It was shortly after 4 a.m. when the midwife asked me if I wanted to help deliver the baby. I was pretty bleary-eyed, having stayed up much of the previous night anticipating the moment when my wife would say the contractions were too intense and frequent, and we would need to fly to the hospital. In my weary state, all I could think of was what a horrible mess it would be if I dropped the baby.

I felt ambiguous. I said that I would think about it.

The whole idea of helping bring into the world my third child by guiding it out of the womb and catching it upon delivery thrilled me, stirred me, made me feel very much alive and connected to what my wife was going through. On the other hand, I doubted my ability. That haunting question, which seems to visit me often when a risky situation presents itself, ran through my mind: “What if I screw up?” It’s a question familiar to many, I suppose. Chronic doubt seems universal when it comes to those moments of being required to act and come through in the clutch.

But as I sat there contemplating the delivery, both helping my wife cope with ever-intensifying contractions and talking with the midwife, I realized I would be disappointed after the fact if I did not get in there and be a part of the delivery. I also saw it as something God was calling me to do — not in the sense that it was a command to be obeyed, but in the sense that it was an experience He was inviting me to because it would be good.

It was not good. It was great.

As the baby’s head came out, the midwife told me to place one hand under the head and the other on top as she used a bulb aspirator and suctioned out the fluid in its nose. Then, when the next contraction came, my wife pushed and the baby came right out into my arms – nice and smooth. I did not break down and start sobbing as I had done at the birth of our first son nearly six years ago. The prolonged labor, and the intense emotion that went with it, had built up to a point so that once I laid eyes on him — a precious, tiny and amazing life — I was overcome.

Not knowing whether our third was a boy or a girl, I held the baby up and checked as the midwife helped me hand the baby to my wife. I had been equally desirous of a boy and a girl. With two boys already — Noah and Elijah — I could imagine the excitement of a girl and how she might bring her tender, mysterious femininity into our household and encourage my wife while she taught me valuable lessons. I thought my boys would enjoy having a little sister to protect and defend, and perhaps it would make them able to appreciate women throughout their lives.

But I also had images of adventures in the wilderness, battles waged, games played – and a brotherhood of heroic hearts which might be forged if the baby were another boy. The Three Musketeers, the Three Amigos and, at times, simply the silliness of the Three Stooges danced in my mind. Furthermore, given the crisis of manhood that is plaguing the world, I thought it a great adventure in its own right to attempt to raise three boys to be true men; godly and appropriately masculine.

It is still a profound mystery, and – frankly – quite odd that life develops within a woman’s body the way it does. There is an aloneness for a woman when she is giving birth. She must push the baby out and nobody else can do it for her. Nobody can take that burden from her unless the baby is removed surgically. And all the coaching in the world somehow falls a little short in the heat of the moment. But by being as involved as I could possibly be, I felt a connection to her and to the baby, which also foreshadowed the reality into which the baby was born. All births are not only blood-and-guts endeavors with a starkness to them; they are also highly symbolic of what life really is.

When a baby is born, it is squeezed with great strain upon mother and baby through a very messy process, and yet it comes through the mess to a great promise. Through the mess, the hard work and pain, there is life and hope and growth that could not have occurred inside the womb. And I see in that a powerful lesson about walking with God. He takes us through the valley of death at times, but prepares a table for us on the other side. And as messy as it gets, the Father is always there to catch us, as I was for my baby.

So as I caught my third boy, Luke, tired as I was. I could not avoid the adrenaline rush of new life hitting me once again, along with the thought that I must guide him through his life the same way the Father shepherds me.

***
Luke Cordrey is all cleaned up now and at home learning how to be a musketeer as he watches his dad sword fight with his brothers.