Crowning Moments

This is Part IV of "Happy Birthday, Stephen" and we are up to the moment of delivery.

I had finished telling Paul to put away the baby name book he was intently reading. We already had a name. He kept saying, "Well, just in case it's not a girl." I scoffed. Of course it's a girl. My mind and heart told me it was a girl. Not that I was emotionally set on a girl, and I would not be disappointed with a boy--I had one of each and loved each one! I would just be really super shocked that my intuition was wrong.

I got to the hospital on the night of August 7th around 9:30, I think. The anesthesiologist gave me the supposed butt-tingling epidural which never made anything tingle, but it relaxed me to the core from navel to toes. If this was what paralysis was like, I hated it. I liked being pain-free at such a time as this, but I wished for a little pressure. It would've heightened the antipation --and participation, actually. I felt like an audience volunteer who was told to push but didn't know what she was pushing because there was no touch sensation. I had to trust from the monitor and nurses that contractions were getting harder and that my pushes were working. I had to think about pushing, something my two previous birthing episodes made me unable to forget.

The clock seemed to move unusally quickly, and so did painless delivery. At 2:14 on August 8th came these words:

"I see a crown. It's the size of a quarter!" said the doctor. Paul leaned in closer. My sister leaned in closer. She was amazed, giddy, a little apprehensive, astounded at the canal's ability to expand on demand.

A couple or three pushes more and out came my baby. I never felt a thing. I felt cheated, a feeling I still get once in a while when I think I missed that thrilling, indescribable feeling of a slippery, squirming head/shoulders/body and legs slipping out of my body and into our waiting arms.

Out she came.

I mean he. He. Heehee.

"It's a ....BOY!" they announced.

"What? Are you sure?" I said stupidly. (I mean, you only have two choices and I was fairly confident in the medical personnel's ability to distinguish gender. Still, I was numb from shock.)

"A boy? A boy?" I kept asking. Hope Kathryn is not a boy.

"Call him Reuben," said Rachel. "It means, 'Behold, a son!'"

I said, "Nah, it's also Paul's favorite deli sandwich."

I held my boy...my boy...close. I stroked her--his head and cheeks. I counted his toes. I marveled at her--his--paper-thin fingernails. I adored his big intelligent blue eyes. I saw no hair on his head at all, until I turned him over. There, in the nape of his little neck, was a beautiful, soft, blonde answer to a prayer. A tiny curl. Now I wept. What more did God have in store that I had asked Him for? And that I hadn't imagined or had faith to ask for?

But there was a problem, Houston. This child had no name. So in the hours ahead, while the baby slept, we searched the Bible, I called our then-pastor Chuck Jennings who was a Bible scholar, to help us. I asked my parents.

All I knew were characteristics I believed endowed this child. I wanted him to live his name.
I told Pastor Jennings to please search for names that meant healing, comfort, salvation. "I picture this child having the spirit that lifts people up when they're down, laugh when they're too serious," I added.

I wanted him to have "Jo-" is his name, but not Joseph because Paul didn't like the nickname with our last name. I wanted the characters for whom the baby would be named to be associated with mostly--if not all--good reports in the Bible. Paul said, "But nothing weird. A name he can live with." And since he was blonde, and I associated "Jo-" with dark hair, I said, "Jo-in the middle name cuz his blonde hair doesn't make me think Jo-. So I started down the list of possibilites I liked for a middle name starting with Jo-. "Joshua?" No, his cousin was just named that. Jonathan? No, another cousin had that name. Jonah? No, not a great role model there.

My pastor called and said he had names for the character traits I'd given him.

"How about Hananiah?" he asked. I could hear his grin.

"Hananiah?" I asked, looking up at Paul from the phone. We both cracked up. "I don't think so, Pastor. I mean, we appreciate your research, but Hananiah? Remember the 'not-too-weird' part of our request?"He lauged out loud with us and said he was only kidding. He'd never name one of his boys that. Jehosaphat maybe, but not Hananiah.

The pastor tried a few other names out for me and they didn't fit. Finally he said, "What about Josiah? He was crowned king at age eight and purified Israel through many reforms, chiefly ridding them of idols and insisting they worship God alone. After that, the nation experienced great healing. Josiah means "Yahweh supports."

I was hooked. It was everything I wanted. But as a middle name, because Paul didn't want Josiah shortened to Joe, linked with our Polish last name. He had grown up with a whole host of Joe _______ski pals in Catholic school. He didn't want to be the father of one.

So Josiah became our baby's middle name.

Then, after much deliberation, we landed on "Stephen" as a first name. It meant "crown" or "crowned one" and it fit this bald blondie with intelligent eyes. I adored the one curl on the back of his crown. But mostly I loved the fact that his biblical namesake had such godly qualities. He was a deacon, a server of tables in the church. He loved God and was bold to proclaim messages from God. When he was being stoned to death, Stephen asked God to forgive his abusers. When he died, Jesus stood up at the Father's right hand. Nowhere else in scripure had someone been given a standing ovation by Jesus. My mom said it's hard to think into the future about the way a person may die when he's just a tiny baby, but dignity in death is so important. What more dignity could a soul receive than Jesus' applause and "Well done, good and faithful servant"?

So, after two days of praying for a name for our son, our surprise of the masculine kind, we felt God helped us choose "Stephen Josiah."