Baptism

 

As a sucker for symbolism,

I was baptized in elementary school.

 

I’d witnessed plenty of baptisms in 

baptismal pools

Ponds

Metal wash tubs in store-front churches.

None of them were like mine.

My father – not a pastor – prayed for me and dipped me in our family bathtub.

 

Usually, robed men lift their hands to God 

Debate whether to say Jesus or Father Son Holy Ghost

Debate whether to sprinkle, dip, dunk, or drown

Some say everything.

Some do everything.

But nobody being baptized really cares what they say at all.

 

The men mumble on

while you, draped in white,

contemplate how your life will change after this moment.

How after your body makes contact with this water

you will do life right 

this time.

This time is new.

And doesn’t everyone deserve a moment such as this –

A moment when water floods the ears

A moment of shocking cold that palpitates the heart

A moment of weightless abandon to 

Hope

That you can finally be new

And clean

And right

And holy.

Hope is a holy thing that must be watered.