The Flavors Of A Sunday

My church had a baby dedication this morning.  Unlike the Catholic church, this is not a baptism into the faith but a covenant between the parents and the church and the Lord: we mere mortals promise to exhibit and profess the love of Jesus Christ through action and prayer as the child grows, learns, and moves toward the day he is able to make his own profession of faith and THEN be baptized into His fold.

I was struck by the loveliness of it all.  The young radiant mother so fresh faced and pretty as she stood by our pastor, who held her infant son as he entreated those of us in the seats to recognize this significant moment.  In unison, we all agreed to do right by the child.  He joked of how every baby he ever deigned to cradle during these dedications cried; there was no wailing or gnashing of gums this time around.  Later, I learned that the mama -- who was once youth pastor to my kids more than a few years back -- had reworked the sleeping schedule to facilitate a more peaceful ceremony.  Clever woman!  Them there's mothering instincts at work.

I was moved by the display of freedom evident in the mere exercising of this event.  That a group of fellow believers could leave their chairs and gather around four generations and pray for their lives and the future of their newest member with no fear of retaliation or negative consequences?!  I never want to take that for granted.  There was such power in being present and involved and a contributing part to the whole.  And that it could be documented as a part of our church history through the photographic talents of our pastor's wife -- who, aside from being a fine pastor's wife, is a person of many other worthy facets -- makes it all the more meaningful.

From beginning to end, I was personally moved to tears and intense emotion.  My heart and mind were about the business of internalizing, examination, recollection, and prayer.  I hadn't known that this dedication was scheduled on this most auspicious date of 10/10/10.  It dovetailed with the one year anniversary of the accidental death of our Cousin Josephine's eldest boy, Jonathon.  And, for the past week, thoughts of my young niece and infant nephew, who were killed in 2003 by my little sister in a post-partum fit of psychosis, have kept me regular company.  So today was the bitter with the sweet.  As real as it gets.

At one point, a slide show played while a young woman sang.  Images of the start of this baby's life came alive on double screens fully visible to everyone.  There was a shot of our one-time little neighbor girl holding her tiny relative, her fall of white blond hair a perfect frame for their faces.  I thought of Grace, my niece, when she sat in the rocking chair at the medical center in Lamar, and proudly held her new baby brother for the very first time.  I took that picture.  I remembered the tenderness with which my son held his infant cousin when it came his turn.  I took that picture, too.  I had been struck by the loveliness of those moments as well.

As the slides progressed, displaying various friends and family members enjoying their turn at celebrating this precious new arrival, another of my pictures came to my mind.  A mother sitting on porch steps with her close-knit brood surrounding her, smiling into the camera, not thrilled with the paparazzi but clearly pleased to have her seven boys and girls in the shot.  It was the last group photo taken of Cousin Josephine and her family before inclement weather and bad roads claimed the life of her college-aged son.  The night before she buried her child, I had the privilege of praying for her in the quiet of her living room amidst laundry and a collection of mementos which had belonged to Jon.  At the funeral, I joined others in singing songs intended to both soothe and stir.  I watched the procession of grieving folks who mourned alongside this dear family.  And no words would do.

The promise of a child, once as tender and newly welcomed as the baby at church this morning, cut short because there is no guarantee of everlasting life on this plane of existence.  No momentous ceremony, no amount of planning, no safety course in anything has the power to hold our sons and daughters to us despite our desires to the contrary.  

In a wave which threatened to overwhelm me, except for the grace of Christ which held me, the grief shook me in places where doors have not previously been open.  There were entire rooms furnished in sorrow, accents of guilt hanging in the corners.  I thanked the Lord for the brief gift of these lives He had allowed, lives partially grown and then lost.  My limited mind imagined His hand reaching down to touch the faces of my cousin and my sister.  Gently easing the lines around their eyes and the creases about their mouths.  I saw my great-grandma seated with other elders long gone to us here, clapping their hands with joy as Grace twirled her petite self at the feet of God on His throne.  I can only imagine as the modern song of worship goes.  I can only go on the faith I choose to believe and profess despite the scoffing of intellectuals and the ridicule of non-believers.

I asked the Lord to air out those rooms, allow the grief to rise, be addressed and felt, and then to vacate and never return.  Even as I cried, which I was a bit dismayed to do at this joyous occasion, I was grateful for the internal excavation.  Once the cumbersome and weighty furnishings were removed, the spaces could be filled with the fully functional presence of a Lord who has sustained me and given me cause to comfort others from the well of my own experience.

For me, this was a day that the Lord hath made.