My brother called me up last week and asked me if I would serve as a witness to his son’s baptism. Of course! I’d be honored. Then I realized why he asked me. Traditionally, it seems that grandpas serve as witnesses at LDS baptisms. But grandpa died a year ago. While I was happy to do the honor, it was also strange to realize that I was taking the role of my dad.
I know I haven’t blogged much here. Things have gotten exceptionally busy, and I am on to other projects. Back in 2014, I was concerned when dad broke his hip. Certainly is did limit his mobility profoundly. One leg was now shorter than the other, and he had a shoe with an extra 2 inches of sole to help with walking. He lived 4 years after that, and died due to complications of congestive heart failure. On the one hand, he didn’t need to die. He didn’t listen to doctors and take better care of himself. On the other hand, he had said for decades not to cry when he died. Certainly I was sad that he died, and I do miss him, but I have also been surprised at my lack of tears, especially compared to when my brother and sister died.
But Saturday was the first time in a long time that I took on the patriarchal role in the family. And that seemed a bit weird to me. I miss him, and yet sometimes I don’t. We arrived at the church a few minutes early. The bishop greeted us and said they had forgotten to turn on the water for the font, and the baptism would be delayed about an hour.
The thought that occurred to me that the exact same thing happened when my brother was baptized. But my dad threw a fit, got angry, and refused to wait. So we all returned home. That’s the dad I also knew. My brother was baptized a few weeks later. My mom reminded me that he got baptized on her birthday. I hadn’t remembered that.
So, in a way, it was nice that dad wasn’t there. Because he was notoriously impatient. Instead of having refreshments after the baptism, we had them before, and visited with family and friends for an hour. It was fine, and we were glad dad wasn’t there to be annoying. Did I miss my dad? Yes. Was I glad he wasn’t there complaining? Yes. It was definitely mixed feelings.
The service started, and as I looked at the program, I was both pleasantly surprised and pleased. Opening and closing prayers were given by women. Talks on the Holy Ghost and baptism were given by women. I didn’t draw attention of all the female representation to anyone else, but I was impressed that women dominated the program, except for the duties that men “had” to do: the baptism, and the witnessing (and bishop conducted.) I can’t ever remember a baptism in which women were so visible, and I’m grateful. It’s not like my family is full of feminists either. In fact, I’d say I’m probably the biggest feminist of them all. But it was a nice service, and it was great hanging out with family. (My brother came to visit from California.) Anyway, I just wanted to share. And it’s a bit weird to realize that I am the pseudo-patriarch now that dad is gone. Do others have things to share?
Wheat & Tares 
At my daughter’s baptism (shared with two other kids in our ward), all the talks and prayers were given by women. It was a nice experience and one that frankly I’ve been accustomed to for a while. Only men I’ve heard speak, besides brief words from the bishopric, have been the ward mission leaders at convert baptisms.
What a wonderful family gathering and baptism!
When my children were baptized many years ago, our ward leadership (or higher?) decided that families could no longer plan baptisms. The bishopric had to plan them, give all the talks and without exception, they had to be on the last Saturday of the month. This resulted in several epic fails.
One family had already planned it and plane tickets purchased by out-of-state relatives for the new and wrong date. They protested by boycotting church attendance and not baptizing the girl for over a year. One baptism interrupted a Halloween party with many people attending in costumes. One family forgot and the bishopric had to go round them up. Another time the bishopric forgot and didn’t show up. In every case the quality of the service suffered. Gone were the well-prepared talks by people who cared about the child and their family. Gone were the musical numbers by budding child musicians and friends. It felt like windy, lifeless lectures one might imagine to be given in North Korea.
I wanted to baptize my first child (the oldest grand child) in Utah because my mother’s health had declined (dementia, diabetes, etc.,) to where she could not travel far and she might not live long enough to see or remember any of her grandchildren’s baptisms. My bishop told me we had to do it in Georgia, no exceptions. They needed the numbers and he would block it from happening anywhere else. My brother was in the bishopric in his Utah ward. I told him I planned to drive up into the Uintah mountains as far as I could during the annual Christmas visit and chop the ice off some convenient lake . He could borrow snowmobiles or whatever and get our mother there. It would be an event never to be forgotten and my sassy daughter deserved it.
My brother arranged for us to plan our own family baptism in his ward house in Utah. But he “forgot” (Forgot my ass, he has the memory of an elephant for things like that) to turn the water heater on. So we had our Utah cold water (37 F) baptism in the winter. I wouldn’t put it past him to haul a few garbage containers of snow into the font just for the giggles, but I have no proof. (He was only in a bishopric for a few years, but he has always been my pesky little brother). Our home bishop said it didn’t count and tried to make us do it over. We ignored him and nothing was ever said after his release.
I am glad that joyful baptisms are being held . Count your blessings.
Two wildly dissimilar responses to your post:
1. In an effort to stall the baptism for my brother and his wife to arrive, I ended up making an impromptu speech to my son at his baptism. I realized with some surprise that I ENJOYED being part of the baptism in a way that wasn’t just behind the scenes. So for my next son, after one speaker fell through, I thought, Why not? Who better to teach my son what I want him to know about baptism than me? I was playing above my level at Pinterest Momming: trying to design a scrapbook-worthy baptism program, coordinating the refreshments, getting everyone in presentable clothes for the event, AND planning a talk that might hold an 8YO’s attention. But no regrets. The bishop mentioned it was the first time he’d ever heard the mother speak at the baptism, and after juggling all that I think I know why. I don’t care if I was visible to anyone else; I liked that I was visible TO MY SONS for their baptisms.
2. I hate the tradition of asking the grandfather to be a witness. My dad is a bit of a jerk. He wouldn’t let my son touch him when the bishop, oblivious to his personality, told my son to give him a hug after the confirmation. For my other son’s baptism, he straight-up farted, loud and proud, during the performance of his witnessing duty — standing front and center, his back to the audience. I’m not saying he did it on purpose, but judging (righteously, of course) from the decibels and past experience, he feels above holding it in. I’d much rather have asked my mom, who would’ve been a more meaningful choice for my sons and me.