In my church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, children born to member families are not baptized until they reach the age of accountability, which is eight-years-old. Baptism is a very special and sacred time. Usually, the child preparing for baptism first meets with the Bishop of the Ward/Congregation, and then spends some time at home and in primary, learning about the covenants of baptism. On the day of the baptism, there is usually a lovely program full of music, singing, and talks about baptism and the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Then, family, ward members, and friends, gather around the baptismal font, where a prayer is said by a Priesthood holder, and the child is gently immersed in the baptismal waters. Once everyone is dry, the child receives the Gift of the Holy Ghost by the laying-on-of-hands from Priesthood members who are friends, family, and members of the Ward. It's a wonderful day for the whole family. It's a day of joy, a day to remember. I've never made it through a baptism without being moved to tears from the Spirit.
But...when you baptize your son with autism... It goes a little more like this.
You start preparing six months in advance to get him used to the idea.
You talk about baptism in the most cheerful tone you can muster, bringing it up in random times and places - the bathroom, bedtime, the drive home from school - any time he's calm and content.
You pretend not to notice when he plugs his ears at the very mention of the 'B' word.
You start putting up pictures of children being baptized in random places in your house.
You pretend not to notice when the pictures miraculously disappear and you find them tucked away under beds and stuffed in corners.
You pray every night during family prayers that he'll have the desire and strength to get baptized.
You pretend not to hear when your son tells you that he is NOT getting baptized no matter what you say.
You take him swimming at the rec center every weekend to practice putting his head underwater with Dad.
You change the subject when he says he won't get baptized unless he can wear goggles.
You hold your breath the first time he says, "Maybe I'll get baptized."
You cry in the bathroom at church when he notices a picture of Jesus's baptism and says, "Hey Mom, look, Jesus got baptized."
You cry some more when you overhear your nine-year-old son encouraging him, "I got baptized last year. It was awesome. It wasn't scary at all."
You grit your teeth through the most agonizing Bishop's interview there ever was - where your son tries to run away, kick the Bishop, says that he "hates Jesus's mustache", and finishes off by telling the Bishop to "Never come back!" (door slam) Poor Bishop.
You try not to be embarrassed.
You hate yourself a little when you realize, that after all this time, after all you've learned, you still sometimes wish things were different.
You wonder if he's not ready.
You pray and pray and pray and pray and pray....
You pray that he'll understand, that he'll feel the Spirit and know he's doing what's right. You pray that he'll have a real desire, for himself. You pray that his anxiety will go away. Just for a day. Just for a moment.
You wrack your brain for a way to introduce baptismal covenants in a way he'll be able to understand.
You apologetically un-invite everyone but family, to the baptism, so he won't get overwhelmed.
You turn down all offers from your Ward family to play the piano, to sing, to make treats, to show their love and support. You say things like, "Sometimes music stresses him out." and, "The only treats he likes right now are 'pretzels' and 'Fritos'."
You tell your brothers that they can't stand in when he's blessed because he might not like the feel of too many hands on his head.
You try to prepare your family, who traveled from Florida and Idaho, that it might not happen...that he might scream bloody murder in the church, that he might have to get baptized in his swimming suit, (Can we even do that? Phone call - again, poor Bishop) that he might try and make a run for it...that we might have to try again next week, or next month, or next year.
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| Flier |
The day comes....
You pray for a miracle.
That's what you do when you baptize your son with autism.
And then - The miracle rises with the sun.
He wakes up. Calm, and happy. He puts on his church clothes. He's anxious in the car, but the moment he sees his family, all waiting in the parking lot, he bursts into the biggest smile you've ever seen. He hugs every single person. He turns to you and says, "They ALL came, Mom."
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| Clyde's "people". |
He runs, excited, into the church. He peeks into the font, a little nervous, but not afraid. He puts on the white suit, surprisingly proud to 'match' with Dad.
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| Clyde, Scott, and Henry |
We sing one verse
of his favorite hymn, "Praise to the Man" and he doesn't cover his ears. He listens to a short talk from Mom, and actually understands what's happening.
He's only a little apprehensive about getting the white suit wet, but after a toe dips in, he enters the waters of baptism with confidence.
He's baptized.
He enters the room again with shiny wet hair, and my family can't help but clap a little - even though we're in the church - when we see him, smiling, proud, and filled with the Spirit. My sweet boy. He laughs. He hugs me. He tells the whole room that he's freezing his nipples off - because it wouldn't be Clyde if he didn't say exactly what was in his head.
He sits, only wiggling a little bit, while he receives the Gift of the Holy Ghost. His Dad blesses him. His Grandpa Dan stands in. It's simple, but powerful. I get the sudden, overwhelming feeling that there are others standing in too. People who love him. People who love us. People we can feel but not see.
He smiles. Grandma Sue cries when she says the closing prayer. He wants to go, but only because he wants to sit in the car and read all the little notes of love and encouragement his family left for him.
You drive home.
You go swimming at the hotel with Grandma and Grandpa.
You eat pizza.
You say a prayer of gratitude for your supportive, loving, understanding family.
You watch your son play with his cousins.
You realize he's so much stronger than you realized.
You hug him and tell him how proud you are.
You feel proud of yourself too, when you realize, that after all this time, after all you've learned, that you never gave up, trying to do what was right.
You learn that the light of Christ ascends above any weakness, and any disability.
You feel blessed beyond measure to be a mother, and not just any mother. His mother.
You help him put on his Mario pajamas.
You tack the notes his family wrote him up on the wall by his bed because he wants to see them before he goes to sleep.
You cry when you tuck him in and he tells you that he had a really good day.
You think.
You ponder.
You wonder why you ever doubted.
You vow to live a life with more faith and less fear.
"Baptism... takes us out of this world, and into the Kingdom of God," Robert D. Hales.
When you baptize your son with autism, you feel the Savior's love in ways you never realized you could. You realize that even though the experience may have different for a child with a disability, it wasn't less. It could never be less. The same Spirit testifies. The same covenants are made. The same holiness prevails.
"The greatest example who ever walked the earth is our Savior Jesus Christ." - Richard G. Scott
He was baptized to show us the way.
When you baptize your son with autism, it's no different than any other baptism. It's the same step on the pathway back to the Savior. The pathway home.
