The day my boy was born, I was able to observe two distinct environments for birth. The latter was a hospital which we were transferred to because of a possible risk that turned out to be of no worry. The hospital is a place of risk mitigation, emergency help, and rescuing procedures. A place full of common grace, to be sure, but distinct from the former.
The former was a birthing center, surrounded by midwives. My wife labored in the birthing center for several hours before we were transferred. I had expected a comfortable environment with perhaps more of a hippie flair and mug of Chamomile tea. It was more comfortable but I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that it was a distinctly communal experience.
My wife, a first time mother, was surrounded by experienced women, many of whom had been through the same experience she was now going through. They knew what would be soothing and helpful. They could bring comfort and they could direct my wife to a posture that would be more effective for the baby.
There was no fear in that room. There was work and anticipation. There was labor and excitement. There were experienced women helping my wife participate in a process that had been happening for thousands of years. There was a community of women helping to usher in life.
It was a calm experience. Seemingly an antithetical word when one considers the very nature of labor, but the community made the environment a calm one. A calm one because they knew how life enters the world, they knew how contractions progress and how the tiredness slowly invades a mother's body. My wife and I did not know but they knew. And they were leading us in the process and we could trust them.
When the time had come to transfer, our community came with us. When I was praying en route, they were praying with us. When we went through intake and Leslie was issued a bed and an IV they did not leave us. Even though we had entered into the emergency medical environment, our community, that was helping welcome life, did not leave us. I felt shepherded.
My boy took an additional five hours in coming and our community never left. They were no longer in charge of the environment but they were, nonetheless, our support and help. Still our guide through the midst of uncertainty and exhaustion. They helped me welcome my boy to this place.
Epilogue
We met many many people in the hospital during our additional two days of stay, but we didn't feel surrounded in community. I didn't know the nurse that pushed my wife's wheelchair to the car. We drove home, uncertain how to do the right things to keep a child fed and breathing.
The next day, our midwives came to our house to check in on Sennett and his tired parents. There was a knock on the door and I opened it to the two of them. I burst into tears. These were not just our caregivers. They were our friends. They were our community.