full and empty.
“It will change your life,” was the common phrase told to me by many friends prior to the birth of my daughter. It became something of an irritation to hear it. I can think of few other “wisdom” clichés that are so obviously true that they need not be said. Where there were two humans dwelling, there are now three. There is new furniture, lots of very small clothing, stuffed animals, cameras everywhere, and a visitor seemingly always on the way. There are sleepless nights, an appalling lack of weightlifting, reduced and rather disjointed reading habits, diapers, and the ridiculous conversations one enters into with infants. [I refuse to talk baby-talk, so we usually end up with a monologue on some theme from the latest issue of First Things, The New Criterion, or The Times Literary Supplement. She usually cries when it’s the latter, blessed lass.] Yes, it has changed my life. There are also the psychological changes. When the nurse who gave Winifred her hearing test at the hospital looked up at me through the window separating the hall from the testing room, after having rather roughly (in my opinion) handled my unhappy daughter, I gave her a look that I imagine communicated “if you touch her carelessly again, I will put your head through that fucking wall.” The look seemed to have worked, as the nurse changed her gruff countenance immediately. Sure, I will not dispute the instinctual will of a father to protect his own. But those of you who know me know that this is no change in personality, I simply have one more person in my life to attempt to protect, though she is the highest priority – a change in intensity perhaps. Then there are the emotional changes. It is a happy thing to have a baby. It fills one’s heart with wonder, gratitude, and of course, love. Unless one is a complete degenerate, holding your own baby brings with it an abundance of feeling. With the advent of her little life, there is an awakened awareness of the goodness of human presence, the goodness of a human life. Every aching bone in your body feels good.
But all that is obvious, especially to anyone with a metaphysical or religious inclination to value human life. It is mundane, matter of fact. All of the above elicits an “of course” from any sensible person.
I noticed that the “it will change your life comments” frequently came at points in a conversation where a friend or family member wanted to express joy regarding the upcoming birth of our child, and did not know quite what to say. They might then talk about such trivial things as how full the trunk of my car would get or how I would not ever have time to myself again. I now realize why this conversational tactic took place. With regard to conversations about children there are really only two rhetorical routes to go, the sentimental, and the practical. One could try to discuss the theological or psychological aspects of having a child, but it would be pointless. When you hold your own child in your arms there is no “theology of the child,” there is a real, in-the-flesh, human being with whom you have a connection so deep that there is no theological vocabulary rich enough to describe it. It demeans both the theological arts, and your child, to attempt it. So it is easier to make baby-talk or to talk about strollers and car seats. My friends know me well enough to know not to go down the sentimental avenues, so we talked baby shop. Yeah, it’ll change your life.
There are two things that surprised me in this whole endeavor. One I had expected, one I had not. I expected this to be hard, but I am surprised at how hard it has been. This is remarkable, because I usually expect things to be difficult. I am a moderate pessimist and a devout stoic. But that does not prepare one to watch loved ones suffer. When my wife was 5 months pregnant she developed an infection that caused a high fever for over a week. It was 103/104 for several days, spiking much higher than that, and for a time she had shakes, convulsions, was incoherent, and could not walk or even sit up. I went from fearing for our unborn baby’s life to also fearing for my wife’s life. The doctors still have no idea what the infection was, or what caused it. She recovered, thanks to the prayers of friends and the graciousness of God, and had only a few odd health issues in her pregnancy until she and I both became very ill the week she delivered. We had planned on having a homebirth with our midwives but due to complications from the illness and distress on the part of the baby we had to transfer to the hospital. This was very difficult for my wife, who hates hospitals (as do I) and is morally opposed to the manner in which birthing is generally conducted in them. Fortunately, the midwives were able to take an unusually active role in the labor and delivery, thanks to our fantastic midwife-friendly doctor. But after the doctor and midwives