Baptism

I was baptized in a river. The water was clean and clear; the stones that made the riverbed were round, so when my new plastic-flowered flipflop acquired for the occasion fell off as I waded out from deep to shallow, it didn’t hurt.

I don’t remember who the minister was, only that he preceded my favorite pastor where I attended as a third generation with my legendary grandfather, whom I now represent here. They sang ‘Shall We Gather at the River’ on the shore as the candidates prepared to enter the water. It was a warm day; towels were in the car.

I wanted my favorite pastor, who passed away before I could think of marriage, to reside over my wedding. His laughter I can still hear as he quoted scripture during his messages; he enjoyed a lot of the irony in the bible, and because of him and my grandfather, so did I. Pat Ruble, I hope as you hear your earthly name being uttered or written again here from Heaven your ears perk up. As you probably know now, your legacy to your congregants was a lasting one as well.

My baptismal experience would be a hard act to follow once that small church finally had its own baptismal. I was secretly grateful I’d had the ‘real river’ experience, complete with a current. The baptismal allowed the church to baptize year round.

I don’t remember if the river in West Virginia became an option after that, though I’m sure my mother would know. She came with me and my sister to our first visit to this church; the energy around her as always attracted people, and by the time she returned to Florida, was as if everyone knew her even though she had only been here two weekends. She is her father’s daughter, after all.

My mother returned to Florida with her daughter alive and recovering from spine reconstruction surgery. I didn’t know when she arrived over two weeks earlier if I would see her again once leaving the operating room.  The surgery was risky and terrifying; I’d written a will. I would be ‘re-built’ from the inside out, losing enough units of blood in the process to require transfusion and be in ICU for two days afterward. But I was alive, and walking. They made me get out of bed heavily medicated with numerous tubes attached the very next day after I became conscious again, to see if I could stand, and take a step. I did.

There was no guarantee I would be able to walk soon, or ever, though further deterioration had been stabilized that would allow for my internal organs to continue functioning, which they needed time to get back to, once lots of nerves were cut during a nine hour procedure followed by a weeklong hospital stay.

Before I was made unconscious (I would not be privy to see the operating room, or the powertools set up for use), the surgeon had said we would be finished by lunchtime; it was then about 6:30 a.m. He was wrong, though proud of his work once the task had been completed. He smiled with my sister for a photo. Another doctor who had also been in the operating room later said the surgery could have been successful though there could also have been serious complications or risk if functions did not return. I was glad I was informed of this after my organs did function again…

I’ve been scared and survived potential death before, though not like this. I couldn’t watch any videos about the upcoming surgery, read about it, or seek out ‘successful’ patients. I didn’t want to know, or I would have been even more frightened, if that were possible. This time I was also fully aware and had made a choice to take this step, mainly for my son, so that he could continue to have a mother that might be able to play with grandchildren, someday. It may be double the years old he is now, though at least by this miracle of prayer by my former home community, when that time comes I may just be there.

I made a joke to the surgeon the worst I was to expect would be to have to wear a one-piece bathing suit to cover the resulting scar; even that wasn’t true. All the stitches were inside, and the top layer that was my skin was ‘glued’ with the exception of a few stitches at the lower part where the drain tube had been in the hospital. The scar was only a ‘line’; I could wear a two piece swimsuit, if I wanted…

My mother and I had a small bit of quality time the first time in many years once my sister, who had been irreplaceably invaluable as well, returned to her home a day earlier than my mother.  Our apartment would not feel the same after our family left.

In the hospital, once I woke up and walked, it was surreal. I had been half expecting not to return to the planet. Being alive made everything look new. Small things that might have been annoying in the past meant nothing; I was only spared, blessed, and still here for my son, and whatever it was determined I was here to accomplish, as my grandfather had said while I was in high school before he passed. I even saw people differently. I was even slower than before to jump to conclusions about anyone; the other word for that is ‘judge’.

The truth his I’m obviously here for more than just my son, though before the procedure he was all I could think about. I didn’t tell him about it until knowing he would not be here either before or during the recovery with our family on his maternal side.  More irony.

My second trip to this church was with my mother, three weeks after our first being here together, when I looked it up as an option when she and my sister had arrived that first weekend. I took the initiative to locate a church, mostly because our family apart from me always went to church on Sunday, and because of what I was about to undergo.

