Last Sunday I entered the waters of baptism for the second time in my life. Not for me this time, but to assist a friend who is visually impaired and unsteady on her feet.
It was a
beautiful experience. There is probably nothing more precious than seeing a
child baptized…unless it is seeing someone 65 years old being baptized. And seeing it at close range is very
humbling.
But here is
a very cool thing…
While
discussing the logistics a week or ago, I learned that my friend did not plan
to use one of the white robes provided by the church for her baptism. She had bought her own.
Well,
OK. But why? I knew
the church owned perfectly fine, snow white robes for these occasions. And I knew that she didn’t have a lot of
money to spare.
Since she,
like me, sometimes likes to dress in unusual things my antennae began to
quiver.
“Ummm. Will
it look like the other robes?” (My
imagination was going into overdrive – visions of a purple muumuu rising to
walk in newness of life, danced in my head)
“Yes”, she
said, “but I want my own baptismal robe.
I want to keep it and look at it every day of my life until I die and
remember the day I got baptized.”
What a
beautiful way to remember your baptism.
Once, when
teaching Vacation Bible School, we were learning about baptism. I placed a clear bowl of water on a small
table by the door and invited the children to touch the water as they came
in. Of course, touching to them meant
plunging both hands into the water and coming up dripping wet.
Good.
I want to
remember my baptism with that kind of enthusiasm.
We were so
happy Sunday after making our way out of the water and back to the kitchen area
that our minister had to caution us to be quieter or we would be heard in the
sanctuary.
Good
again. About as good as it can get.
