Embodied Faith Transitions

Episode 003: The Waters of Baptism
Part 1: 


At 8 years old, I was baptized by my father.


Someone took an overexposed Polaroid of us in our white jumpsuits beforehand. 


The jumpsuits were thick, baggy canvas pieces with a strong elastic around the middle and ample coverage of legs, necks, and shoulders. 


In the picture, we were in front of the red brick wall of the chapel. My father’s hands rest on my shoulders. He towers above me, especially because I am slouching. I was the first baptism in our family. We had traveled back to Utah for the event to be with the Mormon half of my extended family. The trip was my idea. I had asked for this pilgrimage for my baptism day. 


Now it was here, I was here, everyone was here. And I was sick.

In the bottom third of the picture, eight-year-old me struggles to stay upright. I had a fever on that day and it shows. My thin arms droop from the starched jumpsuit. My shoulders sag beneath the weight of his hands. My face is approximately the same sickly white as our garb, except for the dark purple circles under my eyes. I am smiling, barely, but not at the camera. Instead, I look off vaguely to the side, as if it is too much effort even to raise my eyes. 


After the picture was taken, we split up into gendered bathrooms to get to the extra-large bathtub/mini swimming pool that served as a baptismal font. There were yellowish custard-colored tiles in the bathroom. My mother went with me, holding me upright as we stood at the top of the steps leading down into the water. I leaned against her, feeling dazed from the fever but curious about what kind of spiritual epiphany would come as a result of my baptism. I wasn’t sure what would happen, but I was sure it would be something special.


We watched my cousin get baptized in the custard-tiled font. Then, my dad entered the water, beckoning me down the steps into the font as my mother shuttled me forward. I put one foot down, bracing myself, but as my toes dipped in. I had already had primary lessons about the faithful Saints of old who got baptized in icy rivers or by chipping a hole into a frozen lake. I assumed all of us had to get baptized cold.


But no, it was warm.  I melted downward.
 
I floated towards my father while he lifted my hands into the correct positions: one on his left arm and one to be held by his left hand while his right lifted in a right angle. He said the brief, script of a prayer, ending with “…in the name of the Father, the son, and Holy Ghost.” Then he brought my hand to my nose, and I went under, enveloped by soft, warm, wonderful  water. 


He brought me up to hums of approval from the crowd.  He patted me on the back in congratulations and I sank gratefully back into the water to stay warm. My head already felt cold again and I was droopier than ever. Could I go under again? I wondered. Was that allowed?


I decided not to risk it, but waded out as slowly as possible, not wanting to give up the full body warmth. My father went back up the steps on his sides and too soon, my mother was beckoning me up the steps.


“How do you feel?” She said, wrapping me with a white towel. 


I gave her a thumbs up. I wished I had something important and spiritual to tell her. I wanted her to keep being happy.


“The water was warm,” I said.


Someone played piano while my cousin and I got dressed. He came out in his 8-year-old suit, his hair combed flat to his head. I came out in a white frock, hair tied into a wet ponytail. 


We were brought to the front then to be confirmed: that is, to be blessed as official members of the Church and to “receive the Holy Ghost.” My father, uncles, grandpa, circled around us, each laying a hand on our damp hands and placing the other in a fraternal embrace of the man next to him. My father said the blessing for me. I waited for a burning fire of confirmation to come through me to show that the Spirit had accepted me into my Church. The Spirit of God like a fire is burning, was a song we sang regularly and I had heard plenty of stories of men burning with supernatural power following their conversion. 


When the hands lifted off though, I still just felt damp. My grandpa beamed proudly at me and I smiled weakly back. My uncle joked that my cousin and I should enjoy our moment of glory as the newest members because someone in South America was probably going to take that spot within the next 16 minutes. I tried to laugh. I was a bit distracted wondering, however, if I had really become a member of the Church or not. 


If we didn’t feel the burning bosom of confirmation, did that mean it hadn’t worked? 


The rest of the program was short or maybe I just don’t remember much.  
Mostly I remember feeling cold. My wet hair dripped down the back of my white frock and I began to tremble. My family members probably noticed and probably shortened the program to get me home, but I don’t remember.  


When we finally got in the car to go home, I pressed my head against the  window and felt sad. The songs and lessons I had had about baptism told me my baptism was the greatest thing we could do as kids—we would feel all washed clean—it would bring a mighty change of heart if we were worthy but I hadn’t felt anything. Baptism was supposed to give us the power of god to heal the sick, preach in scripture, and even walk on water if we had enough faith! And the Holy Ghost would land inside people with a burning bosom proving they were accepted by God! 


But the only burning I felt, was in my forehead.


There was the warm water though. Could that have been my sign of divine approval?


Had I been worthy of my baptism? I worried. Had I done it right? How would I know if I was really right with god? 


My feverish eight-year-old mind was already wondering these things because the transition into becoming officially Mormon was the most important thing I had ever done. I so wanted to do things right. And I wanted so much to live like Jesus, to love like Jesus, to be accepted by Jesus. 


I hoped that my gesture had been accepted. 


