Filling up the Station Wagon With Happy Faces
When I was about ten or eleven — the age when a child first starts to wonder about his own beginnings — I did a little arithmetic. To my delight, I discovered that I was born an even nine months after my parents were married. A full term. It seemed just right. Something about that realization comforted me. It gave me the sense that my life had arrived on time — not late, not early. As the oldest of five children, I carried with me a certain pride, even privilege, in that role. It was as if I was the opening note in the symphony of our family.
Years later, as a young man looking toward the horizon of my own adult life — marriage, and hopefully children — the thought crept into my mind: “Maybe my wife and I will wait a while, use birth control, and just ease into family life.” At first, it seemed the default path, the casual assumption of my generation. But then another thought broke in: What if my parents had waited?
That question hit me like a cold wind. It made me imagine, with a surprising ache, a world where I had been rejected before I ever arrived. The sadness was real. It wasn’t born of any logic or reason — it came from some mysterious and yet authentic place deep within me.
Today, of course, I understand there are legitimate reasons why a newly married couple might postpone children — illness, hardship, unusual circumstances. But through most of history, the normal, natural rhythm was for husband and wife to welcome children “as they come down the pike” as one father of five told me. And I took quiet reassurance that I had come into the world at just the “magic” nine-month mark after my parents’ vows.
The Fear of Too Many
And then around 1970, when I was fifteen, our family visited a Chicago museum that left a different kind of impression. The exhibit was an enormous visual display — two stacks of carved human figures, one reaching nearly to the ceiling. The other was rather short, representing the current population. The tall one soared high above our heads, crammed with figures, arms outstretched, faces crowded together. Here’s where the human race was headed in X number of years. The message was clear, almost ominous: the world’s population is exploding, and the earth cannot possibly sustain it.
I was stunned. That image etched itself in my mind. How will the world survive when I grow up? And yet, as the years unfolded, I came to see it for what it was — a scare tactic. Just a couple of years earlier, in 1968, Paul Ehrlich had published his cheap paperback The Population Bomb, predicting mass starvation by the 1970s. Why? There was just not enough food to go around, this prophet of doom predicted. Erlich was an insect scientist, not a demographer. The book offered no solid evidence, but its words seeped into public policy, shaping decisions worldwide. Smithsonian Magazine now admits in hindsight, that the book incited “a wave of repression around the world.”
And yet mass starvation never came. Instead, food production expanded. Human ingenuity met the challenge. But fear, once planted, has a long half-life.
The Shrinking Family Tree
Today, married couples are still absorbing the same message of fear — though it now comes wrapped in subtler packaging: the high cost of living, the strain of childcare, the cultural drumbeat that says, smaller is smarter. And indeed, as my readers know, the large families of five, six, or more children so familiar in the 1950s and 60s have dwindled to two, or even none.
Yet at least one survey reveals a poignant truth: many seniors, reflecting on their lives, confess that their deepest regret is not having had more children. They picture the grandchildren who will never sit on their knees, the sons and daughters who might have stood by them in old age. It is as though they suddenly see their family tree as a branch that could have been more lush, more fruitful, but was cut short too soon.
The numbers bear out the cultural shift. Demographers tell us the replacement rate — the level at which a population sustains itself — for the United States is around 2.1 children per woman. In the U.S., that figure has fallen steadily to about 1.6 today.
And what does that mean in practice? Economically, it spells trouble. Social Security’s own reports admit the system isn’t strained because people live longer, but because fewer babies are born. Babies grow up, work, and contribute. Unless Congress acts, the reserves will run short around 2033, and retirees may see only three-quarters of their promised benefits. Ouch!
Other countries which have successfully practiced population control are now scrambling to reverse engines. Witness China for example, which enforced a one-child policy for 36 years with the threat of mandatory abortions. They now see economic doom on the horizon and encourage its citizens to have three or more offspring with such perks as national childcare subsidies and reduced taxes.
Modern Pioneers
Yet there is another side to the story. While Western attitudes can be disheartening, everyday families continue to shine with signs of hope.
Take Brittany and Michael Ivy, for example. They married in 2012 and are now raising five children in Ohio. By modern standards, they are swimming upstream. As reported in a recent Wall Street Journal article, Michael works a modest maintenance job since the time when a back injury forced him to take lower pay. Their home has just two bedrooms, their wardrobes are patched from thrift stores, and medical challenges have tested their resilience.
And yet, amid those challenges, their life overflows with meaning. In the article Brittany’s voice rings with clarity: she has no regrets. In a culture that counts costs in dollars, she counts blessings in children. Where others see scarcity, she sees abundance.
Standing back, it strikes me that families like the Ivys are modern-day pioneers. In a culture that whispers fear, they choose hope. In a time that measures worth by career, comfort, and consumerism, they measure it by relationships. And in a society worried about whether the “pie” of resources is big enough, they remind us that love is not a pie at all — it multiplies, like loaves and fishes, whenever it is shared.
Yes, raising children brings sacrifice. It demands patience, perseverance, and often a reordering of our own ambitions. But it also brings a joy that no career milestone or material comfort can equal. Children transform ordinary houses into lively homes. They fill dinner tables with laughter, turn backyards into kingdoms, and someday they stand as strong shoulders beside us when we are old.
Children for Eternity
And for many religious people, children are not simply part of an optional lifestyle but a vital part of God’s plan for marriage and family. In faith traditions like Christianity, the gift of new life is seen as both natural and deeply spiritual — a source of joy in this world and a path that points toward eternity.
In the 1950s, people got married and generally didn’t wait to have children. They wanted them. They looked forward to filling up their station wagons with happy, giggly faces. I’m sure if you asked my parents back then whether they should wait, they would look at you as if you were from another planet. Why? It was just understood in those days that children make a house a home.
Each child is not merely another mouth to feed, but another soul with the capacity to love, to serve, and ultimately to glorify God forever in heaven. Isn’t that refreshing? In this light, welcoming children becomes more than an act of responsibility; it is an act of faith and a participation in God’s creative love.
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