Allison Campbell Jensen

“This is just the beginning,” my sister Anne told me. “Oh?” “Yes.” A mystery shimmered on the phone line linking St. Paul with Ellensburg. Yet, I didn’t ask for the details; it was my baptismal day and the details of that evening’s service harried me.

How would the priest wet my head? What was this bit about the oil? In an English-Spanish Easter Vigil, would I be able to follow along? Was this the right thing to do? Wasn’t I making promises and commitments that seem daunting? Perhaps this path would lead somewhere conventional, uptight even?

Not by looking at my “godparents.” They were not wishy-washy, Minnesota nice nor reticent to speak their minds, whatever ripples might ensue.

Passionate about Jesus and committed to his church (he served as a lay leader several times), newspaper journalist Wayne said “G_ddamn” a lot . . . in the newsroom and in the church, it didn’t matter. Prone to cursing myself, I liked that he didn’t hold back. But later, when his newspaper friends and colleagues came to his High-Church Episcopal funeral and heard the eulogy, they were surprised at his deep faith.

That made me a little sad; I resolved, wherever I might be, not to disguise my belief in Christ. (But, please God, keep me from being stiff-necked and self-righteous. Ack! This way is not so easy.)

My “godmother” Leigh and I discovered we both shared a good measure of Chinese culture and language while car-pooling to the priest’s house for a pre-baptism dinner. Zenme ban!? It seemed like a God-nudge that  helped seal the direction I was traveling. Like Wayne, she could be seen as a character—even a misfit. Despite Harvard credentials, she was hobbled by childhood abuse. She pushed away family, ticked off supporters and yet invited me into a church hall—over a threshold that 10 years earlier I could not have imagined stepping.

It took a misfit to open the way for a misfit.

Wayne and Leigh stood behind me on that April night in 1999. Incense floated from the censers, the priest’s robes glowed in the candlelight and, as I dipped my head to receive the blessed water, the Spirit rushed in and filled me.

Just the beginning . . .

[Note: Photo shows Fr. John Dwyer and the Holy Fire at St. Christopher’s Church in Roseville.]