by Tim Gilmore, 7/18/2012
Two months after my mother’s death. I’m 12 years old, end of 1986. Down into the Baptist Church baptismal font behind the stage. Backlit. Large cross. Small audience.
I’ve been baptized before. I’ve received salvation, then feared I’m damned, then received salvation, then lay awake until four a.m., afraid my faith isn’t good enough, that I’ll burn forever in hell.
So, once again, I wade to the preacher who holds my right hand in the air, submerges me, then raises me, saying, “I do baptize thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Buried in the likeness of his death, raised in the likeness of his resurrection!”
And again I’m resurrected. Again my mother is not. Again my faith fails me.