Fearfully and Wonderfully

If you grew up in church, you've probably heard the phrase:

"Fearfully and wonderfully made."

It's one of those verses that becomes so familiar we stop hearing it.

We learn that it means we are precious to God. Valuable. Loved.

And that's true.

But how often do we stop and consider what it means to be fearfully made?

Like many church phrases, familiarity can make us unthinking. We become accustomed to the words without pausing to marvel at what they are actually saying.

I found myself sitting with Psalm 139 recently because it speaks directly into one of the deepest battlegrounds I encounter in my work: contempt.

Trauma has a way of teaching people contempt for themselves.

Sometimes that contempt remains focused inward.

Sometimes it expands outward toward others.

And often, eventually, it reaches toward God.

Many people who have been deeply wounded struggle to believe they are worthy of care, worthy of protection, or worthy of being known. They learn to view themselves through the lens of what happened to them rather than through the lens of the One who created them.

One of the joys of my work is sitting with people in those places and slowly helping them rediscover what was there before the erosion.

Not because trauma didn't shape them.

It did.

But trauma is not the beginning of their story.

God is.

Psalm 139 paints a breathtaking picture of God's involvement in our creation.

David doesn't describe God as distant or detached.

He doesn't describe a God who simply spoke life into existence and moved on.

Instead, he uses intimate language:

"You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother's womb."

Knitting is slow work.

Intentional work.

Patient work.

The image is not one of mass production but of craftsmanship.

An artist absorbed in his work.

A Creator delighting in what He is making.

What's it like to imagine the God of the universe carefully weaving together every aspect of your person in the hiddenness of your mother's womb?

Your personality.

Your gifts.

Your mind.

Your temperament.

Your passions.

Your capacity to love.

Your capacity to create.

Not hurried.

Not accidental.

Not forgotten.

David is overwhelmed by the thought.

Not because he is impressed with himself.

But because he is amazed by God.

That's where the word fearfully comes in.

In Scripture, fear often refers not to terror but to awe, reverence, and wonder.

David is not saying he was made anxiously.

He is saying he was made in a way that inspires reverence for the One who made him.

The focus is ultimately on God's workmanship.

God crafted and made us remarkably.

Then life happened.

The world shaped us.

Relationships shaped us.

Families shaped us.

Churches shaped us.

Trauma shaped us.

Some shaping was beautiful.

Some was painful.

Some left us carrying adaptations that once protected us but now limit our freedom.

This is where I think therapy can become a kind of return to the origin story.

Not a return to perfection.

Not a denial of what happened.

But a return to remembering that trauma is not the first thing that formed us.

God is.

Years ago, I remember wrestling with insecurity and self-doubt. I wanted to pursue things that mattered to me, but I questioned my own ability, my own worth, and sometimes even my own place in the world.

Then one simple realization settled into my heart:

The God who made me cannot make mistakes.

Mistakes are contrary to His character.

Therefore, if He does not make mistakes, He did not make one when He made me.

That realization didn't make me perfect.

It didn't eliminate every insecurity.

But it changed the way I viewed myself.

It invited me to pay attention to the person God had created rather than constantly trying to become someone else.

Perhaps that is part of what healing looks like.

Moving from erosion to embodiment.

Not becoming a different person.

But becoming more fully present to the person God intended from the beginning.

The Psalm ends with a prayer:

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life."

Notice that David's response to being fully known by God is not withdrawal.

It's invitation.

Search me.

Know me.

Lead me.

And while that certainly happens through prayer, Scripture, and solitude with God, I don't believe it was ever meant to happen in isolation.

Even in the womb, we were not alone.

God is a God of relationship.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit existing in perfect communion.

He communes with us and invites us into community with one another.

Perhaps that's part of why God gives people different gifts and callings.

Pastors.

Mentors.

Friends.

Teachers.

Counselors.

Each helping one another navigate this temporary wilderness as we journey toward home.

For some people, therapy becomes one of the places where that journey unfolds.

A place to examine what shaped them.

A place to reconnect with what has been eroded.

A place to move, slowly and imperfectly, from erosion to embodiment.

And all along the way, to recognize the Author who was present long before the erosion ever began.