This date from 1944 is unforgettable for me. I was intent upon completing my collegiate program, after a break of a year during which I was married, engaged in a church assignment, and had just moved from Nebraska to Illinois. World War II was in full armor. I had no money, my wife was pregnant, and funding was slim for completing goals for professional life in the context of Christian ministry. In Nebraska, my stipend for all expenses, including salary, was fifteen dollars a week. Just arriving in Illinois I took a job in a secret service company with the assignment to check out candidates for officer assignments in the Navy, and for insurance approvals of high profile clients with significant coverage. It is the only job I ever engaged that I hated. I discovered that I did not want to spy on the lives of other persons for any reason, even for my country. My report on a furtive drunk or randy client might change a career and life.
Entering the house I went directly to the room where I prepared reports for the day. My wife, Fern, mentioned that she was feeling nauseous. I suggested casually that she lie down. The baby was due in two months. (The doctor, having assured us, went on his annual vacation.) From the bedroom, there wafted to me distressful sounds. I went in to discover initial birth pangs. I quickly ran next door to get assistance from Mrs. Christianson, who responded immediately. She comforted my wife, but knew these were birth pangs. She phoned a doctor she knew, who left an office full of patients, and drove to the house. The doctor immediately told me that birth was imminent, that because this was the first child, premature, and with Fern’s reactions he would prefer to deliver in a hospital. He insisted that I carry her while he drove his car to the front curb. I lifted her and carried her to the car. She was pulling at my neck, but I held on – finding out later that if her feet had touched the ground, the baby would have been born. Her water broke and I was soaked. We drove through lights. Mrs. Christianson called ahead, and the gurney was on the parking lot when we arrived. The doctor jumped out and shouted to me to park the car. The attendants took my wife from my lap and had her in the hospital in a few moments. I parked the car, and hurried in the nearest door. I announced that I was the husband of the woman just received for emergency attention, and asked where I should go. A nurse said, Quiet! Don’t you hear a baby crying? I did, and it was the only sound one could hear at about 6:00 pm that evening in the hospital. That’s your daughter you hear, singing to you.
So it was that on this date, in 1944, my beloved Fern gave to me my dear Sharon. Sharon was kept for a time in an incubator, and was released a month later. My wife was released in ten days, felt weak both in body and spirit, partly because she could not take our baby with her. All the activity led to learnings for me, and the single most important context of events in my growth into adult responsibility. Decades have elapsed. My wife has moved higher, but awaits me. My Sharon flourished, became a mother and a devoted person. She retired with her husband, and moved next door to me. She reflects her mother’s image for me. I revel in a herd from new generations about me. With her two brothers and sister, and their mates, we enjoy a Christian family. There is love, beauty and immortality in it all. How does one carry this carol over to others who have no children, or do not know what to do with the ones they have, who do not learn how to utilize the combination of natural and spiritual resources to find the beauty in the blessing of generations? God told our first parents to multiply, and so we have, but many persons miss the spiritual meaning of ongoing life in generations from the creation. *Mark W. Lee, Sr. — 2016, 2020