Chapter One
Your DNA Matters
My father-in-law passed away a mere three months before I
began to pen these words. His downward slide had begun a few
weeks before, when what started as an ordinary day ended with
life's sunset in sight.
He felt bothered by an odd feeling in his lower back and
chalked it up to a muscle strain. But as the pain intensified,
he scheduled a visit to see his doctor, just to make sure there
wasn't any skeletal damage. As the doctor did a casual examination,
poking around and feeling the inflammation, he didn't
like what he felt. He directed my father-in-law to the hospital
across the street for some tests.
Several days later the reason for the pain became clear: a
fast-growing tumor was impinging on the kidney. The prognosis
was grim.
Before this moment he had no intimation of anything so
fearsome. And yet, less than five months later we buried him-and
the heavens opened up and wept with us.
A severe time of testing descended on the whole family right
after this diagnosis was made. Emotions swung from slender
glimmers of hope when it looked as though he just might make
it, to a dark foreboding that the end was near. We had all taken
the opportunity to get some time alone with him. My children
wrote long personal letters to express their deep love and great
admiration for him.
As the end drew near, the days grew heavy emotionally.
Three of his four daughters and his wife cared for him every
moment of the last week of his life. When his daughters tried
to comfort him by assuring him that they would be there to
take care of him, with quivering lip he said, "You don't know
what you are saying. Taking care of a dying person can be very
unpleasant."
My father-in-law had seen his mother care for his grandmother
before she died, you see, and he knew what might be
coming. To make things even more difficult, he was probably
the most gentlemanly of all the gentlemen I ever knew. He had
a perfect sense of propriety in every situation-ever the right
demeanor, ever the right word. Just a year before, he had helped
bury his only brother. After the graveside service, he quietly
spoke with a few people. Suddenly he became aware that the
cemetery staff had begun to lower the casket containing his
brother's remains into the ground. He gently ended the conversation
and stood at attention until earth had completely filled
in the grave. He was a man of immense dignity-and this was
the man who now himself lay dying, tormented by the added
fear of the indignities he suspected might be awaiting him.
His body had become small and thin, his mind no longer
able to think rationally. He could not communicate, and his
very blue eyes remained either closed or unfocused. He could
not even keep his clothes on. My wife said that one of the hardest
things about watching him die was seeing this man of such
vast dignity reduced to . this. Finally, they watched him take
his last tortured breath, and he was gone.
But something incredible happened in the last few moments
of his life. Until this day, it gives me pause, as it did those who
were with him. It helped put everything in perspective. But
this I shall save for later.
If, however, the only thing that had taken place is what I
have described already, then how could we escape the difficult
questions? Are we all moving toward an inglorious end? What
is the meaning of life, if it ends with such helplessness and loss
of dignity?
An Odd Mix of Order and Surprise
I begin with this story of my father-in-law's passing because
every aspect of his personality came into focus during those
last days. This was one man, up against his greatest fears. As
his doctor said, "He was a man of faith; yet faith didn't come
easily to him."
At the same time that he faced his greatest fears, some of his
greatest hopes came to fulfillment. He had planned, organized,
and labeled practically everything in his life. One look at his
clothes, his files, and his daily life, and you would envy a man
so meticulous in every detail. Yet, in the end, the planning was
not of his doing.
In this odd mix of order and surprise, enchantment and
hurt, we long for some sense. Can we detect some intentionally
woven pattern here? Is the human story "a tale told by
an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," as Shakespeare
said? Or is there a grand design, not just for life but
for each individual life-yours and mine? Could the words of
Canadian World War II pilot John Gillespie Magee be more
appropriate?
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings .
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
The Bible offers a beautiful passage from the heart of one
who knew much, suffered much, endured much, and wrote
much:
"No eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those who love him."
1 Corinthians 2:9
If this is true, then such awe-inspiring consolation reaches beyond
the future to carry profound implications for the present.
If God has prepared something for me that will literally take
my breath away, then even though he plans to give me a new
kind of body and mind, he must have a specific purpose for my
body and mind here as well.
The question is, How can you see the divine intersection
of all that shapes and marks your existence, whether it be the
heart-wrenching tragedies that wound you or the ecstasy of a
great delight that brings laughter to your soul? How can you
meet God in all your appointments and your disappointments?
How can you recognize that he has a purpose, even when all
around seems senseless, if not hopeless? Will there be a last
gasp that whispers in one word a conclusion that redefines everything?
