I was a headstrong child. When I wanted to do something it was hard to stop me. I don’t remember why I decided it was time for me to be baptized but I remember telling my dad that it was time. I figured if baptism was something you had to do to follow Jesus, then I wanted in. I was nine years old and we were sitting at the kitchen table, Dad at his spot at the head of the table and me across from him. “I want to get baptized.” I told him. “Getting baptized is a serious thing, Crissy, are you ready for that?”
I don’t remember my exact answer but I remember him kind of trying to talk me out of it, implying that I wasn’t big enough. Whatever I said must have convinced him because come Easter Sunday I was in the second row of baptism orientation. I was the youngest one there, and the most excited. No one else seemed to share my enthusiasm. I volunteered to be the practice example for crossing your arms. I raised my hand to answer the questions. I was ready.