I wanted to offer church options before anyone could bring up the subject. I didn’t know whether my mother and sister would bring it up at all, because I’d drifted on my own journey in New York from being a regular ‘churchgoer’, and this was a time they would want to respect my wishes. I think they may have been pleasantly surprised of my bringing it up before either of them may have inquired about going. Though unspoken, we all knew it wouldn’t have been right to not attend church together for what could have been a last time for one of us.

My mother chose this church; I simply provided the nearest options. At the time, with no basis for comparison, all potential choices were ‘equal’. I still don’t know what any of the others would have been, and it doesn’t matter now.

I’m here, for the first time as a ‘grown-up’, by myself, going to church on Sunday and as a member of the community. Had you told me this before going into that operating room, I may not have believed it.  Later it would be something that simply couldn’t be left out. I am, after all, my grandfather’s granddaughter.

That said, the time between ‘leaving’ that former church and being here remained a very spiritual journey. I would explore a number of other faiths, as an ‘adopted Jew', Catholic via a ‘short’ marriage, and even acquiring an interfaith minister certification, where I never really wished to practice what ministers do, other than serving those seeking counsel in life choices. I also lived in a largely Muslim community at the time of 9/11, which only served to increase a compassion for others.

At the six week post op visit with the surgeon, I saw what my back looked like in the x-ray. My first response would be ‘Where’s the remote?’ My back on the inside no longer looked like that of a human. There were rods and screws that looked like small train tracks marked with ‘ties’ that were screws in each vertebrae from behind the middle of my lungs or ribcage to additional metal connectors extended into the pelvis to stabilize its connection to the lower spine. The scar ran to the base of my tailbone.

It took me too long to realize why the front of my hips had been so sore for weeks: the surgical team had been bearing down very hard (power tools and all) from the back with my unconscious body face down on a flat steel table. Duh! I couldn’t and can’t imagine how so much had been done during that nine-hour procedure with the entire back of my body opened, leaving only a narrow pink line as its final mark on the outside.

I had come to New York in the theatre and media businesses. It was successful, though I realized when the doors of opportunity began to swing open I didn’t want to be media fodder; I could barely handle the attention I was getting in my youth then. The truth was I hadn’t come to grips with whomever I was at the time; I hadn’t identified her. I was afraid of becoming lost as others in the business had without a strong sense of self and purpose I hadn’t yet formed.  I wanted only the love of one person, one man not yet identified, as opposed to any adoration or attention from the public. I hadn’t entertained (no pun intended) that the one man I really needed above all else was the one whose speculated image (as we didn’t live in Christ’s time to see him) had hung on the wall in that little church where the bell had been rung every Sunday morning in West Virginia. The man who rang that bell was my grandfather’s best friend until his passing, who kept his promise of watching over us after Grandpa passed on before him, our ‘Uncle Lafferty’.  Of course, The Right Man was always there, keeping me safe, eventually sitting next to my grandfather from their Other World vantage point, who did the same.

My sister and I had every opportunity to get in trouble when we were growing up, and there is no doubt in my mind that being in church every time the door was open as my mother exercised her exceptional musician’s gift as a pianist and organist kept us from making any more unsafe choices than those it would seem we could not prevent.

Apart from all the reasons stated above and those yet not understood, I reluctantly, human and therefore not sinless as I am, willingly and joyfully, with as much sarcasm and laughter as possible, take up the yoke of why I’m ‘directed' to be here.  By the same token and in this journey I’ve seen and witnessed things in the world that do not disprove anything in the life of Jesus or the bible that contradicts experiences up to now. They are also things not every body in Christ as humans can comprehend either.

I won’t claim to have any concrete answers. As a human, I can’t. Apart from being ‘mercy dominant’, I’ve recognized another gift is hearing what isn’t said, feeling what isn’t written in the story, like a lot of court decisions where ‘facts’ just because they are written and recorded, are not what happened, just what was written down in the form of an opinion, by a human who didn’t have the full story. I’ve been commended in public forums for asking questions in a diplomatic and on point way that address what didn’t make it into the conversation that has been directly relevant to the issue at hand. I’ve been the resident representative of the elephant or 800 pound gorilla in the room.

No one is immune from anything, regardless of location or a country’s alleged ‘freedom’. I’ve learned every day is a gift, and nothing is taken for granted. Sometimes it’s hour by hour, not day by day. We must go on as if life as we know it will stay the same or continue to improve, though we are not promised this. Only in striving for the example we’ve been provided with in the life of Christ can we get a glimpse of what may be possible, transposing it as best we can through a Word that is divinely designed to open our eyes in a different way at different moments in time.

