After appropriate pleasantries, she points you in the direction of the kitchen door. Outside under the trees, you see chairs and benches, tables with food and drink, and a couple dozen people—about half of whom you recognize as neighbors. It’s troubling to realize that while you recognize your neighbors, you do not, in fact, know many of them very well—this will be the first time to socialize with some of them. Well, good—it’s about time.
There are more green aprons. EDNA PETERSON—LILA’S MOM—GRANDMA and JOHN PETERSON—UNCLE and JACK BROWN—ED’S DAD—GRANDPA. Staffing the barbecue grill is a lively, laughing man wearing a green apron that says, SI GREEN—CALL ME ANYTIME. You will learn later that Si is a “character,” best friend of the father and solely responsible for the special aprons, which may be a little cornball, but they do the job. The aprons help create an open, friendly, welcoming atmosphere.
Off to one side but at the center of attention, sitting in a rocking chair, is Lila, holding her son, Max. Tiny child, wrapped in an ivory-colored blanket, asleep. Redheaded mom, fine-freckled features, flower-print dress.
It’s almost too perfect—hard to believe such a time is still possible: a warm afternoon in May, blue skies, flowers, trees, neighbors, friends, family, food, and a newborn child. And nothing to do but just be there. Lovely. We could use more of this. We could make time for more of this.
–
After timelessness has settled in on the gathering—when everyone has a chance to get a nametag, say hello, and have a cup of tea or a glass of lemonade—one of the guests you’ve met taps a spoon on a glass and asks for attention:
Hello. I’m the master of ceremonies. On behalf of Ed and Lila, let me emphasize how welcome you are and how much we appreciate your coming and participating.
We used to live across the street from the Browns and have spent a lot of time together, especially on hiking trips. They asked me if I would help them celebrate the birth of their son, Max, and I’m honored to be part of this occasion.
Since there are not a whole lot of us, and some of you have barely become acquainted this afternoon, let’s make sure we all know who is who. Will you introduce yourselves and tell us how you fit into the occasion?
The family present include Ed’s mom and dad and Lila’s mom, her brother, and his wife—all from out of town. Also the principal of Lila’s school and her husband, and the neighbors from seven houses close to the Browns’. Si Green, Ed’s best friend, who runs Ed’s favorite restaurant, has catered the refreshments and takes time to explain about serving food after the service.
A special note about Si. He has not only brought the food and the printed green aprons for the family, he has provided balloons, a bubble machine, and colored streamers. More important, he has brought enthusiasm, laughter, and mischief. Every solemn occasion needs a jester—a sacred clown. It’s a very old human tradition to balance the serious with the lighthearted. Here’s to all the Si’s of this world—bless them all!
The master of ceremonies continues:
To put you at your ease, let me tell you about the service. You’ve been invited because you are important to the Browns, and you have a part to play in the ceremony.
In a moment, we’ll go into the living room, and I’ll stand in the middle of the room with Lila and Ed and Max beside me, the immediate family around us in a circle and everyone else in a circle around the family. It’s important that everyone be able to see and hear, especially the children present, so we’ll take time to arrange ourselves with that in mind—we’re in no hurry. Small children can stand on chairs. The service is brief, but if children cry or talk or sing or run around, we’ll accommodate them.
At the end of the celebration, I’ll ask all of you to join me in a blessing:
“We, your neighbors and friends and family,
bless this child, his parents, and his home.
May God bless us all, Amen.”
Let’s rehearse that, line by line, so that we do it well when the time comes.
–
After getting our lines right, we go inside and find our places. The master of ceremonies and the parents stand behind a small table bearing the gifts, the large wooden box, a single candle, a vase containing a single red rose, and a small bowl of water.
Smaller children stand on dining-room chairs so they can see. The Browns’ daughter, Sarah, aged four, red hair and purple coveralls, sits on a tall stool, mightily alert but supervised by her grandfather Brown, who holds her hand. When everyone is settled, the master of ceremonies says:
We have come together on this fine day in May to rejoice in life.
And to welcome life bound up in this child.
We have come to take time to notice one another; to see ourselves in the many ways we affect the life of this child as neighbors, friends, family, and parents.
What name have you given this child?
Lila looks down for a moment at her child asleep in her arms and says,
“Maxwell Peterson Brown.”
And Sarah pipes up to announce, “But we call him Max.”
The master of ceremonies, smiling, lights the candle, saying,
We light this candle for Maxwell Peterson Brown; may his light shine now, and all the days of his life.
The master of ceremonies stands close by the mother and child—looking down at the child, he takes the child’s right hand in his own and says:
Well, Max, welcome to this world—this amazing and scary world.
Welcome to light and dark, hot and cold, good and evil.
Welcome to love and hate, truth and lies, good times and bad.
Welcome to the long human pilgrimage from birth to death.
Anything can happen here—everything is possible.
Welcome to the companionship of the human family.
