On being baptized

“I hope no reader will suppose that ‘mere’ Christianity is here put forward as an alternative to the creeds of the existing congregations… It is more like a hall out out which doors open into several rooms. But it is in the rooms, not in the hall, that there are fires and chairs and meals. The hall is a place to wait in, a place from which to try the various doors, not a place to live in. It is true that some people may find they have to wait in the hall for a considerable time, while others feel certain almost at once which door they must knock at. I do not know why there is a difference, but I am sure God keeps no one waiting unless he sees that it is good for him to wait. When you do get into your room you will find that the long wait has done you some kind of good which you would not have had otherwise.” - C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

I recently started reading Mere Christianity, and the prologue struck me instantly. As I begin to (try, humbly) to explain why I chose to get baptized, I can’t help but think about by childhood and upbringing. In my own personal - and winding - faith journey, I have knocked on a number of doors, entered rooms and found homes in a number of them. I have found myself in the hall, and I have found myself totally disinterested in the hall.

I remember as a child visiting churches with my mom, who from a young age decided I would be required to attend while my sister wouldn’t. My mom grew up in the Covenant Church, my father in the Catholic Church, and neither was a fit for our family at the time. I remember visiting a Lutheran and Presbyterian church, and going to Catholic Mass with my childhood best friend Hayley, where I was shocked to be offered wine (as a child!!!) during Communion.

We landed at LOPC, a Presbyterian church in the town I grew up in, a church where I slowly, but so surely, found a home and family. In middle school, ironically, I can remember being crazy jealous of all my Catholic friends who got to take confirmation classes together, while I was just starting to get to know people at my church. However, many of my closest friends from high school were my friends from youth group. We went to progressive breakfasts, house boating trips, went on mission trips and threw a fake wedding (*flash mob and bridesmaids dresses included) for our youth group director. As a high schooler who had no interest in drinking or partying or the things many of my friends were interested in, this was the perfect fit for me.

The summers after my junior and senior years of high school, I found a new home in the Covenant Church, the church my mother grew up in, through working at Frontier Ranch, a Christian summer camp in the Santa Cruz mountains. Working at camp will always hold another set of special memories and intense friendships, rooted in faith and the weird things our campers did. Because so many Covenants are Swedish, I got to walk around pretending everyone was my sister, brother or cousin, and it felt so cool.

Leaving camp was arguably the pinnacle of my faith of my youth, which immediately crashed down as I joined college. I tried attending the campus Young Life club, but felt not Christian enough, not holy enough and my interests diverged. This divergence lasted until I moved to Rwanda, and found out I would be working at a Catholic Health Center. A combination of genuine interest and genuinely being horrible at saying no to people, especially Sister Beata, I found myself attending regular masses - at 7:30AM on Sundays and 6:30AM on occasional weekdays.

So how did I get from attending mass our of a sense of duty (read: guilt) to getting baptized? There is a short and a long story.

The short story: I was in Paris with my parents, visiting a number of Catholic Churches, and my mom asked if I ever would consider getting baptized in the Catholic Church. I said I didn’t see myself practicing Catholicism, so, no. I got back to my site, and found out my favorite nun was in a coma and would die in the coming days. At breakfast, over shared tears with Beata, I said I was thinking about getting baptized. She immediately told every nun and priest, and there was no turning back.

The long story continues on long past this day. This occurred in June 2019, and I was baptized, confirmed and took first communion on January 26, 2020, two days after my 26th birthday.

During this time, as I found footing in my community and my service, I also gained greater ties to my parish. I continued singing in the choir, truly becoming a member of St. Joseph and our health center choir and gaining some confidence in my ability to sing in Kinyarwanda. I continued harassing the nuns and priests with my presence, eating a meal with each every week. Mass continued as usual, and I continued to attend as much as possible, despite my aversion to waking up before 7 on a Sunday. I also began catechism classes with Padiri Placide, who became my godfather. Getting to better know him through his faith and beliefs will always be one of the most special parts of our relationship, and I can honestly say I respect and love him more than I ever did.

At a party in August, when in discussion about my baptism, somebody asked me who my godmother (Marlene) would be. I was sitting with Beata, and Placide, and turned to both of them and in that moment told them, of course, they would be my Godparents. This came as a surprise to Beata, who instantly started tearing up. In her speech at my baptism, she said it took her a long time to believe this would actually happen. Nuns, apparently, are not allowed to be godmothers without approval from the head nun of their order. When Beata realized I was serious, she was told that if she was not approved by the head nun of their order, she would have to go to the Pope in order to get special permission, that is how important it was that she be my Godmother.

In preparation for my baptism, aside from lessons with Placide, I was sent on a number of tasks and sat in on many party planning meetings. The most infuriating took place on the day of a training for my latrine families, causing my counterpart to arrive hours late. I was sent to pick up the divayi (wine) at St. Famille Parish in Kigali, and robes for priests at a monastery an hour outside the capital. This trip, one of my favorite detours, involved me getting off the bus in a town I had never heard of, asking around for the church, the nuns, and finally arriving at the most beautiful building in all of Rwanda. I suddenly found myself in a place that looked like Italy or Napa, waiting behind a gate for nuns that are not permitted to ever leave the property. Here, and only here, do they sew robes for all the priests in Rwanda. Weird, huh? I then found my way back to the road, waited for a partially empty bus to Kigali, jumped back on and continued my journey, after placing my order for one large baptism candle (with an angel sticker), one glow in the dark rosary, and three new robes for my three favorite guys.

I am not sure I realized at the time why exactly I made this decision. Sometimes, I’m still not sure I am. There are aspects of the Catholic Church I vehemently disagree with - the abuse of children and nuns, the opposition to family planning and abortion, among the most critical. However, there are things I absolutely love. I love the routine, that I always know what will come during mass. I love the emphasis on Mary. I love visiting Catholic parishes around the world, the imagery, the imagery, the art. I love the Church’s unparalleled commitment to service and mission and education. Most importantly, I love my Catholic family in Rwanda - my nuns, my priests, my choir, my neighbors and friends. Regardless of what I believe, or what you believe, I know that they (read: Beata) knows that my baptism into the Catholic Church means that we will be reunited in heaven and live in eternal life together. Not to downplay the importance of my decision, but this alone was enough to convince me of its worth.

As I sadly write this from afar, I also know that when I read my Bible according to the liturgical calendar, I am reading the same verses as my community in Hanika. When mass begins again in the US and Rwanda, I know that we will be hearing the same words and praying the same prayers. This is a tie that will forever bind me to a part of my life that has been so inexplicably important to the person I am and am becoming. It transcends distance, language barrier, and time apart, and is a decision I can wholeheartedly say I am happy that I made. The wait, the journey, and the process has, in the words of Lewis, done me some kind of good I would not have had otherwise.