left we felt as if in prison for the next day and a half. What inhumane institutions hospitals are. What horrible places to be born and to die. After making it home, I have watched my wife struggle in her heroic fashion with some painful breastfeeding problems, and we had to have Winnie go through another trip to hospital for an EEG, due to some unusually long tremors she was having. Thanks be to God the EEG preliminary report was “normal,” whatever that means. No, this has not been easy. Sometimes Joy and I ask ourselves why things are so difficult for us. But such talk is frivolous as I know the answer to the question. I remember as a child my mother telling me that “many are called, but few are chosen,” and that the chosen spend a good amount of time wishing that they were simply “called.” It is a terrifying thing to be chosen by God. The time and energy I have invested in running from Him have proven to be futile. And for whatever reason God has granted me something of a peculiar manner of life, which does not always feel like a blessing. Joy and I tried to have a baby for over five years. One died in the womb (we think due to a doctor-advised flu shot given late in the first trimester, which even when agreeing to seemed wrong-headed to us, something which we later learned can be abortive, not an easy thing to live with). We each asked ourselves what sin had brought about that death. Such questioning might seem horrendous to you but I tell you, should you ever (God forbid it) loose an unborn child you will know exactly to what I am referring. These health issues during and after pregnancy have exhausted us. These petty exhaustions and fears bring their own spiritual battles. At the same time, however, there is the warmth of gratitude, and much grace.
The other thing that surprised me was a sense that I felt at and after my long-awaited-for daughter’s birth, and remains with me. It is a sense of sadness. Not the sublime tragic of the postmodern variety, but an awareness of genuine human tragedy. Within seconds of first holding my daughter this awareness was upon me. This person who I love so much will, like all human persons, live a tragic life. She will struggle, she will fail, she will die, save the coming of the Lord. She will encounter hardships. The feelings of great joy and gratitude are mixed with those of sadness. In the midst of all this I recall and admire the Virgin Mary, the “joy of all who sorrow.” There is a recognition that pain is coming for this person I love (all the while hoping it is not too much, that Winifred be spared life’s harshest strokes), and I realize that the act of receiving this child as a gift from God is at the same time an act of giving this child up to God. She is our little Samuel. Longed for, prayed for, she is mine but she is not mine. Of course upon reflection we instantly recognize that this quality is found even in the Godhead. The Father begets Jesus, and He gives Him up, for the life of the world. The Trinity is a constant dialogue of gift and kenosis. Christ is the Word spoken. The Word spent. I tell you, when you walk into a room and see your wife asleep with your baby asleep on her chest, you will experience the fullest emptiness you will ever know. There is nothing left of yourself but wonder and gratitude. You would live a thousand painful days and wrestle God with the tenacity of Jacob a thousand nights over for that moment. It brings you to a point in your argument with God where, like Job, you put your hand over your mouth.
But all that is obvious, especially to anyone with a metaphysical or religious inclination to value human life. It is mundane, matter of fact. All of the above elicits an “of course” from any sensible person.
I noticed that the “it will change your life comments” frequently came at points in a conversation where a friend or family member wanted to express joy regarding the upcoming birth of our child, and did not know quite what to say. They might then talk about such trivial things as how full the trunk of my car would get or how I would not ever have time to myself again. I now realize why this conversational tactic took place. With regard to conversations about children there are really only two rhetorical routes to go, the sentimental, and the practical. One could try to discuss the theological or psychological aspects of having a child, but it would be pointless. When you hold your own child in your arms there is no “theology of the child,” there is a real, in-the-flesh, human being with whom you have a connection so deep that there is no theological vocabulary rich enough to describe it. It demeans both the theological arts, and your child, to attempt it. So it is easier to make baby-talk or to talk about strollers and car seats. My friends know me well enough to know not to go down the sentimental avenues, so we talked baby shop. Yeah, it’ll change your life.
