My third daughter asked me to be on standby to attend the delivery of her first child, mostly because she was worried about her husband, and his ability to remain upright. As a newborn nurse, she’s seen plenty of greenish fathers-to-be, so my husband and I parked ourselves in the nondescript hospital labor waiting room as the wee hours of the night turned to morning, anticipating my potential summons. It wasn’t long before my son-in-law came to get me.
Walking down the hall, I was flooded with apprehension about what was expected of me. I’m not the medical one in my family, and I felt completely out of my depth. While I was honored that she wanted me to be in the room, sharing these sacred and earthy moments with them, I was also worried about logistical things: Where would I stand? How could I stay out of the way of the staff, still keep an eye on her husband, and also support her? Would I be able to withstand the front-row view that I didn’t have even during my own children’s births, with all of its rawness and attendant feelings?
There wasn’t anything I’d read or heard that gave definition to this particular experience of being a mother. Even if I had, I learned long ago that those guides rarely worked for my family, especially pertaining to adult children. So instead of thinking how I should or shouldn’t act, or a specific prayer to pray, I asked God to imbue me with His presence, and took a deep breath.
After entering the room and whispering a few encouraging words to my deer-in-the-headlights looking son-in-law who was seated at the opposite end from where all of the action was, it’s as if I had stepped into this in-between realm where women across millennia have supported one another through life’s passages. I felt threaded to those I’d read, watched, and heard about in all manner of times and cultures—roused in the middle of the night to usher another into or out of this life.
And I also, strangely, looked down and thought about my hands.
Not long ago, I’d been to the dermatologist, who, after giving me a thorough examination declaring no bumps or flecks had morphed into the dangerous kind, exclaimed, “Look at those poor little hands!” and reprimanded me for not applying appropriate sunscreen to them. Apparently they had caught her eye due to the many “wisdom” spots, and general aged appearance. Thereafter, my husband and I referred to them frequently, almost like pets, as in, “How are your poor little hands today?” or when going for a walk, “Be sure to cover your poor little hands.” But they also became a reminder to me of my aging and slowly diminishing body that, while hopefully far from being put out to pasture, isn’t always able to do what it has in the past.
So, when one of the young labor nurses told me to position myself by my daughter’s leg, hold it under the knee with one hand, and grab her foot with the other, I realized those same hands my dermatologist disparagingly referred to are actually still quite strong and capable. I watched my thirty-one-year-old daughter hang on tenaciously to the braces attached to her bed, and with gritted teeth adjust herself just so, while the other labor nurse gently massaged her abdomen to help reposition the baby. Then the middle-aged midwife expertly maneuvered her fingers to slowly, slowly enable my granddaughter’s safe entrance into her newly bright, bewildering world.
My hands may not look the same as they did when I cradled my babies, be as unlined as those of the delivery nurses or as sure and steady as the experienced midwife’s, but I was reminded during those precious and miraculous moments of how I figuratively hold hands with women throughout time and all of life’s stages. And, while marveling afresh at this sweet newborn girl who tightly grips my finger, I breathe a prayer of appreciation for my differently beautiful, resilient hands that have served me, and hopefully others, well.
Jeri Wallin splits her time between the Atlanta area near her four adult children and the western North Carolina mountains, where she and her husband can often be found exploring a new hiking trail. A lover of all things beautiful, creativity, and words, her favorite pastimes are immersing herself in books and playing with color in her studio. In this season of life, besides being thoroughly enraptured with her two grandchildren, she’s been thinking about the multifaceted word “enough,” what it means to accompany someone, and the oft-discussed, but rarely practiced idea of lavish grace.
Jeri! How lovely to see you in this space! Kudos on taking this step. And thank you for your vulnerability.