The Truth

The man who baptized me was named simply, "Uncle." He was the movement's man of God from the late forties until the time of his death in 1978. He really was my great uncle, and his name began with the letter V.

He scared me. Petrified me. One look from his stern face could make my heart gallop. I learned to watch his ears. No matter how grim he looked, if they wiggled up and down, then he was joking. If they did not move, I was in for a rebuke.

We kept a special room in our house for when he came to visit. We didn't have much money, but I remember that my mother bought a new bedspread and towels that we saved for him to use. He clearly was a special man.

Anyway, it was Uncle who held the back of my white gown and plunged me beneath the baptismal waters. It was Uncle who told me that the blue ribbon pinned to my collar was for truth. It was Uncle who lifted me up over the edge of the tank after I came sputtering to the surface while people applauded and sang, "Oh happy day..."

After I was back in dry clothes and my soggy braids had been blotted, I declared my faith for the congregation. I stood on my seat and said: "I love Jesus so much that I could kill him." Everyone laughed, and I cried.

After Uncle died, we found out that he wasn't so good at truth after all. And, I have always wondered if my baptism really counted.