Max wakes up and opens his eyes.
The master of ceremonies picks up the small bowl from the table, saying:
Your mother and father are pretty sure you were conceived on a camping trip when rain kept them cuddled in a tent for the weekend. That’s what they hoped and wanted. Your father filled a canteen from the rain streaming off the tent and kept it to use to drink a toast to your mother if she turned out to be pregnant. Some of that water was saved for this occasion, as well.
Water is the most ancient and universal symbol of life used in every religion as a metaphor of vitality—for without water there is no life. On behalf of this community, I place a little of this token of the stream of life on your forehead.
He moves close to Max with the ceremonial bowl of water to dip his finger in the water, but Max beats him to it—slapping his tiny fist into the water and splashing himself, his parents, and the family. Sarah laughs, igniting laughter around the room. Before the bowl of water can be moved out of his reach, Max slaps the water again, smiles, gurgles, kicks his feet, and waves his arms. The master of ceremonies wipes his face and says:
Thanks, Max. We came to bless you, and it is you who have blessed us.
He takes the rose from the table and says:
This rose is another ancient symbol of life. With all its beauty, it bears thorns.
One does not come without the other. So with the raising of children.
Ed and Lila, I scatter the petals of this rose over you and Max and place the thorny stem in the memory box so that you and Max might not forget the mix of this life. In this same box go all the gifts from those present, along with letters you have written to your son to be opened on his twenty-first birthday.
This box does not only contain memories. It is filled with hope.
As most of you know, Max has been born with a tiny hole between the chambers of his heart. His existence is somewhat fragile. The good news is that surgeons can repair that hole, and Max may live a long life—if all goes well. In the weeks to come, Max and his family will need your support, your help, and your prayers that Max will endure and take his place with the children growing up in this neighborhood.
Max
well Peterson Brown: live long, live well.
Know that you belong to yourself and eternal God.
Know that you are in the care of all those who surround you now.
There is silence in the room. Except for the sounds of Max gurgling.
Please join me in the blessing:
“We, your neighbors and friends and family,
bless this child, his parents, and his home.
May God bless us all, Amen.”
And Sarah pretty well sums it all up by shouting at that moment,
“HOORAY FOR MAXIE!”
After hugs and handshakes, we drift out to the backyard for food and conversation, which go on well into the afternoon. Two guests break out a fiddle and a guitar, playing an up-tempo version of “Amazing Grace,” and music drifts across all our lives like invincible summer.
A child is born.
And a child is welcomed.
(And pause again.)
As in the case of the wedding story, this birth celebration was discussed by the participants for some time before and after the occasion. It represents a revival of something very old in human tradition—inviting the neighbors in. And in doing so, providing connections within the neighborhood that have lasted.
This welcoming of a child is a useful example of how ritual can be reformed to fit the present, while reviving the past and serving the future.
To fully appreciate the ceremony, you need to know more about the lives and circumstances of the participants.
Once again, the backstage tour is divided into small sections.
What would you have contributed to the memory box?
I’d like to know the contents of that time capsule. I’d like to be there in 2013 when Max opens his presents and reads his mail. I was there, and I’ll tell you my gift. When Ed and Lila and my wife and I were on a backpacking trip in southeastern Utah several years ago, we stopped at a mineral shop along the highway. Some slices of a piece of iron meteorite were for sale. It appealed to me to own something that had once been whirling around in outer space. I really wanted a piece of that meteorite. But it was too expensive for my budget. So Ed bought it for me as a gift.
And that’s why it seemed just right to give it to his son. I put that little piece of the sky in a tiny box, along with a note to Max explaining how I was returning his father’s generosity along with a piece of advice: “Always consider the stars.”
As you see, I have a deep and abiding friendship with Ed and Lila. I like who they are and what they do and what they want. He’s an attorney, and she’s an English teacher. Behind very businesslike, professional surfaces, they’re very sentimental, and though they would be uncomfortable admitting it, they’re very religious people. They just haven’t settled on a way to express it.
Ed was raised a nonpracticing Catholic, and Lila grew up vaguely related to the Lutheran Church, but they dropped their connection to organized religion when they went to college. They don’t belong to any church. It’s interesting how often matters of philosophy and religion come up in our conversation and how long and hard we’ve often argued over the precise use and meaning of words, especially when it comes to matters of philosophy or religion.
This rational free-for-all over religious language is a mask for Ed and Lila’s uncertainty about their unspoken longing for meaning. I see them protecting their feelings because they’re vulnerable when it comes to emotional matters. They yearn to express their deepest human concerns, but they’re afraid of feeling awkward or hypocritical. I see all this as a good sign—their struggle will in time lead to a spiritual homecoming. In the meantime, shall life be put on hold? I think not. If they know the road they are on is the right one, it doesn’t matter if they don’t hurry along it at high speed.
