny, delicate leaves burst through their winter buds to seek light and strength. Daily exposure to the sun, wind and rain strengthen this little shoot.
I call it the Sophia tree. A year ago, my forester husband planted this yellow birch, known for its longevity and strength, in honor of our granddaughter’s birth. He wasn’t sure if it would survive, but it seems to have overcome its first winter of adverse conditions.
In the past year I have watched both this seedling and my granddaughter flourish and grow. In awe and wonder I praise the all-powerful God, giver and sustainer of beautiful life. I am amazed at the miracle and blessing babies are in a way I wasn’t when I was a young, unbelieving mother.
Though she cannot yet speak, my granddaughter shows me the innocence and beauty of childhood, the genuineness of her trust and her joy at the simplest things. As a newborn she was oblivious to the world around her. She ate, slept, cried, ate, slept, cried. As Mom and Dad provided the love and care she needed, her body adjusted to life outside the womb. Before long she could see a little further, stay awake a little longer and eat a little easier.
She soon began to recognize faces beyond Mom and Dad. It’s mind-boggling to think how this delicate life, barely able to hold her head up, could see a familiar face and then beam with happiness. Eventually the smiles turned to giggles then full belly laughter. A tickle under the chin from Dad gets her every time; so does a game of peekaboo. As I hide behind a hand, spoon, book or towel, she loves it all the same and anticipates which side I’m going to pop up on.
She has a natural audacity to enjoy simplicity. I see the hand of God’s design in all of the intricacies of her development and it leaves me speechless. Speechless she is not. Her conversation in baby-babble may be incoherent to the hearer, but her tone and hand movements tell us she knows what she’s saying. She quiets in prayer and mumbles in mimicking melody when we sing to her.
When she learned to crawl, the boundaries of her world changed. Now, she still looks back to Mom or Dad as she ventures around her space, making sure they are near. She’s almost walking, but isn’t ready for her first steps just yet. She displays the beauty of dependence and perfect trust as she grasps a pant leg or hand—knowing it will be there—then squeals in delight, stepping forward. That’s a lot of growth inside a little body in just one year! None of it is accidental, all of it is purposed.
I hold this precious nugget and look into her blue eyes. I’ve never been allowed to gaze so long and deep into anyone’s eyes before. It makes me blush. Babies can look deep into your soul. They do not know the hard things of life and their innocence is so honest and pure. It reminds me of what Eden must have been like in the days when Adam and Eve were still unaware of good and evil, fully trusting God and hiding nothing. Sweet innocence, pure peace, freedom. A covering was not necessary in the garden of innocence.
Much like the tender shoot of the Sophia tree, a light protective layer is all that is necessary in the pure stage of infancy. To me the life of a child is a glimpse of heaven—trust unwavering, purity unmatched, joy unending. It is a picture of heaven’s genuine and transparent love. It’s beautiful and makes me long for home.
“For you formed my inward parts;
you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.1
Wonderful are your works;
my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.” Psalm 139:13-16
The Light for My Path 