DESIGN OR ACCIDENT?

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.

— C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

I'm an accident.

At least, that's the story I was told when I was growing up. One evening, when I was about five years old, I was sitting at the table enjoying dinner with my family, and my mum was sharing the stories about our family and how each of us came to be on this earth. It was always exciting hearing my mum tell a story. She has an amazing ability to make a story come to life. So much so that when I didn't want to eat my dinner, rather than argue with me she would begin to tell a story as she picked up the spoon to feed me. Her storytelling was so captivating that by the time she finished talking, I had eaten all my dinner without realizing it.

Each story my mum shared about my siblings that night was wonderful and filled with details of love and expectancy. I sat with eager anticipation, waiting for my story to be shared. After all, I was the baby of the family, and the best is saved for last. I remember my mum laughing as these words came out of her mouth: "Well, you were the accident that wasn't meant to happen!" The boys laughed and jeered along with her. My brother David added his own silly comment about how maybe I was actually adopted, joking that I didn't appear to have any resemblance to my parents. He also told me on many occasions, to annoy me and get a reaction, that he was the favorite and that my parents didn't love me as much as they loved him.

I laughed along with them because I wanted to feel included in this seemingly funny joke, but in reality I felt as if a knife had stabbed my heart. I felt rejected and unwanted. That day, I slowly began to deteriorate on the inside.

AN ITALIAN DRAMA

I was born on a Friday night in March — eight pounds, eight ounces of Italian goodness. Later, my mother told me that the doctor who delivered me made a point of saying, "This one is special," as she handed me to my mum. This was God's truth about me, but it took many years before I could see and believe it for myself.

There was no denying that I was the fourth child born into a family that had planned to have only two. My mum was quite vocal in reminding people — especially my father — about the original plan. But it was 1970, and they were raised Catholic. And Italian. So you can imagine how that went.

After the births of my sister and brother, my mum discovered she was pregnant again. After a near-death experience, she gave birth to my ten-pound brother David — and two children became three. Having three children was not ideal for my mother, but she decided to make the best of it.

Fast-forward a few years after David's birth. My sister had been praying and believing for a baby sister, and my mum went to the doctor to diagnose a mystery illness, which turned out to be ... me. Surprise! The day she got the phone call with the results of her blood test, she passed out from shock. Like many 1970s housewives, she blamed my dad — because obviously, it was solely his fault. She refused to speak to him for three months. Don't you love Italian drama? When she finally started talking to him again, I'm sure it involved a lot of theatrical hand-waving and passionate arguing.

My mother once said to me something I will never forget. In the early months of finding out about me, she prayed that God would take me from her. One night when she was overwhelmed and crying out to God, she sensed the voice of the Lord clearly say, This child you are carrying is Mine! She didn't understand what that meant at the time, so she assumed that she was either going to die giving birth or that the child growing in her womb would die. Both scenarios overwhelmed her.

It wasn't that my mum hated kids. She didn't. It wasn't that she was being irrational. She wasn't. She had planned for two children, and in her mind, she could handle two children. But if her near-death experience giving birth to her third child wasn't terrifying enough, imagine the fear she must have felt thinking about giving birth to a fourth child. She told us that she stayed up many nights wondering if this fourth child would be her death. How would her husband care for four children on his own if she died? Or if she did survive this birth, how would she be able to take care of four children?

As the story unfolded that night around the dinner table, I was bewildered, to say the least. This was not the happy story I had expected. Instead, all I heard was that I was unplanned — an accident that made my mother's life miserable. I wanted to run to my room and cry into my pillow. I didn't know where to turn for comfort, because these words were coming from the very person who was supposed to be my comforter and nurturer. My mother had no idea, but that night a seed of rejection was planted into my soul — one I would struggle with for much of my life.

A FLAWED SELF-PERCEPTION

We all want to feel as though we belong in our families, so hearing that you are an accident is a tough pill to swallow. I didn't understand that it was an exaggerated statement at the time; as a young child, I took every word literally. Even though my parents loved me when I came into this world, the cruel and harsh truth was that they never wanted a fourth child.

I carried those words deep within my soul for a very long time. My self-perception was that I had no place in my family. Because I had been labeled an "accident," I chose to believe that I was anything but special.

We all listen to the voices that are spoken over us: "You are nothing," "You are stupid," "You are fat," or (in my case) "You are an accident." The popular children's saying "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never break me" is a complete lie. Words cut through the heart and wound a person's spirit. The Bible says, "The tongue has the power of life and death" (Proverbs 18:21). We must choose our words wisely because they hold great power to hurt or to heal. Proverbs 12:18 reminds us, "The words of the reckless pierce like swords, but the tongue of the wise brings healing."

What I didn't know at the time was that my mum was carrying her own pain, resulting from struggles with her own mother. She had endured much disappointment over her lifetime, so she was a fractured person when she began to parent. As a...