There are two things that surprised me in this whole endeavor. One I had expected, one I had not. I expected this to be hard, but I am surprised at how hard it has been. This is remarkable, because I usually expect things to be difficult. I am a moderate pessimist and a devout stoic. But that does not prepare one to watch loved ones suffer. When my wife was 5 months pregnant she developed an infection that caused a high fever for over a week. It was 103/104 for several days, spiking much higher than that, and for a time she had shakes, convulsions, was incoherent, and could not walk or even sit up. I went from fearing for our unborn baby’s life to also fearing for my wife’s life. The doctors still have no idea what the infection was, or what caused it. She recovered, thanks to the prayers of friends and the graciousness of God, and had only a few odd health issues in her pregnancy until she and I both became very ill the week she delivered. We had planned on having a homebirth with our midwives but due to complications from the illness and distress on the part of the baby we had to transfer to the hospital. This was very difficult for my wife, who hates hospitals (as do I) and is morally opposed to the manner in which birthing is generally conducted in them. Fortunately, the midwives were able to take an unusually active role in the labor and delivery, thanks to our fantastic midwife-friendly doctor. But after the doctor and midwives left we felt as if in prison for the next day and a half. What inhumane institutions hospitals are. What horrible places to be born and to die. After making it home, I have watched my wife struggle in her heroic fashion with some painful breastfeeding problems, and we had to have Winnie go through another trip to hospital for an EEG, due to some unusually long tremors she was having. Thanks be to God the EEG preliminary report was “normal,” whatever that means. No, this has not been easy. Sometimes Joy and I ask ourselves why things are so difficult for us. But such talk is frivolous as I know the answer to the question. I remember as a child my mother telling me that “many are called, but few are chosen,” and that the chosen spend a good amount of time wishing that they were simply “called.” It is a terrifying thing to be chosen by God. The time and energy I have invested in running from Him have proven to be futile. And for whatever reason God has granted me something of a peculiar manner of life, which does not always feel like a blessing. Joy and I tried to have a baby for over five years. One died in the womb (we think due to a doctor-advised flu shot given late in the first trimester, which even when agreeing to seemed wrong-headed to us, something which we later learned can be abortive, not an easy thing to live with). We each asked ourselves what sin had brought about that death. Such questioning might seem horrendous to you but I tell you, should you ever (God forbid it) loose an unborn child you will know exactly to what I am referring. These health issues during and after pregnancy have exhausted us. These petty exhaustions and fears bring their own spiritual battles. At the same time, however, there is the warmth of gratitude, and much grace.
The other thing that surprised me was a sense that I felt at and after my long-awaited-for daughter’s birth, and remains with me. It is a sense of sadness. Not the sublime tragic of the postmodern variety, but an awareness of genuine human tragedy. Within seconds of first holding my daughter this awareness was upon me. This person who I love so much will, like all human persons, live a tragic life. She will struggle, she will fail, she will die, save the coming of the Lord. She will encounter hardships. The feelings of great joy and gratitude are mixed with those of sadness. In the midst of all this I recall and admire the Virgin Mary, the “joy of all who sorrow.” There is a recognition that pain is coming for this person I love (all the while hoping it is not too much, that Winifred be spared life’s harshest strokes), and I realize that the act of receiving this child as a gift from God is at the same time an act of giving this child up to God. She is our little Samuel. Longed for, prayed for, she is mine but she is not mine. Of course upon reflection we instantly recognize that this quality is found even in the Godhead. The Father begets Jesus, and He gives Him up, for the life of the world. The Trinity is a constant dialogue of gift and kenosis. Christ is the Word spoken. The Word spent. I tell you, when you walk into a room and see your wife asleep with your baby asleep on her chest, you will experience the fullest emptiness you will ever know. There is nothing left of yourself but wonder and gratitude. You would live a thousand painful days and wrestle God with the tenacity of Jacob a thousand nights over for that moment. It brings you to a point in your argument with God where, like Job, you put your hand over your mouth.
posted by owen white at 11:30 PM
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