Unraveling: Birthdays, Baptism & Rebirth

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In 2014 I preached at a church in suburban Detroit. It was the day after my birthday. A woman came up to me following the service asking, “are you Becky from Flint?”

I was taken aback. Most people now know me from Detroit. I don’t usually talk much publicly about life in my first hometown.

“Well, yes…” I said. “…I grew up in Flint.”

“I thought so. I think you know my son.”

She told me her son’s name and I lost my breath. Like you do when you know something significant has just happened.

Her son, Rev. John Wallace baptized me on my third birthday at the United Methodist Church in Flint where I was born and raised, and that was part of my family for five generations. I hadn’t seen Rev. John since childhood. I had thought of him often. And wondered if he had any idea the profound impact he had on my life and faith.

I always knew that I was baptized and where it happened. But I didn’t always know when. I thought I was a baby. It wasn’t until I was completing paperwork for the ordination candidacy process that I learned more of the story. Going through an envelope of papers there was a bulletin from the Sunday of my baptism. The date of that service was also the date of my third birthday. It was a powerful realization. And one that would unravel more questions about why I hadn’t known this or hadn’t put these pieces together sooner.

My birthday was once a day I fought against. And for many years, a trigger for deep and debilitating depression. I’ve worked hard to understand why birthdays were so painful. I’ve discovered that a day meant to celebrate your coming to life is not a welcome event when you believe—and others have told you—your life has no value.

United Methodism understands baptism as a sacrament, a means of grace. United Methodists love to wax poetic about Prevenient Grace, the grace that “goes before us.” That is there even before we know what it is, or are able and ready to claim it. I learned that baptism is the pouring out of this grace and the moment we are initiated into the family of God. I was taught and taught others that baptism is the work of God, not humans. And that it cannot be undone, or redone as that would suggest God got it wrong the first time.

It took me awhile to reach out to Rev. John after his mother shared his contact information. Almost two years passed before we met for coffee. He was now ministering in another state. I was so nervous to meet him. I seriously considered cancelling or just not showing up. What would I say? How could I explain what my baptism meant for me without revealing too many details about my childhood and youth? He knew my family in Flint, so how would I share about my family in Detroit? How and why that change happened? The miracle that this is?

We talked mostly about ministry. Our appointments. The joys and challenges of serving in the church. Politics of countries and denominations. I knew then that my official time in ministry was winding down. I was navigating the very lonely waters of coming out and planning my departure from the work and church I loved. I wanted to tell him, but couldn’t.

I did tell him that my baptism found me long before I got so lost. That the water he sprinkled on my head on my third birthday kept me afloat when the storms came. And steered me to a new start, a place of safety, healing, and growth, discovering and answering my call.

He told me my baptism was his first. That it was an important marker in his ministry. That anytime he added another name to his list, he looked at mine, first in the record, and gave thanks. He shared that there was something about me even as a very young child. That I was a quiet and inquisitive. Attentive. Cautiously trusting. That my curiosity about God, the Bible, and the world were fascinating to witness. He also said there was something in my eyes that reflected pain and longing. He had always wondered what my life became. There was much neither of us said aloud. Looking back, I think there was powerful exchange whispered in the silence. We were there for hours And left with a promise to meet again and continue the conversation.

We kept that promise. And the next time we met in person was a dreary February afternoon at the Bishop’s office. He drove several hours to be present when I surrendered my credentials. He wrote in an email that he had been there for that first pivotal moment in my faith journey and of course, he would be there for this one too.

In many ways that day felt void of God or grace or anything holy. Everyone in the room that day was seated in a circle. I remember at one point looking over at Rev. John and thinking, he’s the one that makes this circle whole. He’s the connection of two very different lives I have lived; of two families I have been a part of; of unquenchable thirst and sacred water poured out; of famine and feast; of shame and acceptance; of bondage and liberation; of birthdays, baptism, and rebirth.

He guided me to recognize, reach out, and claim God’s grace. And on that day that felt more like dying than living, he was present, holding space for the grace I was unable to feel or even imagine.

That was the last time I saw him. We remained in touch by email until he died unexpectedly in 2020. When I heard the news, I went swimming, hoping the water would wash away the sadness, and hold the grief, and buoy the gratitude.

My understanding of grace has expanded as my relationship with religion has unraveled. As have my views on baptism. Grace is everywhere. All over. And I feel it most when I’m in the water. Anytime, every time, I’m in water I don’t simply remember my baptism, but I am re-baptized. Not because God got it wrong the time before, but because God gives good gifts every moment of every day. And God pours out grace that we would never cease to splash and play, and be born again repeatedly and unendingly in creation’s waters.

And water is why I now celebrate all my birthdays.

And water is where I remember the people that grace has brought into my life and who have brought grace so graciously to me.

And water is how I find the grace to do this hard, holy work of unraveling.

Water-fully and Wonder-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels.

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