If so, is it possible to borrow from that word to enrich
the now? Can we really see, even a little, the patterned convergence
of everything into some grand design?
To See or Not to See?
Right here we run into our first stray thread. Many of us would
not have chosen for ourselves the body or face or features that
we have. In fact, we might often wish to be unburdened with
the physicality of our being. With the importance given today
to having a beautiful or "perfect" body, some might wonder why
they ended up with theirs. Why this body and not another? "If
only I could shake it off," we muse. In fact, why have a body at
all, since it can be so uncomfortable to bear?
Even as a child, when you read the fairy tale of "Jack the
Giant Killer," you knew right from the start that Jack could
do what he did only because he had that marvelous coat. Each
time he draped it over himself, his body became invisible, allowing
him to defeat the giant and so proving the adage that
you cannot hit what you cannot see. How could Jack have vanished
from that bone-littered dungeon? How could he have
stolen away with the beautiful princess? How could all those
ferocious monsters that sought his scalp fail in their murderous
attempts? It was that enchanted coat! All Jack had to do
was to throw it over his shoulders, and he became invisible-transcending
and neutralizing the body at the same time.
Who of us at some time has not wanted a coat like that?
And fairy tale writers aren't the only ones who imagine a tool
with such powers. Did not Plato in The Republic introduce us to
Gyges, who discovered a wonderful ring? Whenever he slipped
it on and pointed it in a certain direction, his body ceased to
hinder him. Even Plato, with his famous metaphor of shadows,
found time in his thoughts to imagine life without a body. Ah!
what marvels we could do if we could get a ring like that. It's
the stuff movies are made of.
In more recent times, H. G. Wells wrote of the "Invisible
Man." Here it was not a coat or a ring but a chemical concoction
that one could drink to become invisible. Listen to his
description:
I shall never forget that dawn, and the strange horror of seeing
that my hands had become as clouded glass, and watching
them grow clearer and thinner as the days went by, until
at last I could see the sickly disorder of my room through
them, though I closed my transparent eyelids. My limbs became
glassy, the bones and arteries faded, vanished, and the
little white nerves went last. I gritted my teeth and stayed
there to the end. At last only the dead tips of the fingernails
remained, pallid and white, and the brown stain of some
acid upon my fingers.
From science fiction to philosophy to fairy tales, we dream
of being able to make ourselves invisible at will, sometimes for
good reasons but sometimes for all of the wrong ones. And that
is an important clue.
The enchanted coat and the ring of Gyges and the chemical
concoction present some terrible possibilities, don't they? What
if a criminal had a coat like that? What if a mass murderer had
a concoction like that? The power of invisibility would mean
the ultimate destruction of humanity, for criminals would certainly
abuse and misuse it and so wreak catastrophic havoc
with it.
We identify and recognize individuals via the body. With all
of our misgivings, the body is both individual and identifiable.
But it is more than that.
A Name or a Number
Pause here with me and consider this: the body-the face, the
features, the coloring-contains marks that identify us as individuals.
These marks arise from our DNA and make us recognizable
to the naked eye. But they provide more than a point
of recognition for the sake of others; they are God's imprint on
each of us. These few features have seemingly infinite possibilities
when rearranged in different shapes and sizes. And how
often each of us vents and complains to God, either implicitly
or explicitly, wanting a better personal design: "If only I had a
stronger back to do what I need to do!" "If only I had a more
powerful voice that would convey authority!"
Even those we regard as heroes of the faith have not escaped
such thoughts. In the Old Testament, God called Moses to lead
the Israelites out of Egypt, but Moses kept coming up with
all kinds of excuses for why he was a poor choice. To Moses'
observation that he was "slow of speech and tongue," God said,
"Who gave man his mouth?" in effect asking, "Who made your
mouth, Moses?" (see Exodus 4:10-11). Granted, God designed
the question to remind Moses that since God had made
his mouth, God could use it as he saw fit; but the point is well
taken. We are fearfully and wonderfully made. Every time we
make something artificial to duplicate what we have or had
naturally, we once more recognize the intricate nature of the
design, even with its weaknesses.
My daughter Naomi works with the destitute of the world
and others trapped in and sold into the sex-trafficking industry.
She wears a black pearl pendant around her neck, a gift from a
friend. There's a story behind that gift. When the friend saw it
in a store, she commented that the pearls had some odd markings.
"Yes," said the clerk, "some see them as flawed; others see
them as special." That was all Naomi's friend needed to hear.
