Part 11 - A Symbolic Birth

While still living in the "blink and you'll miss it" town in Iowa, my mom began taking us to a church in a neighboring area. It was here I met my favorite Sunday School teacher, and here that I got baptized. The Sunday School teacher was a kind, older gentleman, whom I'll call Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown was the kind of man who cared deeply for each of his students. He didn't expect us to be miniature adults, but instead encouraged us to enjoy being kids and learning about God. I remember one incentive he offered was a brand new Bible and a pizza party if we would memorize the books of the Bible. I did so, and boy was the party great. I probably still have that Bible somewhere, with its brilliant white cover and gilded pages. On the front cover, in gold stamped letters, were the words "Holy Bible." It was beautiful, and I liked knowing I had received it as a gift from someone who truly cared.

In the winter of that year my mom decided I was old enough to get baptized. It wasn't that she particularly cared about my being a Christian, as once again her decision seemed centered on what others thought. I was a child, age 10, and that meant I was old enough to make a "serious" committment to Christ. While I already had that committment in my heart, the prospect of being baptized was exciting, albeit a bit nerve-racking. I remember the baptismal candidates' class in the pastor's office behind the sanctuary. He talked to us about the symbolism of baptism, and what it meant for us to make that decision. He seemed sincere in his desire to make sure every person being baptized could fully understand their decision and its implications. He was a nice guy, and looking at him helped me relax a little when everyone else was staring as I entered the water. After a confession of faith, the pastor dunked me, and I grabbed my nose just seconds before going under. For several days after my baptism it seemed I walked on air. I'd never felt so light and happy before, and I knew God was happy with what I'd done. That's what mattered.

Later that year I got my first indoor pet, an albino dwarf rabbit named Fluffy. Fluffy was surprisingly sweet at first, and I remember being teased when I cried the first night I held him as he licked my hands. However, as time went on, Fluffy became mean and aggressive. I even learned to watch myself as I went to feed him, as he would often charge at my hand in an attempt to bite me. Perhaps he picked up on the emotionally charged environment, or perhaps he had a poor disposition, as I've heard many albino rabbits have. Either way, I'm sure his demeanor wasn't entirely his fault, and so I learned to love him.