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“I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” said the priest. It would have been more accurate to say, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the moth-wing, and the Holy Spirit.” The priest’s eyes squarely focused on our son, Emery, he failed to see that in his second scoop of holy water, he’d also scooped up a dead moth floating in the baptismal font.
Its wing stuck to Emery’s bald head when Father’s wet fingers grazed it. Seeing it there, a powdery fleck on his fair skin, I was intrigued what this could mean.
Foiled at the Font. Walking into church that morning, I mentally ran down the list of guests we had invited to brunch. I smoothed the wrinkles and straightened the pleats of Emery’s gown. I adjusted husband Jon’s tie.
During the service, I spoke a resounding “yes!” to all the promises to form Emery in the Christian faith. I imagined him as an altar boy, and I smiled. We would form him, all right. By eighteen, he’d be in seminary for sure. We were baptizing our son into our faith, and he’d grow in it like a well-watered plant.
But at the baptismal font, the moth wing stopped me. That speck…
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