by Madison Cavicchia

I just want to get it over with.

My stomach is in knots the entire Sunday service. I rub my ten-year-old
fingers against the little indentations marking up the cool metal chair I sit in.
My legs dangle back and forth, swishing the long sparkling skirt I picked out the
night before, worn to impress Jesus and all the mothers peering from their seats.
Now — it’s time. I am instructed to change out of it so the water won’t ruin the fabric.
Instead, I walk toward the front of the congregation in an old pair of athletic shorts
and an oversized, grey t-shirt.

I climb the steps and enter the vat of water, warm from all of the ring lights
surrounding the pool. Right in front of the area is a large video camera projecting
this moment onto two large screens mounted on either side of the preacher’s grand
stage. All eyes in the building dart from screen to screen bearing witness to my
first intimate moment with God in HD. I face them in anticipation, waiting for
Him to wash over me with conviction, to flip some heavenly switch in my brain that
lets me revel in a sermon’s message, resonate with scripture.

          “Now, why wait any longer? Get up, be baptized, and wash your sins away,
trusting in him to save you” — Acts 22:16

The pastor starts praying over me. I hold my nose in preparation for what
is to come — temporary drowning. He stops praying and moves my arm
away. It is blocking the camera’s view of my face. He recites the prayer again, then
asks me, “Madison, do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”

I paused. I don’t know.

I don’t know what happens after I graduate fifth grade or what I will have for
lunch this afternoon. I don’t know how I will grow into the freckles on my face.
I don’t know when boys will start liking me back. I don’t know if my best friend
will always be my best friend. I don’t know if I could ever decide to replace my baby
blanket with the Lord as a means of comfort and peace. I don’t know how to receive
prayer’s invitation during math tests or in hospital rooms. I don’t know if I’ve ever
felt God’s omnipresent hand intertwining against my sparkling pink-painted fingertips.

          “Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have
received it, and it will be yours” — Mark 11:24

I blink and stare at him, answering with a wide-eyed: “Yes.”

I just want to get it over with. I hold my nose shut again, as he
submerges me under the camera-lit water.

          “And that water is like baptism that now saves you — not the washing of
dirt from the body, but the promise made to God from a good conscience” — 1 Peter 3:21

When I reemerge, everyone cheers for me the same way they do for others
the first Sunday of each month — with their “hallelujahs!” and tears. The crowd
rejoices so loudly I can’t hear god. I look down at myself. I am not the same girl I was
before. Now, I am just sopping wet.