Writing about it was in my contract

It’s funny how you lament all winter the fact that there’s nothing to do besides sit in the house and bicker amongst yourselves, but then once summer hits it’s something every weekend from now until Labor Day. I know there are people who find time for hammocks out there somewhere; I suspect they come from small families.

Today’s compelling adventures included a day trip to Louisville for the baptism of my newest nephew. He was born on Opening Day this year so I’ll be certain to make sure he is well stocked with Reds merchandise for years to come (and if you don’t know to what capital ‘O’-Opening, capital ‘D’-Day refers, well, I suppose I’ll let it slide as long as you’re not from Cincinnati).

As an added bonus, I was asked to be the little dude’s Godfather. Obviously I considered it an incredible honor and was excited to have an opportunity this evening to provide a useful function in church other than just being a lightning magnet. Today marks the third time I’ve been named a Godparent, which is exactly three more times than I ever expected. Now, I realize that many of you are saying, “Three, Puddin? How will you ever fulfill the responsibilities of being Godfather to that many? You can barely put your shoes away in the right place!” Luckily, as the father of my latest Godson remarked today while we waited for the beginning of mass, the Church has made the role of Godparent fairly easy to assume nowadays. As I understand it, my responsibilities include:

  • Pledging to reject the works of evil, which may or may not include Miley Cyrus movies
  • Agreeing to try and keep the kid from joining the “church of Scientology
  • Lighting the Baptism candle and not setting the place on fire
  • Not falling down in front of the congregation.

Check, check, check and check. Well, OK, that last one isn’t required, strictly speaking, but I like to hold myself to a higher standard. At any rate, ordinarily I would consider the accomplishment of just those four things at once a banner achievement. However, that’s not all, folks! The nice lady in Charge Of Things at the church – and yes, every church I’ve ever stepped foot in has one of these ladies – volunteered me and a couple of my fellow Godparents (there were several families with children being baptized) for delivery of The Gifts during the service. Basically, that just means that you carry the wine and wafers to the altar for the Priest’s use.

Clearly, I was happy to help in that too, because a) as stated, I already consider it a personal goal to not fall down in presence of the congregation, and b) carrying things isn’t too complicated. I might have balked at having to do long division or demonstrate a back-handspring mid-mass, but carrying stuff is right up my alley.

Just before the exciting Delivery of the Gifts, though, The Lady in Charge of Things did something I found remarkable and a little nerve-wracking. She handed me the decanter of wine to carry. And we’re not talking some lightly-colored Chablis here; we’re talking the dark red stuff that cannot be laundered from dress shirts or ties, ever. As I waited in the rear of the church for the signal to move forward toward the altar, my brain concocted horrifying scenes where I was either pouring the whole thing down the front of me, dropping it and ruining the nice white tile floor, or worse, tripping and dumping the wine all over on some nice elderly lady name Madge who just had her hair did at the salon.

Thankfully, I managed to make my appointed delivery to the Deacon without spilling a drop or otherwise embarrassing myself. And I wasn’t even tempted to steal a few sips on the way. I was quite proud of myself all the way around.

In the end, it was a lovely day all around. I cannot say how honored I was to be asked to stand as a Godfather again, and had a wonderful time both participating in the service and enjoying myself with the family afterwards. Congratulations to my newest Godson, and his happy parents!

Pud’n