Will Hold Babies at Funerals

I was at Susan’s house when she got the call. Susan is a fellow “Chaos Embracer,” a devoted Mommy who, for all intents and purposes, stays at home. But she is a professional musician, and her warm mezzo soprano is in demand for weddings and funerals. “Yes,” I hear her say to the person on the other end of the phone. “I can sing on Saturday.”

I know how she feels. It is winter, and since Nolan’s debut into the world, her life has centered around feeding schedules and diaper changes. She smiles adoringly at her baby boy, but I can see she is excited about the prospect of leaving the house on Saturday. Sometimes Mommies want to be recognized for their other gifts, too.

When Saturday morning arrives, it’s been determined that I will be the designated baby holder. I arrive at Susan’s doorstep, two coffees in hand, and we drive together into the city to the massive St. John Cantius church. Everything about the church is behemoth, from the heavy oak doors with wrought iron trim to the heavy light fixtures in the vestibule. I am not Catholic, and seeing the sanctuary nearly takes my breath away: morning sunlight streams through the huge glass windows and makes the intricately painted cathedral ceiling almost appear as if it’s glowing. There are too many carvings and painting and sculptures to possibly absorb, but the overall effect is magnificent. Even better when Susan begins rehearsing with Father Scott, a pleasant man who plays the pipe organ with ease and sincerity. No amplification is needed; Susan’s voice floats effortlessly throughout the church. She, like Father Scott, is well versed in the favorite sacred songs often sung at funerals.

But my job is the sweet babe, who has just had a filling meal and is resting comfortably in my arms. I am afraid that he will stir during the music, or at the sound of the priests praying, but these are the sounds that are already in this baby’s prenatal memory. He settles into my shoulder, only moving occasionally to adjust his head, or stretch a tiny fist.

The funny thing is, Susan thinks I’m doing her a favor. I guess I am. I understand how a Mommy sometimes loses her identity a bit when she is caring for a newborn. All the baby’s wants and needs come first, as it should be. But the Mommy needs these little windows of opportunity, to remind her that she was somebody in her own right before she became somebody’s Mommy. I am here to help her be that person, and to know, for an hour, that someone else will tend to baby’s needs.

But my reasons for being here a really more selfish. The intoxicating smell of baby, or more specifically, baby head, is just too sweet to pass up. Holding Nolan feels like putting on a rediscovered custom-fitted glove. The instinct to hold the baby, rock the baby, kiss the sweet peach fuzz at the hairline, to hum a soft, low tune in his ear is so strong that nothing will get in the way. Now that my babies are no longer infants, I finally understand what is so special about this fleeting stage of infancy. As Susan’s voice sweetly mourns the loss of a parishioner in this beautiful church, another life is here, warm and sweet and innocent and just getting started. And all I can do is breathe it in.