I Write. You Read.

Somebody somewhere once said that it takes a village to raise a child. If that’s the case, then it seems we may have brought the majority of our village with us to Simon’s baptism. Between Angie’s side of the family and mine, with a smattering of close friends, we brought twenty-eight people (Including Simon, Angie and myself) into the church for the ceremony.

Of course, everyone wasn’t there. All of our family members couldn’t make it. Due to weather, prior committments or many other good reasons it wasn’t feasible. But we had enough love going around that it was obvious our little family is going to get all the help it needs to continue growing strong. Our emotional cup runneth over.

The baptism itself was a moving experience, as it should be. It was literally a second birth for Simon, albeit a spritual one, and had largely the same effect on my emotions as the first one. Tears welled up and nearly fell, but I managed to hold it together up there in front of everyone. Not that I mind showing my sensitive side; I just didn’t want to be a prima donna.

Michael and Melanie performed their ceremonial duties as Godparents with aplomb. I’ll get back to you on their ability to follow through, although I have no doubt they’d pass every test I could conceive. They have level heads, and we know that they’ll help us raise Simon to be good and faithful. Thank you, guys, for being there that day and every day.

Simon’s beaming grandparents were there, and managed to spoil him as much as they could in just a couple of days. They continue to set an example that we can only aspire to follow in our future as parents. You dads, especially, are a constant guiding light for my journey.

My two grandmothers both got to meet Simon for the first time. They joy that filled my heart at seeing them together with their great-grandson won’t be done justice by words, so I’ll refrain. Let’s just say I came close to tears more than once that day.

I could go on and mention every person there by name and how much it means to me that they cared enough to share this special event in Simon’s life, but I would probably begin repeating myself — You’re so great. Thanks for being there. You’ll be the best baby-sitter ever. Yadda yadda yadda. — and nobody likes a windbag. But you know who you are, and trust me — I do, too.

Baptism is symbolic, but in truth much of what we do in church is symbolic. We have to use symbols to represent the things and ideas that cannot be seen, the intangible gifts of faith, hope and love. The act of baptism, of pouring the water over Simon’s head, marks him as a child of God and symbolizes the blessings of the Holy Spirit. I like to believe that Simon felt God’s grace when the water touched his forehead; at least, he jerked his arms a little. I know I felt something, and I was only watching.

My mom told me a story once, about a time when she sat with my father’s father in the hospital. He was very sick with an infection that would soon take his life, and had only a few moments of lucidity. My grandfather, my PawPaw, saw a baby there, the child of one of the nurses, either in the hallway or in his room. He asked, “Has that baby been baptized? That baby needs to be baptized.”*

I can’t speak for that child, PawPaw, but we’ve got Simon covered.

*As with all oral storytelling, the details may have been muddled, but that’s the gist of it.