Three years ago today, I was baptised. I did it alongside my sister Bethany, and my brothers Toby and Jakey. At the time, I wanted it to be the catalyst moment that would finally change me — fix what I felt was broken inside me. I’d been a Christian for four years before that day, but I still felt as though I was far away from God. And to be completely honest, I went into that night three years ago chasing after some kind of miracle: A moment where I met God, where some bright light shone down on me, or where God spoke to me. I yearned for something incredible. And I didn’t care where I got baptised, how or who I was with. I just wanted to be with Him.
God told me many lessons that night.
I walked into it an individual, lost. But I walked out of it found.
We did it at our little chapel, in our Old School building, tattered hymn books at hand and an inflatable bathtub at the ready, all of us together, family and friends, in that worn down little place. It was usually a place of community we’d go to after chapel services, to eat and talk together and play table tennis or Subbuteo. That night, though, there were chairs lined up in rows where the table tennis table would normally be, all sat in front of that inflatable bathtub slowly and precariously being filled with water.
I remember how dirty my feet felt on that floor as I stood there waiting for it to happen. I remember how, after days, weeks, months of worrying, praying, crying, there was nothing. I remember that sense of lightness. I remember feeling like dust. And I remember how, before we went up to the water, we listened to my grandfather, poignant and wise as ever, and we sung, together. I remember feeling no euphoria, no elation. No bright light. No voice of God. No face of His, either. I was dust.
I remember not feeling afraid of the water. Not worrying if it would be too hot or cold. Not worrying about getting it in my eyes. Not deliberating, nor hesitating. Trusting. There was no bright light and no Angel of the Lord come down. But I was touched by God that night. When my father, grandfather and uncle blessed me and lowered me into the water, God was present. When I hugged my mother afterwards, God was present. When I went and dried myself off with my two brothers and my sister, seeing each other’s glow in our eyes, God was present. In those tears that rolled down my auntie’s cheeks, God was present.
No, I was not greeted with speaking in tongues or a kind of physical overflow of the Holy Spirit. I did not see Angels or the gates of heaven when I closed my eyes under that water. I was touched by Christ. He does not boast, nor does He raise His voice. Nor does He grant us miracles just because we want them. He knows our every heart’s desire, need, yearning. And therefore, He is the provider of comfort. Of peace. Of love. Of compassion, kindness, and rest.
I was not shone on by a beam of light from heaven, no. I was touched by Christ’s tender smile.
He taught me that night that there is beauty in subtlety, a kindness in peace. He taught me that night that if I trust Him, he will make everything okay. And He taught me that I am loved.
I am but dust. And yet I am loved. And yet He chooses to love me.
He moved my spirit through no spiritual experience I’d experienced prior to that night. That feeling of lightness, of vulnerability. That night was a hug. A reminder that, I was indeed loved, and that indeed I loved Him and my family, my chapel, my home. Yes, I walked into that night an individual, unsure of so many things. But I walked out of it sure in head and in heart, mind, body, and spirit, that I belonged. And I always will.
Yet true enough, of course it didn’t instantly change me. And indeed, for all the theology we could discuss, faith is simple. Such subtleties and inner beauties forced me to seek out and find these conclusions, and in doing so, teaching me another lesson I sorely needed to learn.
To live as a Christian, alongside Jesus and for Him too, is not a run. It’s not a marathon, either. It’s a walk. And like any walk, it is defined by its ebbs and flows — its ups and downs each and every one as important as the next. Each twist and turn, difficult or easy as it may be, has an integral part to play. They all take us to the next place we need to be. And, eventually, we come to our end goal, all of it having been worth it.
When we walk with someone, we talk with them too, get to know them better. And so, we come back from these walks a little wiser than we left. Each barrier we cross develops our soul, even if just by a tiny fragment.
If we walk a whole life with Jesus, how full will our souls be?
He wants us to walk with Him. He cheers us on when we fight through tough paths, and He sits with us when we need rest. He talks to us on the way, and He wants us to talk to Him too. Because He is patient, and He is kind.
And I, so small and tiny. So sinful and stupid. He wants to walk and talk with me. Not just during this lifetime, but for eternity.
He taught me that on the 21st of October, three years ago today.
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendour,
All for love’s sake becamest poor;
Thrones for a manger didst surrender,
Sapphire-paved courts for stable floor.
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendour,
All for love’s sake becomes poor.
Matthew 6:33
Psalm 103
