Brown Eyes

“I will give thanks unto thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: Wonderful are thy works; And that my soul knoweth right well.” — Psalm 139:14 (ASV)

Amy Beatrice Carmichael was born on 16 December 1867 in Millisle, a small village on the coast of County Down, in the north of Ireland. Her father, David, ran flour mills, like the Carmichael men before him. Her mother, Catherine, was a woman of warm, steady faith. Amy was the first of seven children, and the house was full and noisy.

The family were Presbyterians, and the children learned the Shorter Catechism by heart. Its first question is “What is the chief end of man?” The answer: “Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him for ever.” Duty and delight, held together. Amy lived the first half with a seriousness some found severe. But those who knew her best remembered the second half too: her joy in God, in children, in birds and streams, and a sense of fun that never left her, even in pain.

She was a lively, strong-willed girl who loved the sea and led her brothers into adventures. She also took prayer seriously, and she expected God to answer.

The best-known story of her childhood is one she told herself, many years later. Her eyes were brown, and she wanted blue ones. Her mother had taught her that God answers prayer, so one night she asked him to change them. In the morning she ran to the mirror. Still brown. She was disappointed, but she learned something she never forgot: no is an answer too.

Be a little careful with this story. It comes from her own memory, told late in life, and the ages given for it vary, from about three to about five. People later tied it to India, where she wore Indian dress and on some journeys darkened her skin so she could go where a European would be turned away. Brown eyes could pass; blue ones couldn’t. Whether she saw that connection at the time, or others drew it afterwards, nobody can say. And not every unanswered prayer turns out to have a neat explanation. In India she would pray for children who died and friends who were not healed, and get no explanation at all. What the girl at the mirror learned was simpler: God is not a vending machine. He is free, and his refusals can be trusted.

When she was about twelve, she was sent across the sea to a Methodist boarding school in Harrogate, in Yorkshire. She was clever, but not a model pupil. Her biographers tell a story, taken from her own later memory, that in the autumn of 1882, when a great comet hung in the early morning sky, she organised a party of girls to slip out of bed to watch for it, and was very nearly sent home in disgrace. Whatever the details, it fits: the woman who would one day set the rules for hundreds started out breaking them to see a comet.

Then, in 1883, when she was fifteen (a few sources say 1882), a children’s mission came to Harrogate. Its speakers told Bible stories and spoke plainly about the love of Christ, and they treated children as people whose answer to God really mattered. Amy had known about Jesus all her life. But there, far from home, she understood that God’s love was meant for her personally, and she received it.

Some people cross that line so quietly they can’t name the day. Others, like Amy, remember the time and the place. Neither way is better. What matters is that the faith of your parents, or your church, or your friends, becomes yours.

The psalm at the top of this page was written by someone who knew God had made him on purpose, down to the details. You may wish you had different eyes, a different face or a different family. God may say no to that prayer. His no is not rejection. It can be where trusting him begins.

One thing to do this week: write down one thing about yourself you have wished God would change. Under it, write the psalm’s words: “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Then ask God honestly whether your faith is your own yet, or still borrowed.