Our trek south for Thanksgiving served a dual purpose beyond the Pilgrim feast/football bonanza, and that was to have Justine baptized at my family’s church. My grandmother Hy was performing the ceremony, and family from far and wide was coming into town to witness it, including Kim’s father from upstate New York, brother from Virginia, Gordan Shumway from Melmac, and even sister all the way from New Mexico.
I’m always amused when someone refers to this process as “christening,” which I guess is what the majority of folks would label the event. Growing up Lutheran, the term I’ve always known is “baptism,” a reference to solemn dunking of Jesus by John the Baptist in the Bible. My feeling is that you “christen” a boat, and “baptize” a child, especially since christening vessels is generally done by cracking a cheap bottle of a champagne across their stern, which, although potentially humorous, if done to children would probably be something of a bad idea. I suppose if the tradition were to be maintained, we’d need to switch to Capri Sun bags, which would take away the dangerous glass breaking, plus add a good deal of Vitamin C to the proceeding.
That morning, we arrived at the church in the nick of time, as usual, once again turning a short car ride into Jack Bauer-esque mad dash in which I pretended to be racing to reach a suitcase nuke poised to go off at the top of the hour while Kim attempted to apply make up to her face while simultaneously telling me to “go fast, but ride steady.” At the church we quickly took our assigned seats right up front, which saved us from a long walk up the altar for the baptism, but denied me from checking my email during the sermon.
At the appointed moment, we were asked up on to the altar with Justine (of course) and her god parents, my brother and Kim’s sister. Most of the affair involves reading aloud a bunch of affirmations, in which the four of us took turns in agreeing to one thing or another. The payoff moment quickly arrived, and Kim held Justine down towards the water sitting in the baptismal font, and my grandmother splashed some on her head.
It’s usually at this point that the big question of baptisms is answered – what will happen when the holy water meets baby’s forehead? Having grown up attending the church, I’ve seen most of the alternatives. Sometimes, the baby predictably freaks out, often times because they happen to be asleep at the moment they decide to splash him/her with water. Other babies smile and laugh, perhaps believing it to be bathtime, or adjusting their worldview to include “indoor rain.” Occasionally the splashing of the holy water will burn the child, who will then morph into a demon and dissolve on the altar, thrashing about while talking like a Doors album playing in reverse. I’ve only seen that happen twice.
Justine, being the consummate water lover that she is, took it all in stride, and made not a whimper. The water is followed by the anointing of oil, and finally the lighting of a candle. It’s all very special, and although I’m not sure that Justine grasped the concept of it, she did seem to enjoy the process.
After the service we all lined up for the requisite pictures, with the “PhotoCombiTron” determining every possible combination of family members to take photos of. Fourteen long, flash filled hours later we all retreated to the Drafting Room, a wonderful local restaurant, to share in family togetherness and partake of a grand buffet, featuring made to order omelettes, blintzes, and one of those fishes that you pick the pieces directly off of. Gross.
Afterwards, we said our goodbyes, and went back to Kim’s parent’s house to relax and recover. And then the next day we headed back up north for a few weeks, to prepare for the madness that lay ahead. The shopping, decorating, office parties, and partaking in the joyousness of the season.
Yes friends, my birthday was only a month and a half away.
