On Sunday we were a group of leaky faucets. Moms, grandmas, dads, grandpas, pastors, friends, family from afar…all wiping our eyes with our fingertips or the back of our hand.
All celebrating with tears and snot–a son, a friend, a dad…
And I can tell you-though I don’t know what it is–that there is something about watching–a child, a grown man, a mother– standing in front of a crowd choosing to be baptized; choosing to let the world know that they love Jesus…that moves my heart.
Try it some time. See if your sleeve ain’t suddenly a hanky.
Well, our church meets in a school.
Which means that there isn’t a baptismal tub hanging out in the janitor’s closet. And which means, I guess, that you borrow one.
And you plop it right up front. Like the main event. Because it is…and because nobody wants to miss it.
And nobody does. Because the whole family gathers around. To support. To take pictures. To be part of the memory.
Here’s our daughter telling the world that she loves Jesus.
Here’s her daddy praying over her life, her heart, her decision.
Here’s our son. Probably thinking about food.
And then it’s a prayer from our pastor…
a dunk in the tub…
and–dear Jesus–a celebration to last
a life time an eternity.