I just returned from a wonderful week on the beach. The beach where the dream of 10 Camels began. The beach where I lived for several years. It was great to be back.
No surprise here, but one of the first things I did upon arrival was leap in the Gulf of Mexico. Staying under the waves for as long as I could breathe. Returning to the surface with a renewed sense of being and belonging. It felt like baptism.
Later that evening I went back to the beach to watch the sunset. The colors of the sky transforming in real time from blue, white, and yellow to orange, red, and pink. My mind returning to baptism.
I have written a good bit about baptism, in particular my own. The first one.
I was baptized for the first time in a United Methodist Church. It was a sacred moment that became more so with time and with memory. I always knew I was baptized, but didn’t know when. Having always assumed it took place when I was an infant, I was surprised to learn it was on my third birthday. This connection brought new meaning to my early years and allowed me to begin celebrating my birthday rather than loathing it.
I don’t know that I have ever written and/or publicly shared about my second baptism. Not yet anyway.
A week of bouncing between the pool and the Gulf repeatedly stirred thoughts of baptism. My first and my second. The journey leading to and from them both. Initially, I planned to write about that second baptism today. And then, something happened.
Floating in the warm salty water, I felt this strong pull to go get my book. I brought a copy of Unraveling with me on the trip. Specifically, I brought my ARC (advanced reader copy). This first printing wasn’t perfect and needed some edits and changes, love and care. I’ve held onto it because it symbolizes my whole story, not simply one chapter. It is a tangible reminder of the process. Not only of publishing a book, but living a life.
There I was at the shore. Book in hand. Wondering, what now? Would the voice of instinct that told me to go get it, also tell me why? Not immediately, but it did.
When I heard the nudge to baptize the book, my initial reaction was “you can’t do that. Baptism is for people. Only ordained people can baptize.”
And then I thought, “You don’t really believe that.”
There on the beach, I had this internal dialogue about baptism.
What is it? What does it mean? For the church? For me?
I used to wax poetic about the Wesleyan understanding of baptism as a means of God’s grace. I still can if I need to. But in that moment, I realized I don’t need to. And I don’t want to.
I moved closer to the edge of land and sea. Reliving the journey. The ebb and flow. Calm nights and stormy days. Paths destroyed by hurricanes. New openings created by those same winds. The first time I found a shark’s tooth mixed in with broken seashells. The dolphins swimming just yards ahead. The belonging and the rejection. The community and the isolation. The shame and the healing. The thirst and the quenching.
And gently, I set it down. The book rested in the sand untouched for what seemed like eternity, but was really minutes at most. Each wave coming a little closer. First a sprinkling. And then another. And then a complete immersion. As the water retreated the book danced. Never losing its balance. Bubbles formed on the cover. Peace filled every ounce of my body and spirit.
Below is a poem about baptizing my book. Listen and read the words. Allow your own experiences and questions of baptism to fill you. It is not my intention to tell you what you should feel or believe about baptism, but rather to stir your curiosity and imagination.
Be sure to come back next week, when I do share the story of my second baptism. The story I was too afraid to tell.
For the Day You Baptize a Book
©Rebecca Wilson, May 2025
not a cleansing
because you’re already clean
not a purification
because you’ve always been pure
not a new cover
or second edition
or a reprint of the original
but a remembering
an honoring
of every letter
every word
every line
every page
every chapter
in this story and the next
every scar
every scribble
every edit
every typo
every rejection
each and every thank you and not yet
may it all be blessed
and healed
may it be healing
and blessing
to you and
to those holding and telling
their own tales of living and learning
wondering and knowing
sinking and floating
to those waiting and wanting
questioning if and where they belong
may this book
like your calling
be belonging
as it continues flowing
like water from a public not for profit fountain
that’s divine and not over zealous
spiritual and not fundamentally religious
holy in a wholistic kinda way
sacred like mystery not certainty
sacramental without assigning authority
pouring out grace
or love
or kindness
or compassion
or creativity if that’s what is missing
or forgiveness
or acceptance
or direction
or permission for leaving
if that is what you’re needing
it’s never what a pastor says you are lacking
baptism is receiving
the nourishment you seek
as often as you go seeking
as ordinary as a cup of warm tap water
a bedtime shower
a puddle in the driveway after the rain
the leaky faucet that keeps you awake
a community pool
a sprinkler
a stream
a pond
a river
a lake
ocean waves singing your name
baptism is celebrating your being
creation matching the rhythm of your breathing
renewal never ending
energy ever bubbling
guiding you where you are going
baptism is trusting who you are
baptism is knowing where you are going
Water-fully yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels
“Trusting who you are” …indeed. Beautiful!
Wow! Thank you for sharing your journey. Love the poem.