[mashshare]

I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on Saturday, Feb. 24, 1979, in Vernon Hills, Ill. My father performed the ordinance and I remember the experience as if I were living it in real-time today.

After the baptism, standing in the changing area of the men’s room, my father asked why I was taking so long to change. In truth, I feared if I changed out of my soggy jumpsuit, I might lose the feelings that washed over me.

We stopped for pizza with friends on the way home at our favorite spot. Even now, I remember being just as excited for the dinner as I was for the baptism. It was part of a magic day that was long in the making with even longer lasting consequences.

Fast-forward to 2011. Last week my oldest son, Kason, turned 8. He’s anticipated his baptism for nearly as many months as he’s been alive. Like me, it wasn’t just the baptism he couldn’t wait for.

The program at the chapel was scheduled for 11 a.m. and friends and family from far and wide planned to attend. There would be the obligatory brownies, lemonade and other light refreshments.

Almost immediately after, Kason was to attend a birthday party for a friend at a local amusement center. Later, the fun would roll on with a family trip to a nearby corn maze cut into a pattern so complicated we’d be tempted to eat our way out.

That night, we would all attend the annual Halloween trunk or treat in the church parking lot. Doesn’t that sound like the kind of day an 8-year-old boy would dream of? Even dad, at a few years beyond 8, was giddy at the day’s agenda.

But then, for just the fourth time since 1884, Virginia saw snow during the month of October. During the morning hours of my son’s big day, we watched six inches slowly pile up.

Still unsure how the morning would play out, Kason and I drove to the church to begin filling the baptismal font, just in case the event could go on as scheduled. We made calls, gathered opinions and eventually made a tough decision: the baptism would be postponed.

All that excitement and all the innocent anticipation that grew over the years, almost as fast as he did, were gone. I explained that it was the right thing to do, especially given the distance some of our family would be traveling, but it didn’t make it any easier for him to hear.

“We have to wait one more day?” he asked.

Before we’d turned off the lights and headed home in my four-wheel drive, my wife had canceled the corn-maze excursion, we’d learned the trunk or treat was scratched and heard it was unlikely the birthday party would happen because the amusement center was without power.

Minutes later in our own home, we were without power, too.

Kason’s droopy shoulders and soft eyes were heartbreaking. We did our best to salvage the day and I promised him that when he was my age, he’d remember it fondly, no matter how many things hadn’t gone according to plan.

The next day, Sunday, was beautiful. It was a day so gorgeous and ideal, Simon Dewey could’ve painted it.

After our church meetings ended at noon, we changed gears and set up for the baptismal service. We arranged refreshments in the Primary room and Kason and I changed into our white jumpsuits. When the moment came to leave the chapel and make our way to the font, I took Kason by the hand and he fast-walked me down the hallway, imploring me to speed up.

At the top of the steps, just before descending into the water, I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “You know what? All we ever really needed was you, me, witnesses and the authority to act in the name of the Jesus Christ. Do you understand?”

He nodded and the baptism went off perfectly, just as we’d both imagined it many times before. Like me years ago, he lingered in his jumpsuit. Like me that day, he didn’t stop smiling through the confirmation, closing prayer and refreshments.

As the afternoon unfolded, I thought of the good people I baptized while serving a mission in Brazil. They were baptized in fonts, rivers and even a swimming pool or two. But there were rarely brownies.

I wonder what my son will remember when he baptizes his own children. The snow? The postponement? The celery and ranch dip?

Perhaps, but I hope what he remembers most is that what really matters isn’t the production; it’s the simple desire to follow Christ’s example and enter into a covenant with our Father in Heaven.

On our ride home, Kason called to me from the backseat. “Dad, this is the greatest day ever. And did you know owls have three eyelids?”

I think I’ll remember that for a while, too.

In 30 years, when we both reminisce about the day, we’ll laugh about the inconveniences and know that when the food was gone and the jump suits were washed and pressed, all that probably mattered to our Father in Heaven was the presence of a willing, worthy soul, a priesthood holder acting with proper authority, witnesses and water.

Because to the Savior, that’s the memory that counts.

If you’ve been baptized, no matter your religion, what are your special memories?