The Gift of Children (Revisited)
This Christmas season has been especially difficult for me. I lost my mother two years ago after taking care of her for ten years when she had dementia. Last Christmas was, as expected, strange and empty without her, the first Christmas in 69 years when she wasn’t a joyful presence in our lives. The isolation of the pandemic also made things more lonely.
This year however, I expected to have an easier time of it. I did not. I tried to get in the Christmas spirit, putting a wreath on the door and decorating the den with a small tree and Lighted Christmas village. And it helped, but nothing could take away the pain completely. I did have a very nice, cozy day on Christmas at my brother’s house. He and his lady friend fixed a huge dinner, we opened presents, and sipped wine while Chloe the cat slept peacefully in my lap. So I’m immensely grateful I had that.
But then there were all the photos I saw online and texted to me of friends with their families, relatives and grandchildren, all gathering this Christmas in defiance of the rapid spread of the new coronavirus variant. This was supposed to be a return to a more normal Christmas. Instead, there was more uncertainty, worry and anguish even as most of us tried to go about life with some semblance of normalcy.
Not having children has always hits me hard around Christmas time. So I was overjoyed this morning to learn that my niece had delivered a healthy 8 lb, 7 oz baby boy. We are so happy for them.
But again, these types of joyful events are not completely happy for me. Another reminder of that large, though certainly not unfillable, void in my life. I share in my niece and her happiness as I sit alone on my big sofa typing text greetings and marveling at the wonder of new life in the photos they have sent me.
Twenty-two years ago, when I was a mere 48, I wrote the following piece, which gets to the heart of what I’m trying to convey here. It’s been a long time since I’ve witnessed a baptism, and I may never see one again, but there was a time when I rather faithfully went to church. I was brought in various Christian denominations and my mother was a devout Christian. Her example and influence have been with me my entire life, even as I have branched off to explore other paths, while staying committed to my roots.
Another important thing that frightens me when I see new life brought into this world is the state of the planet currently and the scary prospects for the near future, meaning the next few decades when the sheer folly of our lifestyles and indiscriminate use of fossil fuels threaten to render large parts of the planet uninhabitable by the end of the century, but probably much sooner than that the way things are playing out now. What kind of a world wiIl my great nephew grow up in? Similarly, my very nice next door neighbor had a baby about two months ago. She and my niece are both about 30. They have their whole lives ahead of them still. So do their precious infants. I fervently hope they won’t have to live in future times that make them regret they had children. The worst thing for a mother is to see her child suffer.
With all this being said, the following essay seems almost too hopeful and even naive, knowing what we now know about how close we are to the point of no return for our civilization. I’m still hopeful the worst can be averted, but I never could have imagined when I wrote this in 1999 that we would be facing so much peril, so quickly, as we are now as 2022 approaches.
An essay written on Nov. 7, 1999:
The Gift of Children
Baptisms at our church are happy occasions. The minister delights in taking the infant in his arms and showing the child to the congregation. One of the newest members of the Christian church, he exclaims. A gift from God. The parents and sponsor are standing in front of those assembled, beaming with pride
As the minister and cradled infant approach, I have to strain to see the baby, so innocent and so helpless. Surrounded by so many people. Totally dependent on the love and care of others.
As I say, it’s a happy occasion. It occurred once again this past Sunday. The parents, the minister said, met each other in a church in another South Carolina town, married in that church and have now produced a child. For all those older members of the congregation to see, there comes among them a child, radiant and pure. Life carries on.
For me, however, it’s all rather bittersweet. I rejoice and marvel at each child’s innocence and the beautiful, trusting expressions on their faces. But those sacraments of the church also remind me of how much is missing from my life, not having any children of my own. Not being able to watch them sleeping peacefully, laughing spontaneously. Not being there to comfort them when they hurt, or delighting in their learning and maturation as they make their way in the world, from childhood to adulthood.
I read a lot about broken marriages and families in online diaries and journals, about marriages long abandoned, about single mothers raising children, teenagers and young adults preparing to make their way in the world, nurtured and supported by single mothers and fathers. The love for children is permanent and unyielding, in most cases.
I observed the expressions on the faces of that young couple in church Sunday, watching their infant daughter being baptized, and I felt confident that the child was in good hands. I hoped the future held happiness for her within a loving family.
As for me, I must learn these things secondhand. I must read and wonder and imagine, and have insights revealed to me at such events as a baptism. It’s a difficult struggle sometimes. One’s perceptions and orientation toward life are focused on things other than children and family. That sweet innocence of childhood is mostly a memory, and now it’s almost an abstract concept, lost to me, remote and never to be lived again through a child of one’s own.