We are designed to anticipate peace, not conflict or violence; that feeling is to bolster us when the unexpected happens, so that we may continue to thrive and live out our respective purposes. This is where I tread a fine line between earth and ‘the church’ as many of us do. I don’t really know what a ‘comfort zone’ is for many years now: the equivalent of most of my child’s life. I was given the tools, however, before coming to New York. Empathy isn’t something everyone has. Humans hurt each other, sometimes deliberately. This is beyond comprehension for many of us, though we see it almost every day. We cannot judge at the expense of the big things: what saves lives, literally or through the Example we’ve been provided. I don’t claim or care to be accepted by those who don’t understand, I wasn’t prepared to this point to be so easily distracted.

Daily, somewhere in the world, someone puts their life at risk to save the life of a stranger, child, or animal, or on behalf of their country or their city. Right or wrong, they don’t think about the ‘deserve’ factor of who they’re saving when they choose to take action either by personal choice or as a designated soldier. I struggled at times in the past about why so many unsung heroes have not been recognized or how the significance of their lives and deaths was any less than the life of Christ. In God’s eyes, they’re not. It’s us. Our eyes had to be opened in the life, death, and only resurrection, uncommon with any other human. One human couldn’t sin; one human couldn’t stay dead in their earthly body. It can take a full human lifetime to fully comprehend what that really means. I’m only here to raise the questions, as assigned. They may not be easy to answer or very well received at times. I only have the questions, not the answers. I will try my earthly best to deliver those questions in a loving way, so that no one is insulted or offended. I also hope to create more laughter than contempt.

Winston Churchill was coined in saying that it is good to have ‘enemies’ because it means you stood up for something.  Having a child has brought the greatest joys, and deepest sorrows. And only in trying to save another life, that life, was I given courage not to back down. I’m certainly not here to create more enemies, though I may not always say or feel what others wish to hear, though it’s also why I’m here, whether I like it or not. I must joyfully accept this assignment, not least of all because my son still has a mother this side of Heaven. The reward for the price of asking the hard questions where it may not always be comfortable or welcome is remaining my son’s mother in this existence for now. By comparison it’s a small price. Tact is another facet of that capacity.  Trauma has a way of teaching how to say things with the least friction, so as to survive. It can be useful with regular people, and those that willingly or otherwise may hurt others, to keep damages to a minimum.

I hope to grow here in being able to ask those questions in a way that is compelling, and most of all in a way that my tears lessen over time, because tears can be confusing. At a glance, we don’t know if they’re from pain or joy, and either way they’re not becoming or make someone want to continue listening. It’s human nature. Yes, I have an ironic sense of humor, and I want very much to make others laugh more, not excluding me.

I commit to staying within the tenets that have built this church. My other foot in the world, also by assignment, will not permit any tampering with basic foundations others have spent lifetimes creating; that would not be pleasing to ‘the Great Spirit’ (Grandpa was a lot Native American). None of us are intended for the world or the church to become most dominant in our lives at all times, because we are to be a witness to both, we must understand both, and embrace what saves us all in life, and Spirit.

When someone saves a life outside of the church, are they any less in the eyes of God? Maybe it’s not for us to say.  Those souls are not ‘other’ than us, they were also created by God; they are simply in a different point in a journey it is not for us to define. It would appear it is all we can do to manage our own souls. We are bound to remain available to all, to guide and offer only in Spirit, embracing and celebrating together whenever life is affirmed and elevated, as that is what brings us all closer as humans on the whole to what we were intended, with what we have been provided. I can’t lose sight of that; it was hard won.

I’ve been nudged by something or Someone not of this world to not remain quiet, whether it’ comfortable or not. I hope to continue to grow in this path here, if that is the will of the Spirit we all share in a sanctuary known as ‘the church’, this church. Only time will tell. I remain grateful. Every day is a gift; thank you for being here.

This testimony is unabridged because it’s the one I didn’t get to say in a river in about 1969; maybe because it was meant for now. I wouldn’t want to listen to it perhaps from water with no current or sun shining above, so poetic license is being exercised during this milestone, so that it is recorded with others whose place in time we have in common. By the way, when I’m here, nothing hurts, and I can stand taller…

In sincerest gratitude to this community and All from whom I continue to learn.