In April 1982, one month before my eighth birthday, my parents did the unthinkable and left the Mormon church. Now, if you know nothing else about Mormonism, know this: baptism occurs after a child turns that eight. And it is a BIG deal (or ordeal depending on who you ask). The Mormons don’t do the holy water sprinkle bit, but instead go all in for the baptism by full immersion. The child to be baptized walks into the baptismal font and greets the baptizer, often the child’ s father. Then the actual baptism happens followed by what 8-year-olds everywhere will tell you is the main event: the PARTY. And, boy, how I’d wanted that party, been awaiting that party since my brother had his own baptism some 18 months before.
And, now my parents had eliminated that glittering possibility. I was crushed.
When we left the LDS faith, we began attending mass at a local parish. My mother who had been raised Roman Catholic, found familiarity in that denomination. Several months later, we had relocated to Phoenix, and my mother began teaching at a Catholic school in which she enrolled us. Unbeknownst to me, she had also signed us up for afternoon catechism classes with my least favorite nun, Sister C. The woman was just plain grumpy and ornery, but she achieved her goal – to prepare my sister and me for baptism and my brother and me for our First Communion. And so it was that I received “the sprinkle” baptism sans party instead of the LDS Big Deal event.
As an adult, I have attended mostly non-denominational Bible churches that baptism by immersion, but each church said that they would count “the sprinkle” as baptism. That is until I moved to my current city and began attending a church affiliated with the Southern Baptist convention. A prerequisite for church membership was baptism by immersion.
So, a little background here: my current church building transforms from sanctuary to basketball court during the week Unlike many Baptist churches, it has no permanent baptismal font. Instead, on baptismal Sundays, a large white tub is wheeled onstage during one of the morning services. The individual being baptized must climb up a short flight of steps to get to the edge of the font and then navigate several steps down into the water where the baptizer waits. As the two people stand in the font, someone reads a very short version baptizee’s testimony. Then the baptizer gently leans their baptizee back into the water until they are completely immersed. When the newly baptized arises, they must retrace their steps to climb out of the tub.
Now, for me, I envisioned several hazards in this baptism- in-a- tub scenario. First, I am an introvert by nature, and the mere thought of exposing my innermost spiritual life to hundreds of strangers overwhelmed me, setting my heart to screaming, “NO!NO!NO!” Second, my disability sometimes rears its ugly head, and I have to use a cane for stability when walking. Ingress and egress over wet, slippery steps seemed a sure-fire method to require another hip replacement. Third, the pastor barely knew my name much less my personal history. And fourth, did I mention I am an introvert?
I had been praying for wisdom and guidance regarding my baptism, knowing that for me the tub version wouldn’t be the expression of faith for which it was intended. At best it would leave me feeling that I had merely ‘checked the box’ and, at worst, end in a 911 call and ambulance ride. Neither option sounded appealing. Instead, I wanted to be baptized by someone who knew my heart, my strengths, and my flaws and still loves me. Who but my own father would fit that blueprint?
So, what to do? The only thing possible – I waited for God to answer.
Ocracoke Island, NC, is one of my favorite places. My family history is there, and time seems to downshift as soon as you step off the ferry. Before this year, my mother had steadfastly refused to go as she wanted it preserved in its 1970 version of her memory. This year, my mother changed her mind, and so I was able to bring my parents with me.
So, one late Thursday afternoon in July found us at the little beach at Springers Point. The few beach goers that had braved the Springers Point nature trail to arrive at the little jewel of a beach had decamped for dinner leaving the soft white sand and calm water deserted but for my parents and me. Soaking in the late afternoon sun from my beach chair, I stared out at the waters of the Pamlico Sound, and He called to my soul, ‘Right here, right now. Come, it’s time.’
My parents walked with me out into the waters surrounding Ocracoke, my father holding one arm and my mother the other. My father prayed to Abba and then, with my mother’s help, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit lowered me wholly into warm waters of the Sound. These very waters that had physically sustained generations of my mother’s family, these very waters where my grandmother and her family fished and swam, these waters provided my spiritual rebirth. The privilege of that blessing stills leaves me slightly agog.
Coming onto the beach from the water, I noticed two young men sitting several yards away facing the Sound. At their feet was an old-fashioned boom box, and it was pouring out Christian songs. I knew that these two men had not been on the beach when I walked into the water, and they left shortly after my parents had rejoined me on the sand. The only verbal exchange with the two men came when my mother told them she liked their music. They both smiled and acknowledged her comment, and moments later, they were gone having disappeared into the scrub brush along the shore.
As we walked back along the nature trail, my mother seemed lost in concentration. Then, she said, “Those two young men, they were watching the whole time we were baptizing you. I believe God sent His angels to witness your baptism.”
I thought for a moment what I had seen and heard, and I slowly nodded. “Yes.”
That Thursday in late July, God bestowed a gift: His angels with me on the beach at Ocracoke celebrating my spiritual homecoming. Decades on, the not-to-be baptism that so wounded my 8 year-old self became His gift.
I am His, and He is mine.
Song of Sol 6:3
The Unexpected Life 