When we bear witness to someone’s baptism, we’re called to remember our own. When I remember mine, I think of my grandfather, mi abuelo, who baptized me.
I was young, a preteen. Papi was a deacon at his church, part of the Vineyard movement in Southern California. He stood in the water, at the shallow end of a swimming pool. As I stepped in, he offered me his hand and I took it, wrapping my arms around his arm. Then he dunked me, saying, “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo.” He baptized me into the people of God, his God becoming my God.
Years later I sit with him beside another pool, this one at my Aunt Mida’s apartment complex in Redondo Beach. I wear a T-shirt; he bundles his aged body in sweatpants, a hooded jacket, and layers of blankets. One hand is in a mitten, while with the other he slowly massages his index finger with his thumb, slowly, circle after circle. He is slumped in the patio chair, weakened after a heart attack, but his hands are strong.