Following close on the heels of these thoughts was another darker one: 
I guess it would be okay if I died now, since I am clean of all sin.


I worried distinctly that if God allowed us to get home safely, I might fight with my brother over something and begin a new tab of sins to be erased by Jesus later. I didn’t like to think that I would cause Jesus more pain. I also didn’t like to think that I would have a new debt of sin waiting to be paid off.


I need not have worried about causing a fight–at least not on that day. My brother was feverish too and both of our temperatures climbed through the afternoon. 


We skipped dinner. We didn’t go to my baptism after-party. 


By evening, I was delirious and dehydrated. The two of us sprawled on a couch bed in my grandparents’ basement, unable to sit up or speak. I faded in and out of frenzied dreams while my mother swabbed my forehead and sat me up for sips of water. 


She told me the next day that she had pleaded all night with the Lord that I wouldn’t die. Around dawn, she said, her prayer had been answered and my fever broke. 


—
Part 2


Years later, I was with a different place, different water, I was with my husband. 


We were in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on the island of O’ahu. My husband had been working, I was tagging along, exploring. 


We had arrived a few days earlier, and I had felt a sudden and consuming awe with…everything. 


I had tried sashimi for the first time, gawked at the unbelievable hue of turquoise in the water, bought a book about Hawaiian stories, and taken pages and pages of notes. I learned for the first time the names: Lono, Pele, Liliu’okalani. 


On that day, I was with my husband, gazing out at the ocean as we drove along the coastline. I had visited big waters before. I had grown up near the Oregon and California coasts. I had splashed in the Gulf of Mexico and the Great Lakes.  I had visited the Pacific in the Southern hemisphere and I had touched the Atlantic from both sides. 


But this was different. The Hawaiian ocean felt different. It was gentle, generous, playful, but also incomprehensibly large, relentless, mysterious, fierce. It had birthed this archipelago in the middle of the Pacific and it was slowly consuming them too. 


I couldn’t stop staring. It was beautiful. It was scary. It was spiritual in a way I didn’t really understand. I had read about Moses in the presence of the burning bush, removing his shoes, knowing that the ground he stepped on was holy. I believed that Mormonism had been founded by a boy entering a Sacred Grove to pray. I had heard that sometimes, the land itself could speak and tremble with the voice of the God. This was the first time I felt like I could imagine what that was like.


This. I thought, This is holy. 


My husband was driving. He knew that something was happening to me here on the island because I had told him every day it was the most extraordinary place I had ever been. “It’ not the beaches,” I tried to explain, “I’ve been to a lot of beaches and they’re great but that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s something else, something deeper. Something about the mountains, the trees, the oceans, the language–everything. It’s just…special.” 


Special. 


That word wasn’t really good enough. It felt like an anti-climax. It was so much more than special. It was precious, gorgeous, vulnerable, expansive, ancient, young, severe, playful, frightening, safe, overwhelming…I didn’t know how to package all those things up into a description, so I had surrendered to just seeing, feeling, witnessing what I didn’t understand. I didn’t know if I would ever see this place again so I was trying to store up a memory of those waters so rich that I could sip on that memory for all my life afterwards.


Today was our last day. 


We had already checked out of out hotel, but had several hours before our flight. We drove in silence, basking in the sun and ocean breeze until I was ready to speak.


“You know,” I said, “I’ve never actually gone swimming in the ocean before.” 


My husband, who had taken vacations every year to swim in California, guffawed. He thought I was joking. 


“I’m  serious,” I said, “I’ve been to the ocean a lot but I never went underwater.” 


“How is that even possible?” He asked, smiling in disbelief. 


I shrugged, “I just stayed shallow. We liked to play at the edge of the waves.” 


Without warning, he swerved into a parking spot. “Alright,” he announced, “get out!” 


I opened my door laughing, “What are you doing?”


He rummaged in the trunk until he pulled out my swimsuit from our bag. “We’re going in,” he said. 


“What?” I laughed. I thought he was joking.


He pressed the suit into my hands and unfolded a flimsy packable towel, holding it up as a privacy screen, “You have to go in the ocean,” he said, “Don’t worry, no one’s looking.”


“What?! No!” I cried, looking around at oncoming traffic and the other beach patrons, “I’m not going to change right here! Besides, I don’t know how to swim in the ocean!”


He smiled and rolled his eyes, “You put your head down and hold your breath. Come on, get dressed.” 


“Well… fine,” I said, “but not like that. You have to stand guard!” 


I got into the back seat, shut the door and crouched behind the passenger seat while I wrestled my swimsuit on. Since I was still fully Mormon, it was a single-piece suit, which made the process more difficult than other swimsuits might have been. Eventually, I pulled up my straps and opened the door. Somehow, my husband had changed using the the flimsy towel alone for cover. 


“Great!” He said, as I emerged, “Let’s go.” 


We walked across the sand. I stopped at the edge of the waves but he continued straight into the water, plunging in head first. He came up whipping water out of his hair and said, “See? Easy!” 


