I remember the first birth I attended as a chaplain.  Maria had been on bedrest for a few weeks to try and prevent her from going into labor early, but at 26 weeks they couldn’t delay her labor any longer.  She spiked a fever and the doctors had to move quickly.  She and her husband Tony were terrified of what might happen to their child born so early.  Fearing he may not survive, they asked for a chaplain to be present in the operating room and to baptize their son as soon as he was born.

Tony and I gowned up together while the nurses took Maria to the operating room.  He didn’t say much, but I could see the fear in his eyes.  We sat quietly together while we waited to be brought into the room.  The nurses came to get us and took Tony to Maria’s side while I waited with the NICU team for the baby to be born.  From my vantage point I couldn’t see much.  And then it all happened in a blur.  Peter was lifted from the womb and quickly rushed to the isolette where the nurses and doctors attended to him.  With gown, mask, and surgical gloves I quickly baptized Peter with a dab of sterile water.  No sooner had I touched his tiny forehead and whispered a prayer than the medical team whisked him away to the NICU.

It was the most rushed and sterile baptism I performed in my ministerial career.  Yet, it was also one of the most profound.  To come so intimately face to face with both the miracle of life and the fragility of life is something we don’t experience on a regular basis.  Walking that line between life and death calls us into a deeper place, a place of spiritual longing.  We can no longer ignore that our lives are brief and precious.  Those brushes with birth and death always move me to a place of gratitude and an appreciation for the gift of life.

Peter did survive.  He spent several months in the NICU before finally going home with his parents.  I always felt badly that they did not get to be a part of his baptism.  It seems like something a parent should bear witness to.  But one day before he left the hospital, his parents found me to say thanks.  Maria had written a beautiful note about how the last few months had been scary and challenging, but they could rest in the knowledge that Peter had received God’s grace through baptism.  She believed that he and they would forever be connected to me through that ritual and God’s grace.  In the trying times, it was this belief that carried her.

A few months ago I was asked to do a childbirth education session for a recently resettled refugee woman.  She and her husband arrived less than a month before our visit ,and she was in the last month of her first pregnancy.  Aung had been raped at age 13 while in the refugee camp – a brutal attack that left her bleeding for weeks and carrying many emotional scars.  Still young and a bit timid from her difficult life experiences, she was afraid of the upcoming birth of her child.  Her husband, Hla, was sweet and caring, but also young and inexperienced as a husband and father.

I met with Aung and Hla with the help of an interpreter – Htet.  Htet was also a young man, maybe 24, and full of enthusiasm.  But I worried about how he would feel interpreting the sensitive words and ideas I would have to express during our childbirth session.  Knowing the culture from which they came, I was concerned about how the male and female roles would effect our discussion and whether or not Aung and I would really be able to address her fears.  I need not have worried.

Htet was amazing in his interpreting!   He was with me through every moment copying my hand gestures, pointing to the pictures I brought as explanations, and demonstrating the positions and movements just as I did.  He didn’t flinch for a moment.

Hla was just as impressive in his engagement in the session.  He asked questions, showed great sensitivity to his wife, and seemed eager to learn all he could.  When I suggested that he could be in the labor room, with Aung’s permission of course, his eyes lit brightly.  In their culture men never attended the birth and he was delighted at the possibility.  I showed him different ways he could support Aung through helping her to position and applying counter pressure to her hips.  His smile radiated as he began to imagine himself being present for the birth of his child.

Aung was quiet through much of the session.  She did ask questions and stayed engaged, but I could tell her fear was very present.  We talked at length about the pain of childbirth and the typical interventions experienced in most US hospitals.  I wanted her to know what to expect and have the words to be able to advocate for herself.  We talked about how the experience might feel invasive and could trigger some of the pain from her rape.  We created a plan for how Hla would help her through the emotional aspects and how Htet would help them with the language barrier.

Although I was not at the birth with them, I heard a report later that it had been a beautiful experience.  Aung labored well and did not experience any reawakening of emotional trauma.  Hla was present for the birth and was attentive to his wife throughout the process.  Htet stayed with them for the whole birth, his first, and was eager to help me with more classes for the other refugee women!

It was a great example of the importance of surrounding yourself with compassionate and competent birth supporters.  Aung’s birth experience could have been very different, another traumatic experience in a life already too full.  Instead, she received the education she needed, the emotional and physical support she deserved and the cultural/linguistic services that helped to create a beautiful birth experience.