I recall that a few years ago, I watched a movie where, in a scene, a soon-to-be mother was having her ultrasound conducted. Her husband and soon-to-be father of her baby was beside her, and their eyes were fixed on the monitor’s screen in front of them. The obstetrician had turned the monitor at an angle so that they can see the image clearly. It was a huge blob of grey, black, and white, distorting and pulsating one moment, then pausing to reveal the odd shape of a fetus’ head or limb the next.
The soon-to-be mother tried to choke back her tears, and the soon-to-be father, filled with awe and emotion, whispered, “A miracle….”.
Indeed, it is a miracle. They did not coin the phrase “the miracle of life” from nowhere. But I really did not grasp its full meaning then because these were, after all, actors instructed to shed a few tears and act awe-struck.
A few weeks ago, I underwent my annual executive check-up. After completing my treadmill stress test, the attending physician requested for more cardiac procedures done: a 2D echo with doppler and a nuclear imaging stress test. Earlier, my X-ray had shown a slightly enlarged heart and my recovery time after running the treadmill was slower than expected.
So a few weeks later, there I was, back in one of the freezing rooms of St. Luke’s Hospital, with no help from the thin gown I was wearing. The technician instructed me to lie on my left side while she ran the ultrasound wand along the left side of my chest. I felt myself getting drowsy and decided to nap a bit when a squishing sound filled the room. My eyes popped open. Then I heard the distinct sound of pounding with a rhythmic cadence. My heartbeats.
My heartbeats… I was in this room with the machine that will tell me if the organ that keeps me alive needs repairing. In another room in the hospital, someone is waiting for a doctor to tell him what is not wrong with his liver, or his brain, or his stomach.
It was then that the oft-repeated cliché “miracle of life” made known its meaning to me.
Someone designed my body to be specifically what it is and to specifically work the way it does. That Someone designed me in such a way that I was formed from the union of my mom and my dad, who were formed likewise. That Someone determined the chromosomes I would have. I seemed to be like the rest of humans, yet that Someone gave me my own set of DNA to define me to be specifically who I am, different from the billions like me on earth – even my twin’s, if I had one. And every single one of the billions on earth is different from the rest.
My heart has its own purpose, as do the different organs of my body. Only Someone infinitely great and powerful could have designed an intricate work of art such as the human body – and everything else that human hands are incapable of creating. My heart is specifically designed to have arteries and ventricles – no other organ has those. Its arteries and ventricles are so designed to have their specific roles to play.
That I would have come from nowhere and out of a mere bang from somewhere is unbelievable to me. For how can a bang from somewhere… nowhere, be capable of such a creation?
And because of this, I cannot believe in a god, a vague god who is “out there somewhere”. I believe in God, the God who designed me to be specifically this way. I want to know more about God, my Creator.
There is a purpose why He designed me the way I am. I willingly will spend the rest of my life fulfilling that purpose. Because I am not an accident. God is the reason my heart beats.
And it is for Him that my heart beats.