The Gown... and the Thread

The day was fast approaching. It had been circled on the calendar for almost a month. We were overjoyed to get to be a part of the celebration. I smiled as I reached into the closet to retrieve the little gown. It would have to be washed and pressed for the occasion, just as it had been each of the times before. It made my heart happy that Sarah wanted to use it for Paisley's baptism. After all, she had worn that gown herself at her own baptism, as had I at mine more than sixty years ago.

I had to be careful with the laundering and the ironing of it. The years and the fabric of the gown itself made it fragile. Tiny separations between the lace and seams were beginning to show; the collar wearing thin in one spot. I ran my fingers over the sweet detail work, the delicate flowers, the feathery leaves, the tiniest buttons... ambered just the slightest with age. I couldn't help but think of the frailty of our sinful nature... how helpless and lost we are without the Lord... how desperately we need to be washed in those cleansing, life-renewing waters.

As I stood there in the kitchen, pressing ever so carefully the voil folds, I remembered. Oh, my goodness. So many memories, wonderful memories, came flooding back. Each of my children were baptized in that gown. Each, that is, except for Rachel. She would wait a year for her turn in the precious dress at her reaffirmation, as she was baptized in the hospital the night she was born. She had not a stitch on her, save for all the wires and monitors, yet it was a most beautiful thing to behold. I suppose it might be helpful to recount a bit of that story here, so you will understand the depth of my gratitude to God.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth month of my pregnancy with Rachel, problems began to surface. She was not growing as she should. The womb, instead of a nurturing place, was becoming a hostile environment for her. I don't think I ever understood the gravity of the situation until the doctor called us in and said she had arranged for the baby to be taken that night by c-section. The idea was to provide Rachel with a safer place to continue her development. She was thirty-four weeks. I sat there stunned, unable to say anything, but then the doctor added these words. "Even with everything we're trying to do to save her, she still may not make it." All I could do was hold Tom's hand... and cry.

The first call we made after notifying our parents and making arrangements for Mark, who was twenty months old at the time, was to our church, requesting a pastor come and baptize Rachel as soon as possible after delivery. Pastor Jaeger came. Dear Pastor Jaeger. In fact, he was there at the hospital when we arrived, and he stayed for several hours until he was cleared to baptize her.

Unable to sit up, I watched from my bed next to hers. They never let me touch her or hold her. The best I could do was grab onto her tiny foot. I had never seen anything so small, so fragile. She weighed only 2 lbs. 5 oz. I can't relay adequately enough how relieved I was to see her washed in those baptismal waters. It meant everything to me. They delayed her transfer to a NICU unit across town until after it was done, and then they whisked her away. I wouldn't see her again for four days.

That first night was long. I missed my baby. I longed to hold her. I prayed earnestly for Rachel to be ok physically, but I never had to worry that she would be lost, because God had her... firmly in His grip now, and whatever happened... whatever... happened... I would see my little girl again.

This is the reason Baptism is so important to me, to all believers. My son Mark who is a Lutheran pastor of a church in Spring, Texas, and also the one who has baptized all of our grandchildren, including Paisley, calls Baptism God's "Gotcha" moment. I love that. How comforting to rest in the assurance that He's got us safely in the palm of His almighty hand... no matter what.

This brings me back to last Saturday and sweet, little Paisley becoming a part of God's forever family. It was a wonderful day... the best of days. The entire family was there, including all the cousins. The aunts sang during the baptismal remembrance. Mark perfomed the baptism. Sarah and Adrian had the biggest smiles... and even some tears of joy. God is good, and He is faithful. So faithful.

Late that evening after we had arrived home, Sarah sent me a picture someone had taken of our family there with Paisley. It was all of us, the entire group; and as I looked at that photograph, I was overcome with emotion. Each of our children and each of our grandchildren has experienced their own "Gotcha" moment with God, and He contiues to hold them all firmly in His grip. It was the thread that touched my heart... that thread of faith being passed from generation to generation.

I tried to tell Tom, to relay what I was feeling, but the words just piled up inside my throat. It is not lost on me, the reality that things could have gone very differently with any of them or with me or with Tom. We are all fallible people. We try, and even with the best intentions, we fail miserably. As Christian parents we desire nothing more than that our children know and love the Lord, but that frailty of our sinful nature keeps tripping us up... our "lead by example" often falls flat, but God...

God is faithful. He steps up and steps in, redeeming our pitiful efforts, breathing new life into our failures... strengthening us, helping us to come full circle to a day like last Saturday when we have the great privilege of seeing God "stoop" to touch one of His own in the transformative waters of baptism. Paisley is His now. He's got her firmly in His grip. She has experienced her own "Gotcha" moment with God. To say I'm grateful would be a gross understatement, but I am... so grateful for ALL of it...

and for the thread that runs through it.