The Didache’s ancient wisdom on baptism lands differently in a megadrought

My daddy was a gas engineer for Amoco. Every evening when he crossed the threshold into our house from work, he’d note the price crude oil was trading for, reckoning how much it had risen or fallen since the day before. He was a Mensa member, a pilot, and a competitive tennis player. Most of all he was the father of three daughters, and he delighted in astonishing them. One day in the mid-1970s Dad sauntered to the dinner table and announced, “Girls, in your lifetime water is going to become more valuable than oil.” We laughed until our bellies ached at his wildly implausible prediction.

That memory floated to the surface one morning when my alarm sounded at 4 a.m. for prayer. I’d been getting up an hour earlier than usual to pray for the G20 meeting in Rome and the Glasgow climate summit. My father’s wildly implausible prediction is rapidly upon us. It’s here, in my lifetime, just as he postulated.

The preciousness of water is a theme in my life. I grew up with well water rather than a municipal water supply, and my family’s well-being depended upon the well not running dry. My anxious father timed each of his daughters’ showers, reading in his chair just beyond the bathroom door where he could listen to the water running. If we transgressed the three-minute limit, Dad’s raps on the bathroom door signaled that time was up. Throughout my life I watched my mother carry water she’d already used several times (to wash veggies, then dishes, and then the floor) to her cotton-candy pink impatiens that lined our back door. Standing in front of the sink with the water running while brushing one’s teeth was nearly a capital offense.