Twenty years ago I had gotten married, moved 500 miles from my family, and had a baby. I was doing my medical training, working 100 hours a week, and experiencing the isolation that comes with being a new mom, who, as a pediatrician, was supposed to have all the right answers, while realizing that she had none.
In the middle of this time my mom’s voice came through the phone line, “Grandpa is asking about Will’s baptism. When is it?”
My grandpa and I shared a special bond and love for each other. He freely shared his wisdom that he had picked up and tucked in his pocket through the years. And I, not deafened by the natural defiance that comes with listening to parental advice, could hear him.
He was an active church member. He lived as such, and let his life speak for itself. We never directly discussed God. In hindsight, I can see that words were rarely needed because God existed and lived in the space between us. He made sure of it.
So, in that love, in that space, I called a church near our house and asked about a baptism. We met with the minister who suggested a baptism during a Sunday morning service. We assured him that we just needed a small room, on maybe a Wednesday night, just for the family and grandpa. I remember the twinkle in that preacher’s eye when he explained that the entire congregation would take responsibility for helping us to raise our son to know God. The church was part of the ceremony. I consented reluctantly, but it was a busy time and we just needed a baptism. For grandpa.
That minister retired a few years later. He had been a great orator and wise leader of that congregation for decades. We occasionally came to that church again at Christmas, but otherwise. happily went about our business of career and family with the self-reliance of youth.
But, all the while, the divine kept its arms around us. My grandpa passed away, but we moved down the street and there were neighbors on either side that went to that church. There was a retired minister two doors down whose wife brought us pound cake to welcome us. There was the nearby Baptist church preschool that we enrolled our boys just because it was close, and the Cub Scout troop at the Methodist church just because it was nearby also. There were friends found in kindergarten whose mom was the assistant minister at the church. And so while we were not actually going to church, the church had encircled us in the world. We did not talk of God with these various people, but as with grandpa, He lived and thrived in the space in between. They made sure of it.
What I know now, that I didn’t know then, was that a life of self reliance is actually a myth of the headstrong. And so one day, years later, when that lie of self-reliance came crashing down in a final triumphant clang, I looked up and recognized those people and that force that had been reaching in, reaching out, holding us. I saw love that filled the space in between us and held us together. and it was the truth. I finally said, “I understand now, grandpa. I get it.” I hoped he could still hear me, even as I felt him smile back.
Today I belong to that church and hopefully contribute in positive ways. My kids joined the youth group and we cleaned up after many Wednesday night fellowship meals. I have seen many babies baptized and promised with others to help those parents and families raise their kids to know God, just as they did for me.
Today, the minister who baptized our first child returned to give a sermon. I could not wait to see him again. After the service, I went up to thank him, for the powerful gift he gave us, and he smiled and nodded…and had no memory of it whatsoever. As I held his hand again-after 20 years- I felt the Divine smile in the space in between us as it whispered, “Look, I am doing a new thing.”
