His Name Shall Be Called Noah

Twenty years ago this past autumn, October 18th, our youngest daughter, Ruth, then sixteen years old, was raped. She wrote about that experience in the Christian Century, "To Speak of Rape," (Jan 1 - 13, 1993, Vol. 110 No. 1). That event has overshadowed her life during these past two decades. Even today the memory is filled with terror, anxiety, anger and pain. Rape is a crime of continuity, the tentacles of evil lie deeply within, causing heartbreak, and ever present moments of violent recollection.

This autumn a wonderful new act of creation brightened my daughter's life, one which will continue to live in my memory and hers for the rest of her life. Ruth gave birth to a firstborn son on the first Sunday in Advent, Nov. 29th. Over the past several months I had lightly suggested to Ruth and Kevin, her husband, that her parents should be invited to this birth. I told Ruth that neither her mother nor I had ever seen a child being born. I was not allowed into the birth room when our four children were born, and Gick, my wife, was always put to sleep shortly before the actual birth. So we each had not witnessed the primal moment of life. I had continued to tease Ruth with this request, knowing, I thought, that she would surely say no. I was scared to the heart of my being that she might say yes, but pretended that this would be a happy experience, but one I would never be able to share.

When Ruth called early on November 29 I was both surprised and stunned. "Dad, I'm in labor at the hospital. Kevin and I would like to invite you and mom to join us in this birth work. Please come right away."

My heartbeat hastened. I told Gick of Ruth's request. We cried, hugged, laughed, and hastily dressed and left for Madison to spend the day with our daughter and her husband in the birth of their first child. I had no idea of what was in store.

The next eight hours we watched, coached, held hands, silently prayed and tried not to be in the way. At first I felt awkward; the nakedness of one's own daughter. Then followed contractions, and finally the work of pushing the child forth from the womb into the waiting arms of mother and father.

There are images I will never forget, labor which was hard work, twelve hours of pain-filled birth work. Then the first tiny sight of a baby's head, and with each successive push just a little more of his head appeared.

All kinds of images remain. A husband, Kevin, who lovingly and calmly coached and encouraged. A nurse who spent the day, fourteen hours to help Ruth in this new journey of life; Gick who held her hand and smiled, cried, with personal memories and current compassion. A mother mothering a mother.

Then slowly with each push a little more of the child, and finally the doctor's words of ultimate encouragement. "Push hard, Ruth." And Noah's head slipped from my daughter's body. Quickly the doctor unwound the umbilical cord from around the neck, a scary benign presence, and then these words, "One more push, Ruth, and your baby will be free." A last effort and Noah was full born, wiggling, breathing, crying, and alive. The doctor instantly placed the child on Ruth's breast. Tears filled the room. Gladness, thankfulness, joy, awe and silence.

His name shall be Noah Conrad Zamzow-Schmidt. And I knew of the deep meaning of the name. Noah, child of God, one who came out of the waters of flood into the rainbow of promise. Noah who was the dreamer of hope, the architect of the ark, Noah, God's choice to bring new life out of chaos and death.

And now there was this little Noah, child of Ruth and Kevin, grandson of their parents. This child too emerges with hope and promise. Ruth's body, once violated, became the womb of promise.

Elizabeth Johnson describes the birthing activity of God: "She (God) cries out in terrible labor to deliver the new creation of Justice." (Is 42:14) The Hebrew words, compassion and womb, are from the same root. Rehem means womb and rahamin is the word for compassion. Ruth now participates in God's compassionate new creation. And Noah is his name.

Gick and I talked late into the night as we returned to Chicago. We had witnessed the birth of a child of holy hope, called and named Noah, one who is an offspring of promise, a sign of God's love. No more flood, though evil abounds. No more hopelessness of widow and children, but new hope and courage and a rainbow of promise instead.

We hold Noah now in joy and expectation. This child has blessed our daughter with healing and hope, and God's covenant remains secure. And this old grandfather is glad and rejoices. The promise of tomorrow is the same as yesterday. Compassion begets justice and justice creates hope and for this aging grandfather, this new birth calls for special rejoicing. God forgets not her own and brings joy out of labor and new life out of a womb of wondrous compassion. And I have seen it with my own eyes. I live in peace with this memory. I will not forget. Noah is his name.