I found this piece of writing the other night in an old composition notebook. I was surprised when I read it. I could remember the night I was baptized on Feb 9, 2008...but I had already forgotten the details. So after feeling surprised, I just felt thankful that these words were written down and never thrown away :)
"Baptism"
The water feels warm. I remember the missionaries saying they would try to heat it before I got in, and I'm thankful for that. Maybe this water has been sitting, heating, waiting for me to go in, and maybe it's just been a busy morning and others have kept it warm for me.
Paper and skirts rustle on the other side of the font as people inch forward in their seats and crane to the side, all hoping to get a memorable view. They're whispering, preparing themselves and each other for the coming words, a man's voice--my husband's--and his uplifted hand. All I see is the water and the white of my clothes. My husband's hand on the middle of my back is secure. I might have felt scared and alone without it there, but it's as steady as when we hold hands. He begins to speak and his voice trembles. Veterans of the Church would say he "feels the Spirit strongly," but I'm still new to the word "Spirit." I'm still new to what I feel. It shocks me to hear his voice tremble.
I clamp my nose between my fingers and look up at him for a moment, a confirmation, before he pulls me backwards into the water. I feel weightless, surprised to feel my feet float off the floor. The light I see through my eyelids reminds me of the sun. For an instant, I am a child again floating in the pool of an apartment my family and I had lived in. I am a child in the water doing nothing more than bobbing up and down and splashing around, but I am full of joy and life.
I open my eyes and feel the floor under my feet again. It's time to move forward, to leave the water and climb the steps out of the font. I feel something, in fact I'm brimming with it. So when my husband says, "I love you," I say nothing more than, "Thank you." I am full of thanks for what I've been given.
I step into the changing room, my wet feet slapping against the tile floor, dripping in a white outfit I would rather not part with. My arms are cold now but the clothes are still warm against my body. I realize then that I'm overwhelmed by the small task of drying off, so I work slowly--drying my hair, stepping into nylons while tiptoeing around the puddles I've made. Then, finally, I open the door.
I find the sister missionaries on the other side. "How do you feel?" one asks. "Do you feel different?" asks the other. I look at them and feel relieved, thankful to talk to them before returning to the busy room with an audience. I nod and say that I feel wonderful, which is to say that I feel no different from how I've felt in the last few months. They nod with understanding and give me a hug, a gesture of encouragement during what seems like an intermission, a push out the door to help me finish what I started. In that doorway within the dim and quiet hallway, we are friends.
The night is long, it is almost over. I sense everyone's weariness. The program says now is the time for the bearing of testimonies--most importantly, most expectantly, mine. But I do not stand up. I sit uncomfortably, embarrassed and ashamed. I'm too afraid to speak. So the bishop stands and wraps up the ceremony, and the night ends with hand shakes and congratulations.
In later years, I will look back at this moment--this brief but astounding moment--and wish I had said something.
I am a newborn in the Church, eyes still wide, a voice without words. I hold a testimony in my heart but it's one that I fear is too simple for most adults. I feel silly at the thought of bearing it. Childish. Ineloquent. Still, I know the Church is true and that the gospel is a real thing, not just a philosophy or a suggestion. I know these things are good and of God, and that following commandments in faith leads to unexplainable blessings. I could cry knowing in what ways I have been blessed.
I am grateful.
These things I leave with you in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