She bought it for Naomi to remind her that the hurting individuals
she serves are not flawed but unique and special.
The recent movie The March of the Penguins features an awe-inspiring
scene in which the males return with food after having
been gone for weeks. As the biting winds of winter begin to
take their toll and time starts to run out, the males, thousands
of them, return, almost as if in a regiment commanded by a
general. They waddle back to their "home" amid the thousands
of females there, each calling for her mate, and in the midst of
that cacophony of sound, each male begins the search for his
own partner and offspring-his unique ones.
This is not just nature. This is the Grand Weaver designing
the thoughts and the instinct to bring order out of chaos-to
bring order out of the chaos we have created for ourselves in
our attempts to shake off our bodies by the use of enchanted
coats or rings or chemicals. When these birds from the movie
reunite, they share a tender moment, revealing that all this
individuality and identifiability had a purpose for each one.
The penguins may not be able to articulate all that it means
to them, but in analogous situations-as well as in dissimilar
circumstances-humans can and do.
In Chiang Mai, Thailand, you will find a house called "Ban
Sanook." It literally means "Fun House." As you enter, you see
a group of people of varying ages involved in weaving. Here, for
example, is twenty-five-year-old Bodintr Bain. His demeanor,
his bouncing walk, and his contagious smile make you want to
pull a chair over and watch him at work. His friends call him
Tu. Tu looks up, smiles and says, "I'm weaving a giant wave. I
want to weave colorful patterns of waves and make the cloth as
big as the wide ocean, so that I'll have enough space to play and
swim in my dreams." Laughter fills his voice. He uses "Saori,"
the Japanese technique of weaving, to do his work. Twelve of
his friends surround him, each doing the same thing, yet each
with a different design in mind. They dream up their designs
and fulfill their yearnings in this fun-filled home.
But what makes it so special? Of the thirteen here, three
have physical disabilities, six have Down syndrome (including
Tu), one is autistic, and the other three have learning or developmental
disabilities. As you talk to Tu, you notice a bright-eyed
woman standing nearby, watching his moves and listening
to his descriptions of his work. Then she gently interjects her
own words: "This is my son. He has now sold sixty of his creations.
When he receives the payment for each one, he hands
it to me and says, `This is yours because without you I never
would have made it.'"
Even in his debilitation, he knows that neither the work of
art nor his life itself would have occurred but for the mother
who conceived him, carried him, and loved him, Down syndrome
and all. Now as he "creates," he recognizes and acknowledges
that ultimately she is the one who has made his creations
possible, and so he brings his earnings and sets them at her feet.
What a picture this is, I thought, of the climactic moment of
our earthly life when we bow before God. I have a feeling we
will be saying the same thing that Tu says to his mother.
So I ask again-if a man who experiences such limited access
to his own mental capacities can do such incredible work,
how much more grand is the work of our Heavenly Father as he
pulls together all the varied strands of life to reveal his grand
design? Sometimes he uses soft and delicate colors; at other
times he chooses dramatic and vibrant ones.
In the book Finding Your Way, Gary LaFerla tells an amazing
story, gleaned from the records of the United States Naval
Institute following the Second World War. The USS Astoria
engaged the Japanese during the battle for Savo Island before
any other ships from the U.S. naval fleet arrived. During the
crucial night of the battle, August 8, the Astoria scored several
direct hits on a Japanese vessel but was itself badly damaged
and sank the next day. Here's how LaFerla tells the rest of the
story:
About 0200 hours a young Midwesterner, Signalman
3rd Class Elgin Staples, was swept overboard by the blast
when the Astoria's number one eight-inch gun turret exploded.
Wounded in both legs by shrapnel and semi-shock,
he was kept afloat by a narrow lifebelt that he managed to
activate with a simple trigger mechanism.
At around 0600 hours, Staples was rescued by a passing
destroyer and returned to the Astoria, whose captain
was attempting to save the cruiser by beaching her. The
effort failed, and Staples, still wearing the same lifebelt,
found himself back in the water. It was lunchtime. Picked
up again, this time by the USS President Jackson (AP-37),
he was one of 500 survivors of the battle who were evacuated
to Noumea. On board the transport, Staples hugging
that lifebelt with gratitude, looked at that small piece of
equipment for the first time. He scrutinized every stitch of
the lifebelt that had served him so well. It had been manufactured
by Firestone Tire and Rubber Company of Akron,
Ohio, and bore a registration number.
(Continues.)
