Strait is the Gate; Narrow is the Way
Today's Relief Society lesson was about Baptism, and through all the stories, and all the wishful reminiscences, this idea spoke to me:
Don't underestimate your children. I was baptized when I was eight years old. I knew exactly what I was doing, committing to follow Jesus. We don't have to see the future to know what that means. I remember sincerely wanting to do good. I knew that through all the expectations I was not so helpless as to have no other options. That is to say, I knew my own will, and I chose baptism. I was asked "yes" or "no" and I knew that "yes" would mean a lifetime of care and effort, of struggling to do the right thing, and perhaps being mocked. I also knew without even pausing that it was possible, and that I would not be alone.
I knew that "no" would mean a struggle with myself. I knew that it would mean wandering lost, and accepting ignorance with knowledge so close. I knew that it would mean being alone, without the guidance of the Holy Ghost, and even though I didn't know exactly what that felt like, I knew what it felt like to be naughty, and how those moments were full of anger and confusion.
I knew a sister in Offenbach who did not want her daughter to be baptized until she was sure she was old enough to know exactly what that meant. She was already twelve, and floundering in uncertainty. I know dozens of people who toss off an eight-year-old baptism as a lost memory. These people underestimate themselves, and their children. A scientist does not accept uncertainty. She acknowledges her ignorance, and figures out how to rectify it, in an act of supreme confidence. It was THAT confidence I sought - I wanted to KNOW, not to accept, as so many do in their despair, that they might never find truth. (cursed Lacanians!)
Maybe I didn't know that the whole church was true. Maybe I didn't fully understand "faith" or "repentance" - maybe I still don't. But I had both, and I wanted to take the next step. At eight years old, I was ready for baptism, and if I had it to do over again, I'd drag my father into that warm font before he could sneeze.
Don't underestimate your children. I was baptized when I was eight years old. I knew exactly what I was doing, committing to follow Jesus. We don't have to see the future to know what that means. I remember sincerely wanting to do good. I knew that through all the expectations I was not so helpless as to have no other options. That is to say, I knew my own will, and I chose baptism. I was asked "yes" or "no" and I knew that "yes" would mean a lifetime of care and effort, of struggling to do the right thing, and perhaps being mocked. I also knew without even pausing that it was possible, and that I would not be alone.
I knew that "no" would mean a struggle with myself. I knew that it would mean wandering lost, and accepting ignorance with knowledge so close. I knew that it would mean being alone, without the guidance of the Holy Ghost, and even though I didn't know exactly what that felt like, I knew what it felt like to be naughty, and how those moments were full of anger and confusion.
I knew a sister in Offenbach who did not want her daughter to be baptized until she was sure she was old enough to know exactly what that meant. She was already twelve, and floundering in uncertainty. I know dozens of people who toss off an eight-year-old baptism as a lost memory. These people underestimate themselves, and their children. A scientist does not accept uncertainty. She acknowledges her ignorance, and figures out how to rectify it, in an act of supreme confidence. It was THAT confidence I sought - I wanted to KNOW, not to accept, as so many do in their despair, that they might never find truth. (cursed Lacanians!)
Maybe I didn't know that the whole church was true. Maybe I didn't fully understand "faith" or "repentance" - maybe I still don't. But I had both, and I wanted to take the next step. At eight years old, I was ready for baptism, and if I had it to do over again, I'd drag my father into that warm font before he could sneeze.
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