I could feel my chest tighten when I read it in the church bulletin: a baby girl would be baptized today. Had we not been there to listen to our oldest daughter sing with her school, I probably would have excused myself, unable to face it. 

The anticipation kept me from focusing on the service as I anxiously waited for it to begin. The parents and infant were invited to the front of the church. The wave of nausea hit me like of ton of bricks and my heart started pounding. My heart and mind were yelling “RUN!”, but my legs failed me. So, I sat, observing the naive joy of the parents so happily promising to guide their daughter to Jesus. 

I distracted myself with my son, but he not-so-quietly asked “mommy, why are your eyes watering?” as tears streamed down my face. I hugged him tight, not forgetting the irony that his life was made possible only because his sister had died. 

After nearly seven years, there is still something about the infant baptism of a baby girl that is enough to bring me back to that cold afternoon in February when my daughter, Ellie, was baptized on her death bed. It was mere hours before when we had heard the news that Ellie was dying and there was no chance of saving her. Our preacher came quickly to the hospital and performed the most beautifully painful baptism in the NICU. 

Pain tore through my chest as Adam and I placed our hands on our daughter and promised to give our little girl to God. I kissed her forehead and smelled the sweet fragrance from the oil that was used to anoint her head. It would be only a few more hours before she met Jesus face to face and our promise was fulfilled. 

Baptism feels differently when you anticipate having a lifetime with your child. I’ll bet those parents envisioned raising their daughter in the church, surrounded by loved ones who would help bring her to know Christ. She would spend time in the nursery, eventually going to Sunday school and vacation Bible school. Perhaps she would be an angel in the church’s Christmas play or maybe even play the part of Mary. Regardless, the day of this child’s baptism marked the beginning of something beautiful in her journey to a future of salvation. 

Our story felt much different: abbreviated, ending abruptly. I felt like I was literally holding my child up to God, placing her sweet little body into his arms as I said my final goodbye. At her baptism I promised to give her to Him, and what seemed like only an instant later, I did. I can’t tell you how painful it was to trust God to take the child I loved more than life itself. While I begged him to take me instead, that was not in his perfect plan. The sting of that memory and of the Ellie’s baptism will forever hang heavy in my heart, magnified by the juxtaposition of seeing a healthy infant baptism. 

I’m a firm believer that time does not heal all wounds, and there are some that will linger indefinitely. And while I celebrate the gift of infant baptism, you will likely still find me quietly crying in the pew, reminded of that cold February day where, through baptism and salvation through Jesus, Ellie was lovingly accepted back home to heaven.