The photo you see is of me, a good while back, holding my newborn nephew, Nate, in his parents’ apartment in New York City. I was there to lead a vigil at the Isaiah Wall, across from the United Nations, in support of nuclear disarmament debates happening across the street.
Nate and I both have birthdays in April. Now, he and his beloved, Vallery, are parents of their own newborn, Vivian.
It was only four years ago that my beloved and I, along with assorted others, sat under the largest cherry tree I’ve ever seen in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens (I highly recommend a visit) as witnesses to Nate and Vallery’s wedding vows. Cherry blossoms as big as my fist were around me and on me. It was my birthday, and those passing experiences will not soon be forgotten.
Time flies, as they say.
I’m grateful for all the birthday greetings I’ve been lucky enough to receive. I always look forward to the first ones, from friends in the land of Oz, sent on the 29th (there), arriving on the 28th (here). And each and every other one, some from folks I don’t even know, arriving from near and far, some from every continent except Antarctica.
I was fortunate enough to cut the umbilical cords of both my daughters. The first one was the first father-accompanied birth at St. Vincent’s, the Catholic charity hospital in New York City. It was all we could afford at the time, and the hospital is no longer there.
I was covered head-to-toe after signing what felt like a ream of legal documents, basically saying, “This is against the rules, but we’ll let you do it if you promise not to sue.” I noticed there were crucifixes in every recovery room, each accommodating six beds.
I was also in the delivery room for three of my four grands. (Times have changed, to the better, in this regard.) All of whom live nearby. How many grandparents get that lucky?
Generally queasy at the sight of blood, I managed to persevere through the arrival of that first bloody, mucus-covered bundle of screams. (This was strange because I had no faint-heartedness from innumerable bloody football injuries of my younger years.) Doing so was reassuring that I might be able to handle the challenges of parenthood ahead.
My mom and I had a ritual phone call on each of my birthdays. I would call and say, “Happy birthday, Mom!” and she would respond, “It’s not my birthday, it’s yours.” To which I would say, “Yeah, but you did all the work.”
“Number the days,” the psalmist encourages, “that you might get a heart of wisdom.” Celebrate the anniversaries of your mother’s labor, your father’s anxiety. Thankfully, our cultural shift now allows more fathers to be present at their children’s births. In this way, our medical protocols have shifted from seeing birth as a surgical event to being a family-bonding occasion.
The obstetrician we had seen on most of our visits had moved away by the time of Jessica’s birth. But he called the hospital from Connecticut, having investigated to find out our delivery date and time, and wanted to know how things went.
We had a conflict with him on our first visit. Nancy missed her due date, and this young, by-the-book doctor wanted to do an amniocentesis test to make sure the fetus was healthy. We raised questions about that, knowing the test has risks.
As this was a charity hospital serving low-income patients, the doctor wasn’t used to parents raising questions about his diagnostic protocols. He got a bit defensive. But we talked him out of the test.
I think that bit of tension actually allowed him to … what? … calm down, to descend from his pinnacle of presumed expertise, to become a partner, an advocate, a specialist—not treating an illness but serving as a skilled guide into the miracle of bringing a new life into the world.
He was nearly as thrilled as I was about his call. In a very generous voice, he wished us well. To this day, I wish I had gotten his phone number so I could stay in touch.
In the end, though, be sensitive to the grief of those who want but are unable to have children. And those whose children have died prematurely. To those parents whose children have caused great heartache or have gone AWOL, and to those children whose parents have failed them miserably.
- About the Author
- Latest Posts
Curator of prayerandpolitiks.org, an online journal at the intersection of spiritual formation and prophetic action, and author of, most recently, In the Land of the Willing: Litanies, Prayers, Poems, and Benedictions. He was the founding director of the Baptist Peace Fellowship of North America and founding co-pastor of Circle of Mercy Congregation in Asheville, North Carolina.