I fondly ask. Several years ago I came across a poem written by the receptionist at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church in New York City. And since God knows and understands all things of land and sea, I fancy that He placed me here, just where He wanted me. For it may be just the reason God allowed me to be born. How human it is to make excuses.
Excuses are evidence of unbelief.
You've got pots and pans and children created in the image of God . If you are a nurse you've got a thermometer, or a syringe, or a Bed-pan . . . If you are a secretary, you've got a pencil, and a steno pad, and a computer keyboard . . . You've got a stethoscope, or an X-ray, or a Scalpel . You've got a textbook, and some chalk, and a wall full of charts, and a head full of knowledge, and a room full of children waiting to blossom like flowers . . .