When I was 10 I went to a week-long church camp on Indiana’s Lake Webster. The price of admission for all the swimming and summer fun activities was simply to pay attention at morning catechism that lasted about an hour. Easy enough.
One night after we’d gone to bed a kid at the opposite end of our cabin became upset. The high school boy who was our counselor went over to talk to him. The rest of us pretended to be asleep and not to notice.
This was serious. The counselor decided that we, indeed, should take notice. He turned on the blinding overhead light. He said the boy had experienced the presence of someone and together they’d concluded it had been the Lord.
We were entering pretty scary territory. It made the rest of us start crying. The counselor went around the bunks, quietly comforting each boy as they all kind of agreed they’d experienced the same thing. When he finally got to me I did my best, in between sobs, to explain my feelings.
Basically I told him I felt left out. I didn’t have the same visitation as the others. I felt nothing. I thought there was something terribly wrong with me for being the only one who didn’t get it.
This was not the response the counselor wanted to hear from his lemmings. Flummoxed, he could only say, “well….well….just pray then.”
Personal spirituality has been all down hill since that summer camp. I’m not religious. Only one friend, Marilyn, has ever been foolish enough to make me a godparent to their child.
I accepted her offer because someone told me being asked was an honor. And if a person holds you in such regard it’s an insult to tell them no. It’s not a time to proselytize. You can adjust the curriculum to your own bent after assuming the post. In this case, Marilyn knew exactly what she was getting so expectations were set appropriately.
I always remembered my godson’s birthday for the first 20 years of his life and made him laugh every time I saw him. I believe I was instrumental in molding him into the marvelous young man he is today.
Now I’ve been asked a second time. This time it’s for a friend’s dog. Who knew? But then dog is just god spelled backwards.
Apparently Most Holy Redeemer in the Castro offers this ceremony. My friend told me there would be classes to attend in preparation for the service. This intrigued me, what could they possibly say? Which part of the scriptures covers Whippets? Did I miss “blessed are the King Charles Cavalier Spaniels for they were Nancy Reagan’s favorite breed?”
He also said I would need to go to confession so I could receive the body of Christ in a small Eucharistic service for godparents. This creeped me out, where would I begin? Is there a time limit? I wasn’t raised Catholic and, honor or not, I’m not doing that.
Then I realized he was joking. About the prep work not the ceremony. Yesterday he said he’d check to make sure I didn’t need to fast before the baptism.
This is the kind of unknown territory I do enjoy entering. Potential blog material awaits.