On Baptism...

I was baptized a Catholic when I was barely old enough to hold my head up. The priest held me up and declared me Princess in front of grumbling, displeased Catholic family members. Till the day he died, my grandfather called me Erika just because he hated the name Princess. There was a lot of hate, I guess, and with time, I grew to hate that I was baptized. I hated that I didn't have any say in it, and had I had any say in it, I never would have allowed some priest juice to be sprinkled on my forehead.

"What religion are you?" people would ask me when I was younger.
"Nothing."
"You can't be nothing. Were you baptized Catholic?"
"Yeah, but it was against my will."
"It doesn't matter. If you were baptized, you're Catholic."

I hated it. Eventually, as the people around me grew older, they too relinquished their religion and the questions stopped. Most of the people I know never discuss religion until they have their first baby and grandparents put pressure on them to baptize.

"Are you going to do it?" I'll ask.
"Bah, why not? It doesn't mean anything and it'll make my grandmother happy."

Being that my godmother and godfather broke up shortly after I was baptized and went their separate ways, and also that being a godmother or godfather has no real significance here other than standing and posing for pictures and assuming you get custody of the kid if its parents should die somehow, even though their will most likely specifies otherwise, the spiritual guidance I received was pretty limited.

I remember one discussion with my grandmother about religion. We'd grown closest when I was a teenager and I was painting the entire inside of her house. I asked her how the creation story made any sense to her and she started on about how her church believed in seven stages rather than days, and went on to say that God was love and that, "One day, megirl, I hope you figure it out." Or maybe she was more certain. Maybe she said, "One day, megirl, you will figure it out." She might have been certain but for me to remember it, I had to have grasped it in a completely non-pushy way. I do remember the way she looked at me when she said it. And the way she put her arthritic hands heavily on my shoulders. And she was wearing grey.

She'd do that often. She was the only one. We'd talk for hours and when she really needed me to hear something, she'd put her hands heavily on my shoulders and look me squarely in the eye and say it. Things like, "Your father did his best, megirl," and "Love your brothers. They'll be your best friends."

I wish I could remember them all.

When I was in Ireland, she sent me a letter telling me to eat. I'd struggled with anorexia for ages and ages (and still do), and so she wrote pretending to be supportive of me contemplating a philosophy degree only to get "accidentally" sidetracked into a discussion about the importance of body nourishment.

After the whole betrayal thing happened a few months ago and I stopped eating again, I was cleaning out some boxes and found that letter. Without a doubt, God had given cluttery me some sort of sudden will to sort and let my grandmother, who died less than a year after that letter was written, set me straight again. And you know, it wasn't the most elaborate letter, or profound letter, but she knew me, and she knew how I pushed back and spoke to me in such a way that I didn't. There was a sort of hesitation in her writing, which now I can see as her trying to produce the exact right phrasing to get through to me. And it does, still.

Her birthday is August 23rd. This year, like my birthday, it falls on a Sunday. And this year, my favorite church in North Carolina that I love is having a baptism barbecue on her birthday. And I so can't afford to go and I'm not sure my car will make it down there a second time this summer. But how can I not?

So I prayed on it. I asked God to help me decide whether or not I am supposed to go down there for this. I still am praying about it. I have a little under three weeks to decide.

And last night, I was talking about God things with my sister-in-law for a while, and at around midnight, my brother interrupted and asked, "Do you realize that since you got here you haven't stopped talking about God? No wonder dad shuts down about it right away. Otherwise, you just don't stop talking about it." My sister-in-law stood up for me, and we both argued that she was the only person around me with whom I felt safe talking about God things. I never talk to my dad about it. I showed him my new giant ESV study Bible because that thing, regardless of its content, is an amazingly impressive, intimidating book and right away, he shut down. I showed him a book for size sake and he shut down. I can't talk about it with him at all. And apparently, my brother feels invaded by it too.

On my way home, I asked God if I was ready to be baptized. Am I? Because I still hide it from people. I still have my Jesus fish wedged between the seats in my car rather than stuck to the trunk. I still only get into discussions about Jesus if He happens to come up somehow. I'm still not fully ready or all that excited about becoming a complete social outcast. I've already lost a lot of my friends about this and a lot of respect from the people I haven't lost. But am I going all in?

I worried about that for a while- how some people leave their family behind to go serve God and how it terrifies me that one day, God might ask me to leave my dogs behind. Some might say, "They're just dogs," but I made a commitment to them to keep them safe and as healthy and happy as I could. I can't betray them. I can't leave them behind. So I prayed on it too, and I realized that I was making God out to be somebody or something who crushes everybody to get what He wants. God knows my heart. He knows what I can handle and what I can't, and I think we both know I can't handle losing my dogs because of something I did to them. My sacrifice is not my dogs. My sacrifice is my speech. For now, my sacrifice is my openness about my faith.

God could ask me to leave it all behind and go spread the Gospel somewhere far away. He could. But everybody around me is without Him. Everybody. Even the majority of the members of the one Catholic family I know who goes to church every week don't know Him. Of all the people around me, so far one of the Catholic people I know has been the least receptive of Jesus. I tried to get her to listen to a sermon about why our behaviors change when our heart changes because of Jesus and in two months and a bit, she says it's still on her "to do" list, but she hasn't had the time.

So yeah, I've got a ton of work for Jesus right here that doesn't involve destroying myself by removing my dogs from my life. But it does involve breaking myself and throwing myself into a world of discomfort and rejection.

Am I ready for that?

Is it right for me to get baptized if I'm not? Can I still love Jesus enough to get dunked even if I'm not ready to sacrifice the hardest thing yet?

I'll just keep praying on it and see what He says.