"So great a cloud of witnesses"

Our nine-year old granddaughter was baptized on Sunday, fully-immersed in water that had been warmed in an inflatable hot-tub.  

I grew up Baptist, which, if you know anything about the denomination, full immersion is the way to go.  

I'm not making that argument, but I've witnessed a lot of baptisms over the years, and they always move me deeply.  This one, in particular, gave me pause to reflect.  

I could see that our granddaughter was nervous, and I sure could relate to that.  

Despite the nerves that sometimes go along with them, baptisms are occasions for gratitude and joy.  Typically, mountain people will gather for a baptism as they would for a graduation or some other once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment.  These type of ceremonies bring people out of the woodwork to support and celebrate.  

My own baptism was one of the most memorable days of my life.  

After a long autumn of wrestling with my conscience or the conviction of the Holy Spirit (maybe both), I finally "went forward at the invitation" during a service at the little country church where I had attended all my growing up years.  

I think what I wrestled with most was my shyness.  I'd been reading the Bible, books about the Bible, and praying for months, if not years.  But Lord, how I dreaded that march down the aisle.  

However, Baptist preachers admonish that if we are ashamed of Him, He'll be ashamed of us.  So, with much fear and trembling, I walked the aisle to the altar, and I knelt and prayed in front of everyone.  

I told the preacher that I believed, and I wanted to be baptized.  

Shouts of joy erupted throughout the church after he informed the congregation of my commitment.  I'll always remember that my momma was especially happy.  I am the oldest of her children, so I guess she was encouraged to hope for the salvation of all five of us.   

The next Sunday, it was announced, I'd be baptized.  There was no question of where.  Our church had no baptistry, so baptisms were held at the creek, even in December. There were a couple of favored spots where they were typically held, one of them beside a gravel bar near Greenbriar Baptist Church.    

Law, I love the names of these little communities.  Greenbriar, Drip Rock, Station Camp--how these names do define me.  

The next Sunday morning dawned cold.  Very cold.  Cold enough that ice had formed at the edge of the waters.  I wouldn't swear that the creek had ice at the edge...perhaps a shallow puddle near the creek was covered in ice.  But I do know it was chilly.  

I remember the turquoise-colored polyester dress I wore.  I had added some layers beneath it, and I wore pantyhose when I stepped into the waters.  

"Step into the water, 

wade out a little bit deeper, 

wet your feet in the water of His love..." 

This hymn was frequently sung by the Smith Sisters during baptisms at the creek. 

So was: "Shall we gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful, river? 

Gather with the saints at the river, that flows from the fount of God?"

Anyway, after being nervous about it all week, once we all "gathered at the river," I felt more settled and excited.  Eager, in part, to get my moment in the spotlight over.  

Some of our aunts and uncles who attended churches elsewhere in the community drove over after their own services and gathered on that creek bank to celebrate another child of God joining the flock.   

Most of those aunts and uncles have since departed this life into eternity.  I like to think they are still part of a "great cloud of witnesses" cheering me on, through thick and thin, through good times and bad.   

The green waters of the creek were fittingly icy as I was lowered quickly, symbolizing my death and burial in Christ, but I paid no heed to the chill, for I was raised just as quickly to newness of life, eternal life, warmed by the love of God and joy of family, both blood and spirit kin. 

My hubby made the decision right there at the creek to also be baptized, no small decision for someone who hates cold water as much as he does!  

Country baptisms are typically followed by the congregation circling by the sodden new baptist, now wrapped in a towel, dripping creek water and tears.   We received many hugs and warm handshakes, "extending the hand of fellowship," many mountain preachers call it to this day.  

I was 21 years old, and I was very, very serious about this new walk with God.  

And I've been walking with Him since.  

More accurately, He has stuck beside me through all my stumbles and starts, mix-ups and meanderings.   

Almost 40 years later, I realize better all the time that "getting saved" was the start of a journey.  It's a walk.  And, as you might imagine of any 40-year walk,  I've grown weary and discouraged at times. I've been through green valleys, the ground firm beneath my feet.  I've slogged through the mire of despair and discouragement.  I've wondered "why?" 

I've been confused, and sometimes I have felt sure I'd lost my way.  Other times, I've been just a little ornery and rebellious.  

I'm a worrier, an over-thinker, I will confess.  Child-like faith does not come easy to me.  

Forty years ago, I had no inkling that my hubby and I would later be blessed with two daughters and five grandchildren.  At the time, I did not imagine witnessing the baptisms of our daughters in a heated baptistry inside a nice church, or the baptism of a granddaughter in a hot tub while the frost melted outdoors on a cold February morning.  

I had no inkling what was in store for me, for us.  I still don't.  

But I know I have a friend in Jesus, "all our sins and griefs to bear." What a privilege it is to take it to the Lord in prayer.  

I've lived long enough that I know this life of faith sounds ridiculous to many folks. Sociologists would say my faith is a product of place.  The world we live in often views the Bible as old fashioned, a bunch of far-fetched fairy tales, completely unbelievable and irrelevant to our times.

But I've also lived long enough to see, by faith, yes, but to see the hand of God on my life and on those that I love.  

"I have decided to follow Jesus, 

I have decided to follow Jesus, 

"Though none go with me, I will follow...

No turning back, no turning back."

Would I do it again?  Would I set out on a journey of faith if I had a do-over?

I would.  I cannot imagine me without Him.  This relationship is at the heart of me.  I make no claims to be anything special, quite the contrary.  I see that better all the time now.  

I also see that there's no need for me to try so hard, no need for me to seek to impress God or earn His favor.  

I already have it, in Christ.

So yes, dear granddaughter, dear daughters, seekers, skeptics, believers and doubters, I believe it is worth the discomfort of taking a public stand, of making that commitment to Him.  

Because He is the faithful one.  

And what a friend.