The Christening

…

Two weeks ago, Saint Elizabeth’s Catholic Church christened my youngest grandson, Joshua. It is noteworthy because my own children attended elementary school there. We have the makings of a tradition. Sort of. The ceremony was a large family affair. Several infants were scheduled for Baptism during the 5 p.m. Mass and each child was accompanied by at least a half-dozen friends and family.

I showed up at the church at the appointed hour and sat with my daughter’s family. There was a crowd of worshipers in addition to the baptismal families.  I could not help noticing many were Hispanic.

Even though the neighborhood changed since they baptized my children, everything went well. The priest promised we might receive “forgeevness for our seens.” There were readings from scriptures and hymns of celebration filled the air. It was an engaging service.

Meanwhile, grandchildren crawled over my corpse and commented on the proceedings in outdoor voices. “Who’s dat, Grandfather?” asked one, pointing in the general direction of the altar. I restrained another grandchild by sheer brute force, but it was no use. He saw my restraint as a personal challenge to his liberty. After a few minutes, I realized our struggle was becoming more distracting than his original shenanigans.

“I should have brought the duct tape.” I reminded myself.

Finally, I released my grip and resorted to one last desperate measure; reason.

"Shh. God is watching," I urged in a soft whisper.

"WHO?" They responded.

It was an instant failure.

Two matrons occupied the pew directly in front of us. Devout Catholics, they endured twenty minutes of our family antics before holding a conference in stage whispers. “Would you like to move,” asked the first old biddy. ”Ah believe Ah would,” replied the other.  Then, noses in the air, they shuffled to the far end of the pew. In my heart, I wanted to go with them, but self-control got the better of me.

The wrestling match with grandfather versus a rotation of grandchildren continued throughout the ceremony.

The high point of the service came as the priest poured water over the forehead of a tiny Hispanic girl. She was dressed in an amazing white Christening gown long enough for a five-footer. She was beautiful, but when the Holy Water touched her forehead, the little one screamed as if scalded.

"Never put Holy Water on a Vampire," I thought to myself.

Her parents remained calm throughout. I understood their reserve. Each of us has only so much fight in them. When it is gone, it is gone. Period.

Next time, I will tell you about the after party. It was the best part of getting religion.

…