A Nameless Child
There was a child once born; her mother, a 19 year-old girl from the bush of Zambia. She labored long, on a hot day in December, on a thinly padded, metal-framed, basic hospital bed - routinely checked and encouraged. She was stoic, quiet, patient in her travails. I watched and encouraged - I listened to her silent efforts and saw her face as she waited. I held the Pinard Horn to detect the foetal heartbeat - the old instrument, still useful in the absence of reliable electricity, to determine if the baby is under distress. I could hear the gentle thud of the heartbeat - faster than the mother's - and anticipated the moments to come - welcome this child to the world; even a sparse and unpredictable world, where a young single mother would face hardship in finding her way with a small infant.
I had my own baby, Caleb, who was 6 months old at the time. He was being looked after a few paces away while I assisted at this delivery. My memories of my own un-medicated home birth were quite fresh and I almost wished to forget those painful long hours. I marvelled at this young girl and the strength she exhibited. 'It's part of their cultural values,' the nurse explained. 'They are taught that to cry or express pain is to be weak - so they value stoicism.' At that moment I wished there was a way to break through that cultural value. I knew her pain was great. There was no way to show it. It felt stifling, yet somehow, beautiful as a credit to this girl honouring her tradition and heritage.
It was slow - the baby was large. The nurse expressed concern. Why isn't the baby emerging? The time has come, but the baby seems not to move. She admonished the labouring girl to push harder. I sensed tension, but didn't know why. The nurse decided to check the baby again - the head was ready, but seemed impeded. She felt around, and located the cord, wrapped around the child's neck. She quickly slipped it over and in seconds the baby came out.
Perfectly rounded out, every detail formed in beauty. This was a large baby girl, yet she hadn't taken a breath. Quickly, we set to work, massaging her heart, gently compressing lungs. The nurse-midwife began breathing mouth-to-mouth to revive this precious child, fresh from the womb. There was a desperation - and strong effort to inflate her lungs - to see life come into her. We pumped and compressed and breathed and those ten minutes felt like an eternity. Every minute that passed, hope was draining away, as the paleness of her features only intensified - her pale lips remaining pale.
It was my worst fear to face bearing a child who would not breathe - whose life was gone before it began. And here I was watching the worst play out before me - not my own story, but that of a stranger. The moment of birth is holy, awesome; it is sacred. I watched the stoic mother wait - she had waited these months, these hours, and now these final moments, she continued to wait. Her waiting bore emptiness and suffering. No final joy came from her enduring labour.
Even though I had dreaded this possibility in my own life, and though I am grateful I never walked that path myself, I am thankful I experienced these holy moments. The sacredness of it was palpable - God's presence was known, felt in the quietness. I knew then that should I walk the valley of the shadow of death, I would surely be guided, held, shepherded through it with the loving presence of a Father and Brother who carries our griefs and bears our sorrows.
After ten minutes had passed, and the child remained still, the nurse knew there was no further effort needed. She took the cloth and placed it fully over the child. I took one last hard look at that baby and my heart broke.
I had heard and understood the term 'still birth' before - but it had never occurred to me how appropriate this phrase is, because I'd never known the stark, shocking, quiet stillness that echoed around that bare room. The much anticipated hearty cry, the tiny whimpering sounds, the faintest hint of breath - these were never to reach desperate ears that waited that day. The birth was still, the child was still. She was born - she was still. That stillness had a weightiness to it - not only with great sorrow, but with a hushed, holy, calm. The silence hung thick in the humid air. The stillness was in once sense unwelcome, but also revered. We had witnessed birth and death in a single moment. In a certain sense we want to raise our voice and say, 'That child was still born! Don't forget that she was created in her mother's womb - and she still existed those nine months in that warm haven.'
In the following hours and days there were a few quiet discussions about how this happens all the time out in rural Zambia. How that child was spared a difficult life - a suffering life - a life of pain and poverty. Yet we all knew that life would have been preferred even with all the suffering that goes with it.
I visited the mother the following day. I gave her the one dress I had brought with me, and a few items to express my friendship and support. I wanted her to know I was sorry for her loss. She spoke little to no words of English. I don't know her name. I bore her grief from afar, as one hardly in touch with her world - of which I knew so little.
I saw how peaceful and amazing the creation of this child and her emergence into the world was, and though her life had ended before she took her first breath, she still bore the imprint of God on her very flesh. She is perhaps a forgotten child - a child who would be 17 years old now - but I have not forgotten her. She may never have been named here on earth, but I am sure she received a name upon her welcome into heaven, where I have no doubt I shall see her someday. She did not live to tell her own story - she did not live to have stories to tell. But I will at least recount the story of her birth. I will tell how she made an impression on me. I will tell how my own darkest fears were played out before me and I was stilled and quieted through the grief, as only through a window pane on a rainy day. The image of her lifeless body is imprinted on my mind permanently. I came away knowing that both the miraculous and holy had happened in that small room - that God had welcomed a child whose first breath was all peace, love and joy.