When Max was born, they were ready to “do something.” Something they missed doing when their first child was born. At that time, Ed was in the air force paying off his obligations from graduate school, on temporary duty in Japan—far from family and friends. Their life was too hectic then to do much more than cope with the first child. But they felt something missing—some ritual celebration that should have happened but didn’t.
When life settled down and Sarah grew from baby to little girl, they felt this need for ritual on a daily basis, so they had started holding hands with her at mealtimes—with eyes closed and heads bowed in silence, ending in “Amen.” They liked doing that, though they had not yet found words to say in this family setting or a way to say grace when they had friends to dinner.
Long before Max was born, they began informally talking to me about what might be done to welcome him—and where and how. How about doing something very privately—with just me present? No. That wasn’t enough. They needed other people somehow. How about joining a group of parents for the welcoming-of-children service at my church? No, too much—not ready for that.
Whatever they did it had to be honest, authentic, lucid, and real. I asked them to tell me how they would like to feel a week after the event. “Connected,” they said—to whatever God is, to life, to each other, to friends, family—to something bigger than themselves. And they wanted to feel good about their ability to step off the treadmill of life and give its stages meaning.
It was interesting to see words fail two people who make their living from their expertise with words. But understandable. I knew what they wanted and that words could only point at it—words could only acknowledge what could not be spoken. There’s no magic in the words or ceremony. Only the inner thoughts and feelings for which a ritual stands give it meaning. As is often the case, keeping the ceremony simple and human is the best way.
DETAILS
The service for Max speaks for itself. And it worked. It had the comfortable feeling that comes when ritual is not forced or faked.
Every part of it was carefully considered. We first made a pile of all the ideas about what might be done, suspending judgment until we had thought of every reasonable possibility. As with premarital conversations, this talking was part of the celebration and not just a rehearsal for the ceremony. Finally, we cut away everything that seemed forced or redundant or unnecessary.
A few items might well bear a little explanation. I’d like to emphasize the importance of what may seem minor matters, and avoid some misunderstanding about what are major considerations.
–
The service was short for practical considerations as well as spiritual ones—to allow for the attention span of children, for one thing, but also because a lot of words aren’t necessary at these times. Everyone there brought feelings, thoughts, and experiences to bear on the celebration—and considered them within themselves as we stood together. We knew why we were there. Even the children would know—if they were respected—and the language was directed at them.
This is true for every public ritual occasion.
If children are present, children should be considered and included.
Children should be present at a welcoming ceremony. And accommodated.
Adults should acknowledge that sometimes children will cry or talk or even throw a fit on such occasions and plan for it. This is why Grandpa Brown was charged with paying attention to Sarah—and if Sarah needed to be held or hugged or addressed or distracted or taken to the bathroom, the ceremony would be adjusted.
Likewise, Max was kept in the arms of his mother, where he was most contented. While there is some symbolic value in passing a child around to emphasize the responsibility of the larger community, it is best for the child’s sake that he stay where he is happiest. Too many dedications are turned into an anxiety endurance contest by a scared, screaming baby. So, consider the children. The service is about children—about paying attention to a child.
The gesture of inviting the neighbors in acknowledges the likelihood that they will be more influential in the life of a child than blood family who live far away and are rarely seen. Neighbors’ lives are often stronger models for a child’s behavior than family or frien
ds. Neighbors are teachers, for good or ill. To reach out to them is not only a recognition of the reality of the child’s world, it is also a gift to them. You want them to know your values and the inside of the house where your child lives.
Good neighbors are made, not imagined or hoped for.
Finally, for emphasis, I say that the ceremony for Max is not a model in form for all welcomings of all babies. But it is a model for an attitude: to make the welcome out of who you are and what you are about. I insist that most of us have competent, sensitive, and thoughtful members of our circle of friends and family who can take the role of celebrant. There are many ministers among us—most of them do not work for a church. They are ordained—set aside as special—by the quality of their humanity and their special relationship with us.
–
When it was learned that Max was born with a heart defect, the parents were devastated. They considered not having a ceremony, or waiting until after the surgery to make sure Max was going to make it. But having the ceremony was even more important now. Life is always at risk. We are all born into a graveyard. The tiny hole in Max’s heart only intensified the place he held in his parents’ hearts, and only magnified the reality of the need they had for support.
It never makes sense to wait until your life is in a perfect state of grace to celebrate its joys and passages. Never hesitate to celebrate.
(P.S. Max made it—you’d never know what he went through if you saw him chasing cats around the neighborhood these days.)
After a child is born, life goes on.
When a child is born, the drama lasts a couple of days, carried by its own energy. It’s a timeless time—you are absorbed in the astonishing power of birth and the idea of parenthood. You are supported and cared for by those who helped you—family, friends, doctors, nurses, even strangers.
There is a moment, often recorded on film, of parents and child at the hospital threshold—mother, father, babe, and nurse. A liminal moment. After that picture, you’re on your own.
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