The waters of my baptism were more akin to the drip of a faucet than the pushy waves of the sea under a red warning flag.
The waters of my baptism provided me no pool in which to swim, rather I was melted like a frozen chicken breast under a steady drip in the sink, thawed a bit late in the day.
Different as we are, I am no longer afraid of those who have been baptized by white caps or those whose baptism resembled the winning coach’s ice-bath.
Whether we are etched underneath a meandering stream, pelted by a downpour, or coated in a fine cool mist of a late night fog, the water of baptism claims us all the same.
Three-in-One, serve us this water as we wait expectantly at your bounteous Table, slake our thirst for belonging with a drop or a waterfall, then we will have no need of any other name than Beloved.
© Amy Persons Parkes 2014