Colloquy, Volume 13 #4

I Saw a Birth and Was Changed Forever

by Gerald Kleba

"What the hell," the warm-hearted Italian doctor bellowed. "You mean Kleba's never seen a baby born? Get him out here to the hospital!" That cleared the last external obstacle to my witnessing the birth of Marilyn's fourth child. Curt, her husband, was open and welcoming. The only remaining hurdles were mine, those of a young priest with celibacy hangups and stunted psychosexual development.

I had seen people suffer and die. It was time to see a birth. On December 14 at 7 a.m., Curt called to invite me to the hospital. Marilyn's labour had begun. It was a day like any other day, except that I would witness the birth of a baby and be changed forever.

Labour went very slowly. It was agonizing for mother, nerve-racking for daddy and essential time for me to awaken to an awareness of intimacy and miracles. The small-town hospital maternity nurses were excited and happy. In contrast I was withdrawn, uncomfortable and tempted to exit quietly.

Generally, I am a cool, in-control person, but that day my stomach was in knots. Slowly it dawned on me that I had to deal with this or leave. Otherwise I was little more than a Peeping Tom. I didn't want to leave, and so I struggled with the dilemma.

I knew that I had to become personally present and not merely physically there. I had to get in touch. In fact I had to TOUCH MARILYN. I had to disregard all those seminary taboos regarding WOMEN. I had to get in touch as Jesus did with dear women friends. I had to risk intimacy. Oh, I could go up and hold Marilyn's hand. I knew I could do that. But the others in that labour room were celebrating new life. They were placing their hands on her belly and feeling the baby's gyrations. The child in her womb leapt for joy (Lk 1:44).

How could I ever do that? I had to. I pondered and looked for an opening.

Seminary education had taught me to relate to people in a cerebral way. I had learned to impress them with my erudition. Finally, I approached Marilyn cautiously and with all the confidence of a thirteen-year-old at his first dance. I mustered my courage and stammered, "Marilyn, do you mind if I feel your hyperactive baby?" There, I said it, hy-per-ac-tive: four syllables. I was proud and I bet she was impressed! That thought was immediately blurred by a deflated inner voice that whispered, "You dope."

Fortunately, Marilyn didn't seem to notice my anxiety. She merely reached over, took my hand and laid it on her womb, saying, "There, do you feel that?" I really don't remember feeling any movement of the baby at that moment, but I do remember an ecstatic sense of relief, like escaping from a psychological straitjacket. Instantly the old strictures evaporated and the warm human contact transformed me. I had broken into LIFE. It was wonderful! I could now walk with Marilyn and Curt as a support and wide-eyed witness.The minutes dragged like hours, but they did finally pass. It was Advent and I felt like St. Joseph. This wasn't my baby, but it WAS MY BABY! Now I was so involved, I feared, "If there is a problem with the birth they will have to call a priest, because I will be a helpless basket case myself."

In the delivery room I stationed myself just to the left of the doctor at Marilyn's feet. After continued encouragement and Marilyn's pushing and perspiring, the baby's head finally emerged and then the rest of the body squirmed into view.

"It's a girl," I announced.

Jokingly, the doctor inquired, "How can you tell?"

"Oh, I'll explain it to you later," I assured him quietly.

And so, at about 3:30 p.m., Jodi was born into the world. I too came out of the dark to a heightened awareness of beauty and life. I had overcome my fears with the experience of sharing these intimate and pulsating moments of love and life. I grew in appreciation of my own mother and the pains of parenting. Jesus promised that these pains would be forgotten, because of the great joy of seeing a child born into the world.

On December 14, one week after the Pearl Harbor anniversary, I had won a huge personal battle. Aquinas defines sin as a broken relationship. Before that day I had harboured an inimical attitude towards women for many cultural and societal reasons. Now I experienced intimacy and new bonding with the human family in its primordial experience.

That day was twenty-two years ago. I remember it along with my own birth and priestly ordination as the third most important day in my life. I now joyfully approach life and ministry more like a wide-eyed child, for it is to just such as those that the Reign of God belongs.