FAITH
by Mary Helen Straker 
Toys decorated the Christmas tree in the corner of the hospital classroom; the tree so real-looking you could almost smell pine needles. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, and it was beginning to look as though Tracy would be spending the holiday at home with Mark. She'd been back on her feet for nine days—after eight weeks of bed rest—and nothing had happened yet, much to the surprise of her doctor.
Tracy forced her thoughts away from the baby and onto the Lamaze teacher's words: visualization, concentrate on imagery, free the mind from centering on the body. Since she'd missed most of the classes, Tracy wanted to absorb all she could. She intended to deliver this baby perfectly.
"What does childbirth mean to you?" the RN asked. "Try to answer what most comes to your mind as we go around the class."
A girl, not more than sixteen, looked at her clenched fists—fingers bare of rings—and then at the floor. "Pain," she said softly, hunching her shoulders.
Pain: The sound of babies crying as the nurses wheeled them in to their mothers. The physical pain of last year's miscarriage had scarred over, but other reminders were still raw,
"Nurses!" said the curly haired man wearing a neck chain. Everyone laughed but Tracy
Nurses: The nurse telling Mark that evening, "You'll have to scrub and put on a gown. Your baby's in the room." He had stood in the doorway in the twilight until at last she'd whispered, "Mark . . . ,'' and he came across the room slowly to sit beside her and lay his cheek against hers in silence. The next morning, the nurse with the tiny parcel: "Here's your beautiful baby , . . oops .'Sorry. Wrong room."
"Diapers and wipers," said a man with a gray-streaked beard.
Wipers: The cleaning woman, wastebasket in hand, "Have they brought your baby?" Tracy, turning her face away, could only shake her head. The wastebasket slammed, spilling, as the truth sank in.
"Doctor." This time it was an older woman who spoke.
Doctor: Tracy's doctor, consoling her. "Sometimes it's for the best. You're young. You must try again. Chances are good."
"Life!" said a pretty brunette.
Life: Being pregnant again. At fourteen weeks, the doctor asking, "Feeling life yet?" A small nudge that same evening, small, yet enough to move mountains. Mountains of hope. Then, into the third trimester, the pains came, which sent her to bed.
"A goal," said the man with the what-am-I-doing-he re look, tugging his mustache.
A goal: She had marked off the days, the weeks, and the months—December—the goal at last within reach,
"Beauty,” said the redhead.
Beauty: Mark had said yesterday, "When you coming out, Rascal? I want to see your beautiful face, sweet baby!"
"A son!" said the lanky man. His wife shrugged, widening her eyes. Had she, like Tracy and Mark, chosen not to know?
A son: If "Rascal" was a girl, would Mark be disappointed? Mark's father would have what his wife called a "hissy Jit." Calling Alabama to tell Mark's parents the news. "Gonna teach that boy to hoe garden and spit tobacco/ Told coach—got him a new star coming up!"
It was Mark's turn. "A gift," he said.
Tracy flashed him a smile, and then it was her turn.
"Faith," she said quickly, sure "faith" was the answer. It wasn't enough to want and to need. Even courage, even love, they weren't enough. Springboards, they got you going. Faith was the raft that kept you afloat.
Ending the session, the instructor reminded the group, "Don't get to the hospital too soon. When you can't walk, talk, or joke through a contraction, it's time to go."
On Christmas Eve, when she got out the tree ornaments, Tracy was feeling twinges. She handed a baby angel to Mark, who stood on the ladder, and felt a dull stabbing pain. She reached to hand him the crowning star and felt it again, low in her back,
"Mark!" she exclaimed, dropping the star. He jumped down beside her, scanning her face. She reached for his hand.
"This is no joke," she gasped. They were on their way.
Tracy crushed Mark's hand in the LDR (labor, delivery, recovery) room, trying to breathe when he coached her, trying to keep control. Mark, watching her face, pleaded with her to let him get help for the pain.
The nurse-instructor had explained medication was an option—a tool to be used if one chose. Tracy had chosen to deliver her baby drug-free. If she could tip the scales by a hair's breadth ... if it would help . . . she would do it.
"Push—now!"
Tracy pushed—one last push, bearing down hard—and heard Mark say, "It's a girl!"
"A fine healthy girl!" the doctor said, holding the baby up.
Still holding Mark's hand, Tracy brought it to her cheek. As his face came down to hers, she could see his eyes, glistening above the mask.
"Merry Christmas, Mommy!"
Later that night, Tracy held Mark's hand in one of hers. The dark-haired infant, tucked into a red Christmas stocking, slept in her bassinet beside them.
"How did your father take the news?" she asked. "A Yankee and a girl!"
"Already enrolled her—Alabama, class of 2028. Now he's talking beauty queen!"
The baby whimpered, and Mark bent over her, kissing her forehead, inhaling the fresh, new smell of her. "I love you, Christmas-gift baby. You're what I always wanted. Little Rastine!"
Rastine. Knowing Mark, it was just the first in a series of love names. He would never run out. For Tracy, there would be only one name, now and forever. Pain, nurses, beauty, doctor, a gift of life, and love were all were part of their daughter's birth. A goal, inspired by courage, made real by faith. What else could they call her, but Faith?
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