October 5, 2009

Each time I am dunked in the green, green
sacramental water, I glare shamelessly
as she shrieks and kisses me, gripped in air;
I do not know if she loves me or cares,
if it's suffering or joy behind her tears.

from "Chiffon Morning" by Henri Cole

Your baptism is scheduled for Sunday, November 29. Your father wants the font moved to a different spot in the church, wants the whole congregation to gather around you, wants to lead them there by singing "Shall We Gather at the River."

Meanwhile, I worry about what we will do with so many relatives circling around on Thanksgiving weekend, how our oven never cooks at the right temperature, how our kitchen is too small to hold an entire Thanksgiving dinner. Meanwhile, I worry about what I will wear to the baptism. I want soft gray tights, three shades darker than the fall sky. Grandma Ricki wants you in the Christening gown she wore and I wore. Grandma Dorothy wants you baptized the first Sunday of advent so when we light the first candle every year we can remember your entrance into the Christian community.

You were born to "Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom," a Taize chant that was part of our birthing mix. And though I have always loved baptisms, it now seems to me false somehow to do the ritual so many months after your birth.

I wonder why the water in Cole's poem is green. Green, green actually. You hate having water poured over your head; I worry that you will scream through the baptism and that this will somehow reflect poorly on me. As though I have already failed to raise you properly. And I am embarrassed to feel this way. Another part of me thinks "scream in public while you can, ratchet the air with the honesty of your voice, you will know the burden of docile politeness soon enough."