For you who have children, they are a precious gift. Savor them. Love them. Embrace them. Hold onto them dearly and let them go when it is time.
Your words move me. I would share a story with you and hope it is shared in the spirit of brotherhood that does not move to grief.
A man once walked oblivious to the family he had collected. He did not know why he collected them. He understood the social and biological imperatives, but he did not understand family. His was not a happy family, but a stubborn one. After twenty years of marriage, his spouse had almost reached the breaking point. The man had become sullen, irritable, and generally withdrawn. A wall had formed, and it feared no horn.
The man was irresponsible, often forgetting important things. He still strove to provide for his family, but even the providing would sometimes be forgotten if the provisional need was irregular. And so one crisp fall evening, he realized his eldest son was without a fitting coat. He was supposed to have taken care of that months ago. In an act of semi-desperation, he brought his son to his own closet, hoping perhaps a stashed jacket would materialize that would fit. None did, but one was very close. It was a jacket that the man had worn in high school; he had kissed his first girl in that jacket. It was a jacket that the man had worn to college; he had taken his spouse on their first date in that jacket. It was a jacket the man had worn to his first job; he had worked hard to earn his position. It was a jacket the man had worn around his oldest friends; some of his friends thought that he still wore it sometimes.
And that night, the first crack ever was put into that wall. The man literally stumbled around as the psychic impact of such a thought reverberated against his soul. The son chose not to wear the jacket yet (after all, it still did not quite fit), but he held it almost reverently as if he knew something about it was special. But it was not special. I do not what was special. I do know it was the first time that the man had ever thought about something from another person’s point of view. The man could remember the thoughts he once thought while wearing the jacket, and was forced to the sudden realization that his son could be having very similar thoughts, now or very soon.
I have saved my eldest son’s life on two occasions. I did not imagine that he might save mine.
I have wondered if relationships are different in nature or differentiated by exclusion. I believe that all relationships have the potential to be the same, powerfully-intimate force we feel when we truly engage with a 2nd person, that awe-inspiring gaze into a dark pool so much like ourselves and yet so much difference. We are simultaneously comforted and excited, at ease and stimulated, content and curious, at peace and inspired. I am trying to comfort you with these words: if you have taught, if you have inspired, if you have shared truly, you have a child of the mind. These relationships may be just as powerful as you choose them to ought to be. Peace to you.
@iamnur Those words at the end are powerful and true. Among my jobs and careers I have taught (literally – a teacher and college instructor for five years) and learned (my writing career as a journalist). I hope and believe I have inspired, or perhaps influenced for the good, people from my past, and didn’t know it or realize it at the time. I think we all yearn to make a difference in others’s lives, however that may occur.
The story of the father and son is instructive and meaningful. The son allowed the father an epiphany: for the first time he was able to consciously transcend his selfish ego and have a strong intuition about what another person might experience or go through that was similar to his own. And fortunately, it was his son who was that other person.
@oswego I had to think on your words for a long time. I have learned often that the words which make the least sense to me often hold the most meaning. Having a son, I did not think it important that my son was the first person I knew. I remain steadfast in my belief that the first person I knew could be anyone, though it would be someone important to me. But I also understand that you may see differently. I am willing to listen to criticism, if you are willing to become again a teacher. But of course, I do not wish to obligate. Peace to you.
@iamnur May I ask who actually was the first person you knew, and what do you mean by that?
@oswego Yes, of course. I apologize that I did not make it more clear. My story happened to me. This is one of my limitations. My son is the first person I knew as a person. It is difficult to explain; there are few words and many analogies.
I do not like to say it, because it makes me sound like a monster, and I think it is why I write the story I do, because it is easier to think of the man. I did not know that other people were real like I know I am real. And so I managed through life by the grace of my family and friends, who I tried to treat as best I thought I should, but I still hurt them. As a sociopath. (This is not a word someone has labeled me with. It is a word I am scared of. I leave therapists before we get close to this. I am not now happy I have said it.)
I apologize to have nakedly done this. I would erase it, but I have always felt the backspace key was sacrilege. This is not a weight you have to carry.
Warning Comment
Beautifully written!! The last line touched me because all four of my kids are now adults, three of which I have had to let go of and watch them move on with their lives. My youngest has autism so will most likely be with us for a long time yet.
I lost my mother when I was almost fifteen. I still very vividly remember that first Christmas without her. It was Christmas, but not like every other Christmas in my life. I’m sorry for your loss. She was very blessed to have a son to take care of her for those ten years.
Warning Comment