I’ve always been a bit grateful that I don’t have a memory of the day I was born. For many people I hear that day was a joyous occasion, but I’m sure if I could remember it, my feelings at the time probably included a good mix of hunger, agitation, surprise, discomfort, and anxiety. (Like I said, thankfully I don’t remember.)

I find it interesting that as children our memories don’t start to form until much later. I have a three- to four-year period of my life where I know that I must have existed but have no recollection of the countless hours my family held, comforted, cared for, changed, fed, played with, and loved me. My parents very well could have dressed me as a potato and called me Spudsy for three years and I would be none the wiser. (Thankfully they didn’t.)

When I look at babies, I think about all the time and attention that goes into their care, and they are, for the most part, oblivious. I’m thankful to realize that someone was constantly caring for me when I was completely helpless and unaware of what was going on around me.

Even now as an adult I may be cognizant but I can also be clueless to all the ways my Father feeds me, cares for me, provides for me, and loves me. I do know he is there constantly, and the closer I get to him the more I can see I’ve been solely dependent on him from the moment I was created.