I stepped into the edge of the surf. The water foamed around my feet, tugging at me. It was warm. I looked farther out into the darker water where the sand sloped away it got deeper. Another wave rolled forward and I was suddenly all questions. Where was I supposed to aim my head? What if I got sucked into the undertow? Were there rocks at the bottom? Did I remember how to swim at all? Did we know for absolute certain that there weren’t sharks nearby?


“I don’t know how!” I pleaded again. 


“Come on!” He yelled, “the water is perfect!” He plunged again into an oncoming wave. 


I looked out at the turquoise waters, listened to the breeze rushing through my hair, felt the sun warming my back. There were children, teenagers, adults all playing and swaying in the water together. Presumably if there were sharks, there wouldn’t be so many people here. 


I took a breath: If there were any place to brave a dip in the ocean, this was it. And more than that, I wanted my first ocean swim to be in this ocean. There would never be a better time. 


I stepped forward again and again, letting the foam and sandy water reach my knees and then my hips. At waist height, I was in the “strike zone”–the area where the waves curl and fall hard across the last shelf of sand before spreading lazily upwards and then drawing back again. 


I braced myself, planting my feet, clenching my jaw, and gripping the shifting sand with all ten toes. The first few waves pushed me around by I stayed standing.


Haha! I thought. Not too bad. 


Then, a bigger wave knocked me over. 


I got up and waded out again. A few waves passed before another large wave bowled me over, sending me somersaulting through the surf. It left me spluttering in the shallows again. I coughed and snorted seawater out of my nose as I came out, hurting in my pride and my tailbone. 


I got up and tried again, holding a broad low squat as I inched farther out. Was I even strong enough to do this? I wondered. 
How did everyone else look so relaxed? 


The waves came
Crash
Crash
Crash


My husband’s voice wafted over the waves, “You’ve got to loosen up!” 


“But, what does that mean?” I asked.


“LOO-SEN UP,” he yelled through cupped hands, “BEND your knees!” 


“My knees are bent!” I yelled back. 


“No like thi–“ I didn’t hear the rest. 


Another wave had picked me up, tossing me like a rag doll, before it slammed me against the shore. I got to my knees coughing and breathless but before I could stand, another wave was crashing down hard, turning me upside down and backwards, coating my hair with sand and flooding my sinuses. I finally made it back up to standing only to realize that my swimsuit had been knocked down fully to my waist, leaving my upper half completely bare. 


How had a wave even done that? 


I hurried to pull my straps back up while also skittering out of range of another heavy wave.


My husband swam in laughing, “Nice wipeout!” He said. 


“It’s not funny!” I coughed, still struggling to adjust my wet swimsuit, “that wave totally knocked my suit off!”
 
My husband looked around. After a brief assessment of the other swimmers he said, “It’s fine, no one cares. No one even noticed, except me.” He winked, “Come on, try again!” 


“Well,” I protested, “I did go under water so, there we go. I can just stay here now.” 
 
“Ha!” He barked, “No, no, no. Going under was only part of it. The other is to know how to be in the water. You need to swim in the ocean.” 


“But I already tried!”


“You tried…” He looked for the right word and found it, “defending against the ocean.” 


He mimicked my previous stance, gritting his teeth, clenching up, and boxing out in a squat. He looked wildly from side to side as if scanning for enemies. 


I glowered. 


He stood up, grinning, “You were trying to beat the waves by holding still. But you don’t need to fight them!” 


He relaxed, softened his knees, and stepped out into deeper water. As the next wave rolled in, he sunk down as the water lowered and then lifted off as the swell came in, letting the water carry him for a moment before setting him back down again. “It’s not a battle,” he said, “it’s… a dance! Bend your knees. You know, move with the waves.” 


“Oh…” I said. 


I waded out beside him, dropping lower, willing myself to trust the suck and surge of the waves. I stood lightly. As the next swell rose beneath us, I hopped up. The wave carried me for a moment, rolling peaceful past before setting me down again on the sand.


“Oh!” I said brightly, “OHHH!” I relaxed and let the wave do the work, showing me how low to go and how high.    


I floated across the next wave too. And the next. 


“Yes!” My husband cheered, “That’s it! See? It’s fun right? Now try going through. You can go even deeper.” 


Another swell rose in front of us. He ducked his head and plunged through. I followed. 


We emerged on the other side laughing, “Oh my gosh, this is so fun!” I said, touching the sand below on tiptoe and then hopping back up as another wave rolled by. I started to feel the layers of water beneath me, the cooler, slower layers by my feet and the restless warm waves at my shoulders. A short distance away, we saw a turtle crest a wave and then slip again below the surface.  


We bobbed in the waves for more than an hour. As the sun began to set, we stood by the car, changing stickily back into normal clothes for our flight. I squeezed water out of my sandy hair. 


“So?” My husband probed, “How was the first swim in the ocean?”


“Hmmm,” I said, tasting the salt that had already dried on my lips. “I feel really refreshed. I’m glad you pulled us over. I feel…” I trailed off looking at the verdant mountains behind us. 


They were so, so beautiful. 


I sighed, delighted that we had stopped, grateful to my husband, aching from the beauty of everything I had learned there. 


 “I don’t know how to describe it,” I said, “I just feel…different.”