I was raised in a church that mostly baptizes infants when they're still tiny, red and wrinkled. Jack certainly was, doused with water and anointed with oil at three weeks old. For Damon, I put it off for a handful of reasons. For one, about the time I was ready to schedule a baptism for him, at about 2 months old, an ugly rash suddenly spread across his cheeks. I (vainly) thought, I'd rather clear up his skin before we stand up in front of a church full of people.
Little did I know how long that would take, and what it would involve (that's another story). 11 months later and his pale little cheeks are finally, reliably soft and clear. I cherish that little baby, but there is a lot more...gravity in our lives that accompanies being his parents.
I remember planning Jack's first birthday party. There was a buoyancy about it, like the bouquet of brightly colored balloons we bought for the celebration. We frenetically planned a guest list and a menu, racing around, bickering in our way about how it was all going to be completed (and paid for), all to say to our small world, our wonderful, perfect baby Jack is one year old! It was a party- friends, warm weather, food, photos, streamers, and those wonderful balloons- you'd hold the long ribbons of the bunch of them in your fist, and they would gently tug upwards, like having a fish on the line in the water. The wonder and happiness of having Jack floated above it all, above the buzzing around of our inexpert entertaining.
It was joyful. We drank champagne and ate quiche, and tried to get Jack to eat his birthday cake before he got too sleepy from a skipped morning nap. Guests came and went from our sun-drenched little rented townhouse like birds circling a chirpy little nest. It was shortly after Jack's birthday that I learned I was pregnant again.
This brings us back to Damon, born about 20 months after Jack. The day we baptized him was the only real fair-weather day the whole week Mom was here. We had beautiful sunshine that cast a pale warmth over the wet city. I ended up dressing Jack and Damon in matching, navy blue fleece pea coats and light-colored linen pants. Damon's white pants had been Jack's, and Jack's had turned up in a bag of handed-down clothing from any one of our friends and acquaintances (all through church) with a boy or two older than ours. Their older half-sister, Emmy, showed up with her dad wearing a fancy dress, black tights, and her wheat-colored hair in lovely, loose curls. Dennis wore the dark suit we bought him for our wedding, and the light blue tie from being a groomsman in his brother Steve's wedding, which was the same week as ours.
Damon was baptized in a room of red, white and gold: when I will look back in memory, I will see the white walls and arched ceiling of the sanctuary, with its tall, mullioned window panes of frosted glass and matching, arched and hinged white shutters, folded up like great birds' wings; the carpet is scarlet, a little worn but still very formal-looking. The white baptismal font opens to reveal a brilliant gold plate full of water, the flickering movement of which fascinated both boys. I passed Damon to the pastor, his legs held out stiffly in front of him during the hand-off. Our pastor cupped one big hand full of water, splashing over Damon's fuzzy head and pausing there reassuringly after each splash for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Damon didn't make a noise, just looked at that gold pool of water with eyes wide and curious as it dripped down his face and neck.
The rite of baptism doesn't last long, but feels to me dense with meaning- the dark green hymnal in my hand, the unison voice of the prayer and response of the congregation that surrounds us in community, the choir gathered in the balcony to the right of pipe organ, all in that light-filled room. As our other pastor introduced the service (he spoke on Paul), Damon looked up into that balcony, and with a sharp, far-sighted eagle gaze in his light blue eyes, called out to someone with recognition. This is likely really what happened, I'm telling you- Damon spends a lot of time up in that balcony with me, the choir, and that powerful organ.
So, that was the baptism of Damon Michael, at almost thirteen months- not quite talking, not quite walking, but very, very alert.
We spent a lot of time, care and love this past year, Damon's first year, identifying and diagnosing his health challenges- all of the chronic, allergic and respiratory type (again, another story). As self-employed and part-time employed musicians and music teachers, we haven't been actively participating in the economy for very long, so to speak, so this process has carried its own weight of concern making decisions about how to get Damon the health care he needs. Sometimes it's not as simple as just taking your child to the doctor. It also wasn't a simple matter of identification and treatment. These things sometimes reveal themselves slowly, and episodically. You react, make a change, treat a flare-up, and wait to see what happens as they get incrementally older, day by day.
I guess, in light of all of that, and with the illness of a good friend, we kept Damon's party small. But I wanted to celebrate him in spite of how worry-fraught his first year sometimes got. A close friend offered up her house in the South of the city, and in her congenial kitchen and dining room, with a few friends, we toasted Damon's sweet little face, his goofy ears, his mild nature. Dennis made an array of very hypoallergenic foods, including vegetarian sushi and cupcakes notable for all the ingredients they don't contain- my husband's own recipe. We drank tea and strong coffee, and wine.
For me, the whole party, the vividness of my love for my small children, family, and our life together, it has this chiaroscuro of sadness throughout. It reminds me of a trip I recently took- overnight to a conference for choral music in Atlanta, a half-day's drive from home. It was in a beautiful, sprawling Protestant church, and that night, there was a candle-lit Taize religious service. This trip was the first time I'd left Damon overnight, and to do so took a great deal of preparation and logistical planning (yet another story).
Raising your voice to God is at the heart of Taize services, and in a minimalist style, as the melody repeats over and over, congregants are free to come in and out and harmonize as they feel moved- to join or to be silent, to create a living song. Sitting there in the dark among flickering candles, I remember being so sad. I was away from my family, able to view my life from a step back, a city away, a day away, and I was feeling the stress of the year vibrating under my skin and pulsing behind my eyes. I was sending it in waves up into the high darkness above me, and as I grappled with it, I thought and prayed, it's all okay. Accept it. Just accept your life, whatever condition it is in. Quit fighting the sorrow. I see a lot of joy in my life outlined with sorrow right now. All I can do is focus on ridding myself of the feeling that something is wrong. I am very sad about certain very specific things, and I grieve about them. But in this life, it's all part and parcel, the sorrow and the joy.
And that baby Damon, he is darn cute and a lot of fun..
-Kirstin
