Water

Everyone was waiting and yet I still did not want to enter the chapel. I heard general whispering as I stood barefoot in the foyer. The only way I would be moved is forcibly.
This suited my father fine. His hand wrapped itself tightly around mine and soon my feet couldn’t help but follow his footsteps. My head dropped and my eyes searched vainly for a pattern in the coarse orange carpet of the chapel. An organ played a hymn I recognized but whose title I couldn’t remember.
“What took so long?” My mother’s voice barely a whisper.
“He’s nervous.”
I was nervous. And cold and embarrassed. My feet looked more purple than white by the time I reached the front pew. The bishop took the pulpit with a smile and cleared his throat.
He spoke about Jesus and John the Baptist and Jordan and a perfect example of obedience. A new life lay before me. I would die with Jesus and rise again as he had done after three days in the ground. This was a kind of resurrection. The old me dying and the new me rising. Disciple. Discipline. Accountability. I would come into my own.
The baptismal waters greeted me warmly and wrapped my white pants tightly against my thin calves. The suction felt comforting. Rows of family sat before me, grinning. My mother dabbed a handkerchief into the corner of her dry mascara. My uncle and grandpa seated next to the font — first hand witnesses to the event. God and His angels will be present, the bishop had said in his office. They will witness you be cleansed.
Dad gripped my bony wrist in his left hand and took his right arm up into the air, just like we had practiced. I looked up at his face, looking at his dry, smooth skin. A bit of rough stubble dotted his chin. He did not return my gaze.
The memorized prayer was said. I gripped my nose tightly and went under. My dad’s force on my chest came to quickly; I lost my footing and slid on the smooth tile floor. My knees rose above the water. I broke the surface spitting and coughing and wiping the water from my eyes. My uncle and grandpa shook their heads. It would have to be repeated.
Submersion. Bishop was old and his voice cracked often. “You have to be totally committed. We don’t just baptize a toe, that wouldn’t do at all. Just your toe would have to be faithful. We put the whole body under that special water because it takes the whole body to serve God. It’s about commitment.”
I felt my dad’s clench once again. He leaned down and spoke: “Bend your knees.” Arm to the square. Prayer.
I focused on my body. I hoped I would stay under. I steadied my feet. The waves of the font sloshed against me. Amen. My eyes closed and knees bent. I was under.

“How do you feel,” my dad asked while we changed our clothes.
“Fine.”
“Different?”
“No.”
I turned away from him and wrapped myself in my towel.
I was not yet clean. The cleansing would come later when I would receive the Holy Ghost. Then the mistakes I had previously done would be burned away through the power of the atonement. It would be done in church the following Sunday. I would be a member.

The blue balloon popped in my hand before I had a chance to throw it. Water covered my face and shirt. Not that it mattered – I was already soaked to the bone – but it would have been fun to have it pop on Wendy. She always shrieked when hit with water.