The birth of our first child

September 2, 1973, was a fast Sunday. We had been to church on campus, where I served as a counselor in the presidency of a BYU branch. Fall was beginning, students were returning to school, it was the first Sunday of the new school year, it was a holiday weekend, and we were about to become parents. It was an exciting time.

Claudia was eight months along, expecting our first child on October 5, and everything seemed to be progressing as it should. She looked cute being so very pregnant. Two weeks earlier—on Friday, August 17—she had graduated cum laude from Brigham Young University with a bachelor's degree in elementary education. Following her graduation, we rode back to California as her parents' guests for a week at Laguna Beach. Our apartment there perched on top of a cliff overlooking the vastness of the mighty ocean.

But now we were back in Utah and looking forward to a new school year. We were both out of school, but our ties to the university continued through my employment on campus and through our associations in the branch. Just the day before, on Saturday, I had completed and mailed the first issue of the Cleverly Newsletter, a quarterly newsletter for my parents' family that I would continue to publish over the coming decades in quarterly, monthly, even weekly formats.

Sunday afternoon we were home from church, and Claudia had prepared our Sunday dinner. We sat down to eat around four o'clock in the afternoon. I noticed her squirming in her chair and asked what the problem was.

"Oh, just constipation," she replied.

A bit later she was feeling worse and called her doctor. His first question was, "Are you in labor?"
"Of course not. I'm not due for another month."

From the way she described how she was feeling he couldn't tell what was wrong. "Maybe it is constipation," he concluded. He pre­scribed some medi­cine, but be­fore we could even think about finding a drug store that was open, she was feeling so bad that I called the doctor again. He told me to take her straight to the hospital and he would meet us there.

We drove over to the hospital in Marshmallow, our little white Volkswagen. It was only a few blocks from where we lived. At 5:17 Claudia was wheeled into the labor room with contrac­tions at eighty seconds. Not bad for not knowing she was having contrac­tions.

I was sent down to admit her to the hospital, and when I returned she was in the delivery room having a baby. I was allowed to be with her, even though we'd had only three of the six required prenatal classes.

Our son was born at 6:30 in the evening. Michael Adam was seventeen and a half inches, six pounds seven ounces. A month and three days early. Claudia's labor had been extremely short—two and a half hours from start to finish.

The instant the doctor laid the baby on her stomach, Claudia said, "Let's do it again!"

For a few hours I was allowed to stay with her in the recovery room. There was little sleep for either of us that night. Nineteen years later, as Michael was preparing to leave for his mission to Brazil, I spoke in his missionary farewell of that first night: "Nineteen years ago . . . Claudia lay in a hos­pital bed in Provo with her firstborn son in her arms, just hours old, counting his fingers and toes, as I sup­pose new mothers do, but even more importantly thinking ahead, among other things, to this very day. She was planning in her mind the future course of his life, envisioning his serving a mis­sion, looking forward with an eye of faith. And so what does she spend the next nineteen years doing? The kinds of things the Lord's prophets have told parents to do to get their sons ready and worthy to serve missions. She has acted in faith, seeing with her eyes the things which she had beheld with the eye of faith."

The next day was Labor Day, even though Claudia had done her laboring on the Sabbath day. On Tuesday her mom flew in from southern California to help out for a week and a half. Our new little son was the Langes' first grandchild. Claudia and Michael Adam came home from the hospital on Wednesday.

We took our baby to get his name on the Sunday just before Oct­o­ber conference. In fast and testi­mony meeting on Sunday, September 30, I held our firstborn son in my arms and gave him his first blessing. Most of the members of the BYU Eleventh Branch were single students, with maybe a half dozen married couples, so a baby blessing was a rare treat for them.

"Our Father in heaven, by the authority of the Melchizedek Priest­hood which we bear as elders in the Church of Jesus Christ," I prayed, "we take this infant child in our arms to give him a name and a father's blessing. And the name which we give him, and by which he will be known upon the records of Thy church and the records of this land, is Michael Adam Cleverly.

"We pray, Father, at this time that Thy blessings will be poured out upon this child in abundance, that he may grow strong and develop and obtain the full stature of his being, that he may fulfill the mis­sion for which he was sent to this earth. We pray, our Heavenly Father, that he may grow strong in the gospel, that he may grow spiritually through ex­peri­ence. We pray that he may be valiant in right­eous living, that he may live up to the great example that was given by the patriarch of the human family whose name he bears. We pray that his mind may be blessed, that he may grasp the teach­ings of the gospel and teachings of a secular nature in the work of the world that he may choose.

"Bless his parents that they may provide an atmos­phere of growth and learning, that he may have every advantage which he needs to return to Thy presence. Please bless him, Father, we humbly pray and do so in the name of Thy beloved Son, our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen."

I cannot describe the feelings that swelled in my heart during that blessing. The feelings were of love and a profound respect for the miracle of life and a keen aware­ness of my new responsibilities as a parent. A few moments later, during the quiet of the sacrament, the Spirit touched the eyes of my under­standing. Were it not for the Savior's atoning sacrifice, none of what I was ex­peri­encing would have been happening. Without that sacrifice there would be no Church and we would not have been met in a fast and testimony meeting. With­out that sacrifice there would be no priesthood with which to have blessed that child. Without that sacrifice there would be no eternal family ties and no knowledge of the importance of the family. Without that sac­rifice life itself would be meaningless.