I believe all life is precious and holy. Even a poor child, born in obscurity, whose life held little promise, whose status ranked among the lowliest of all on earth; even her life is worth recounting, honouring. People will march today for the protection of life. I am glad for this. I hope in telling one child's story, that I have marched in a different way.
I will never forget that nameless child.
I had my own baby, Caleb, who was 6 months old at the time. He was being looked after a few paces away while I assisted at this delivery. My memories of my own un-medicated home birth were quite fresh and I almost wished to forget those painful long hours. I marvelled at this young girl and the strength she exhibited. 'It's part of their cultural values,' the nurse explained. 'They are taught that to cry or express pain is to be weak - so they value stoicism.' At that moment I wished there was a way to break through that cultural value. I knew her pain was great. There was no way to show it. It felt stifling, yet somehow, beautiful as a credit to this girl honouring her tradition and heritage.
It was slow - the baby was large. The nurse expressed concern. Why isn't the baby emerging? The time has come, but the baby seems not to move. She admonished the labouring girl to push harder. I sensed tension, but didn't know why. The nurse decided to check the baby again - the head was ready, but seemed impeded. She felt around, and located the cord, wrapped around the child's neck. She quickly slipped it over and in seconds the baby came out.
Perfectly rounded out, every detail formed in beauty. This was a large baby girl, yet she hadn't taken a breath. Quickly, we set to work, massaging her heart, gently compressing lungs. The nurse-midwife began breathing mouth-to-mouth to revive this precious child, fresh from the womb. There was a desperation - and strong effort to inflate her lungs - to see life come into her. We pumped and compressed and breathed and those ten minutes felt like an eternity. Every minute that passed, hope was draining away, as the paleness of her features only intensified - her pale lips remaining pale.
It was my worst fear to face bearing a child who would not breathe - whose life was gone before it began. And here I was watching the worst play out before me - not my own story, but that of a stranger. The moment of birth is holy, awesome; it is sacred. I watched the stoic mother wait - she had waited these months, these hours, and now these final moments, she continued to wait. Her waiting bore emptiness and suffering. No final joy came from her enduring labour.
Even though I had dreaded this possibility in my own life, and though I am grateful I never walked that path myself, I am thankful I experienced these holy moments. The sacredness of it was palpable - God's presence was known, felt in the quietness. I knew then that should I walk the valley of the shadow of death, I would surely be guided, held, shepherded through it with the loving presence of a Father and Brother who carries our griefs and bears our sorrows.
After ten minutes had passed, and the child remained still, the nurse knew there was no further effort needed. She took the cloth and placed it fully over the child. I took one last hard look at that baby and my heart broke.
I had heard and understood the term 'still birth' before - but it had never occurred to me how appropriate this phrase is, because I'd never known the stark, shocking, quiet stillness that echoed around that bare room. The much anticipated hearty cry, the tiny whimpering sounds, the faintest hint of breath - these were never to reach desperate ears that waited that day. The birth was still, the child was still. She was born - she was still. That stillness had a weightiness to it - not only with great sorrow, but with a hushed, holy, calm. The silence hung thick in the humid air. The stillness was in once sense unwelcome, but also revered. We had witnessed birth and death in a single moment. In a certain sense we want to raise our voice and say, 'That child was still born! Don't forget that she was created in her mother's womb - and she still existed those nine months in that warm haven.'
In the following hours and days there were a few quiet discussions about how this happens all the time out in rural Zambia. How that child was spared a difficult life - a suffering life - a life of pain and poverty. Yet we all knew that life would have been preferred even with all the suffering that goes with it.
I visited the mother the following day. I gave her the one dress I had brought with me, and a few items to express my friendship and support. I wanted her to know I was sorry for her loss. She spoke little to no words of English. I don't know her name. I bore her grief from afar, as one hardly in touch with her world - of which I knew so little.
I saw how peaceful and amazing the creation of this child and her emergence into the world was, and though her life had ended before she took her first breath, she still bore the imprint of God on her very flesh. She is perhaps a forgotten child - a child who would be 17 years old now - but I have not forgotten her. She may never have been named here on earth, but I am sure she received a name upon her welcome into heaven, where I have no doubt I shall see her someday. She did not live to tell her own story - she did not live to have stories to tell. But I will at least recount the story of her birth. I will tell how she made an impression on me. I will tell how my own darkest fears were played out before me and I was stilled and quieted through the grief, as only through a window pane on a rainy day. The image of her lifeless body is imprinted on my mind permanently. I came away knowing that both the miraculous and holy had happened in that small room - that God had welcomed a child whose first breath was all peace, love and joy.
I believe all life is precious and holy. Even a poor child, born in obscurity, whose life held little promise, whose status ranked among the lowliest of all on earth; even her life is worth recounting, honouring. People will march today for the protection of life. I am glad for this. I hope in telling one child's story, that I have marched in a different way.
I will never forget that nameless child.
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