This is another Culture of Mormonism blog post rescued from the Wayback Machine. It was written on Aug. 7, 2009. It's a kind of whimsically portrayed -- but accurate -- account of our daughter Sophie Gibson's baptism. I am happy it contains a mention of my now-deceased father, Ray, blessing Sophie. He blessed all our children after their baptisms. It ialso ncludes a great cartoon from Cal Grondahl. It was originally published at the now-defunct StandardBlogs.
We baptized our middle child this past Saturday. Little Sophie Gibson’s bouts of occasional naughtiness will now be logged in the heavens, I was quick to assure her the night before, when she didn’t want to practice the LDS baptismal ritual. Nevertheless, I managed to get her to hold my right hand as my left was raised and we simulated the baptism … I know what some of you are thinking, and yes, it did lead to repercussions in the font.
When I was baptized almost 38 years ago, I don’t recall much fuss about it. It was my birthday, which may be somewhat unique. But I was hustled into the car, driven to the stake center and dunked by my father. Then we went home and waited until Sunday for the confirmation.
It’s different now. Little cards were mailed to friends for Sophie’s baptism — and older daughter Mary’s a few years back — and a couple of cakes and lots of soda pop was purchased. There was a family and friends get-together at the home a couple of hours before the big event. Like these events always are, the older attendees grabbed the comfortable chairs in the living room while younger parents chatted in the kitchen while their kids scarfed cake, ice cream and soda. Occasionally a toddler would wander into the living room to be oohed and aahed at by the seniors.
The next step is heading to the chapel for the service. It’s a relief because other than Sophie’s rather timid interview with the bishop, we have nothing to do with its preparation. The songs, talks and prayers are all handled by the efficient bureaucracy that is the LDS faith. There were only two eight-year-olds to be baptized so things moved quickly.
We moved to the baptismal room. Sophie and I were first. I raised my left hand and uttered what I thought was a pretty good prayer. As I raised a dripping Sophie out of the font, though, I noticed a batch of gray and white heads hovering over the younger toddlers who usually grab the front-row seat at these events.
“You forgot the word of,” said one white head.
No problem. I baptized Sophie again and all seemed well.
The second baptism followed and both of us were in the dressing room. I was halfway into my clean clothes when a man in authority came in looking grave.
“Which hand did you raise during the baptism?” he asked.
Uh oh. I knew I’d goofed.
“The left,” I answered.
The other baptizer with me admitted he also had baptized his granddaughter with the left hand up.
“You’ll both have to do the baptism again,” we were told.
So, I hustled out of my dry clothes and started to get into the wet clothes. I told the other baptizer he could go first this time.
A few minutes later there was another visitor.
“Because you went first originally you’ll have to go first again. How soon can you be ready?”
I told him just a minute.
This was all my fault. I was giving my daughter quite an introduction to baptism. When we went into the font for a third time, I noticed a dead earwig. I wondered if this would scare Sophie, since she screams when she sees an earwig in the house, but she just pointed and said, “Look dad, an earwig.”
With my right hand up, I aced Sophie’s third baptism attempt.
Later, my father managed Sophie’s confirmation in only one take.
After the baptism, with all guests gone and Little Caesar pizza in our mouths, there was peace.
I caught Sophie eagerly telling everyone about her three baptisms.
“If you tell your grandchildren that you were baptized three times, make sure you mention it was dad’s fault,” I advised Sophie.
Mary baptized. Sophie baptized. In three-plus years it’ll be Joe’s turn — the final baptism day.
-- Doug Gibson
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