Double baptism by fire with a little water: what to do when someone forgets to put water in the baptismal font?

For all their simplicity, baptisms can be complicated events.

Unlike weddings, baptisms usually pass unnoticed by those undergoing the ceremony. The bride and groom, standing before the altar to exchange vows, are painfully aware of family and friends staring at them, hoping for a sequel to Four Weddings and a Funeral. But the babe in its frilly Sunday best, sprinkled with water by the minister before the congregation, is blissfully oblivious to what is going on.

Some babies gurgle contentedly through the ceremony. Girning bairns may develop an adverse reaction to strangers in black with cold, wet fingers, then howl to the bottom of both lungs when the minister threatens to douse them. A blessed few sleep through the whole thing.

My own baptism was a moment of mortification for me. My mother wanted Uncle John to perform the ceremony at his church in Tobermory, Ontario, where Lake Huron blends into Georgian Bay. Only problem was, my parents didn't make the long trip up the Bruce Peninsula until I was 10.

Every few years, I come across my baptismal certificate and am reminded of the first time I felt like Embarrassment Personified. I was the only clunky kid forced to stand for what seemed like hours beside several bawling bundles in front of a crowd of ancient strangers. If I'd even looked as if I chewed a piece of gum, I'm sure I would have scandalized the congregation.

How, I kept asking myself, could my parents do that to me? Line me up with a bunch of mewling, puking brats as if I were still in nappies?

But that was merely the first in a long history of major embarrassments, long before I understood -- perhaps by becoming a parent myself -- that part of a parent's job is to keep kids from getting too big-headed by planning, plotting, perpetrating embarrassments which cause them to say "Da-aD!" or "Mo-oM!" in that anguished disyllabic, saucer-shaped sort of way. It keeps kids (not to mention those kids who eventually grew up and became us) humble.

Few occasions are more memorable for Daphne and me than our first baby's baptism. I met my wife in Scotland where we were married five days into the new year of 1985. A few months before our wedding, I landed my first full-time job teaching at Memorial University in St. John's. Cape Spear, down the road, is as close as you can get to Britain in North America. We were blessed with our first child, Leila, in the spring of 1986. Spring can be mercilessly delayed in Newfoundland. The day we drove Leila home from the hospital, the rains were so heavy we practically floated home.

We returned to Scotland when Leila was five months old. (Our three children have all flown more in their first year than I did in my first 20.) We wanted Leila baptized in Fala Kirk, the church where we wed. Fala is a lovely little village a few miles south of Edinburgh by the A68. With its small cluster of houses and kirk, Fala is the kind of place that doesn't get on many road-maps.

The last time we had been in Fala was for our wedding. When the ceremony was over, we emerged from the kirk as husband and wife on a splendid January afternoon to discover one of the guests in full Highland regalia playing "Mairhi's Wedding" on the bagpipes. A year and a half later, we were arranging with the minister, who had performed our wedding ceremony, to baptize Leila.

But, first, we had to get from my inlaws' home in North Berwick to the kirk. It doesn't help when, after many agonizing "Just a minutes," everyone finally materializes in the car, all buckled and ready to go, that no one has the keys.

First, my father-in-law got out of car and conducted a search of the house. Then, my mother-in-law. Then, my wife. Then, me holding our precious bundle. Time was ticking on and we were going to be late. Finally, I discovered the keyring hiding behind a curtain in the sitting room. It had been a lovely sunny morning, so someone had opened the curtain. I must have checked that window sill three times before I found the keys nestled under one of the folds.

My father-in-law, who is renowned for sticking firmly to all laws, especially where highway safety is concerned, pelted down the back lanes only to find himself braking hard behind a lumbering big hay-rick. We crawled along at a snail's pace until the next turning where, luckily for us, the impediment went the other way.

At last, we arrived at Fala Kirk with seconds to spare. The minister who must have been wondering where we all were, smiled with relief to see the five of us bursting out of the car in our Sunday best. Leila's godmother-to-be -- Presbyterians seem to have missed out on godmothers, but you know what I mean -- cousins, aunts and uncles from Edinburgh had all arrived before us. The minister gave us a quick run-through of the ceremony: where we should sit, when we should stand and approach the baptismal font, who should hand him our precious baby and where we were to go afterwards.

After the opening hymn, a prayer, a few announcements and some words on the importance of baptism, the moment of truth came. When the minister nodded, the three of us -- my wife Susan, Jenny the godmother who was holding Leila, and I -- stood up and gathered by the font. Jenny handed our precious bundle over to my wife who waited for the minister's signal.

Leila cried a little as Susan handed her over to the minister. It's hard to imagine what it must be like to be so small and to be handed around from one adult to another and then another in a strange, dark, echoing building. It was a great moment for us when the minister held our babe in front of the congregation, performed the ceremony and named her Leila Evelyn Aitken Nichol. Leila was likely the first Nichol from our branch to be baptized in Scotland since her great-great-great-grandfather Francis left the Borders village of Newcastleton in 1832 to start up a farm near London, Ontario.

After the baptism, while we were waiting for family and friends in the church hall, I mentioned something that had bothered me.

"Did you notice any dust in the font?"

"No. Why?" asked my wife.

"I thought I saw a speck or two at the bottom of the font."

She looked sceptical.

Jenny hadn't noticed either. The only other witness in the room who might have backed me up was only a few months old, and she wasn't talking! But I persisted, "Did you notice any water on Leila's forehead when the minister baptized her?"

They gave me a look that suggested I needed to visit an optometrist.

When the congregation had departed, the minister came up to us as we were making our way back to the car. Somewhat sheepishly, he explained that, normally, it was Mrs. Mcb_____'s job to pour the water into the font; but her husband had been ill that morning, and the minister had forgotten about the thermos flask containing the water until the moment he dipped his fingers into the dry font.

It must be one of a minister's worst fears! And the theological implications were formidable. Is a child (or adult, for that matter) who undergoes a waterless baptism truly baptized? Does it absolutely have to be holy water? In a pinch, would tap water, Perrier or even perspiration suffice?

The kindly, but flustered minister assured us that, apart from the symbolic aspects of purifying water, Leila was indeed baptized; but, to be on the safe side, we went through the ceremony again. Only this time, the congregation was a much smaller, more intimate gathering of friends and family. The second time around, Leila seemed to be more at ease until the minister made sure her head was well and truly soaked -- we could all see the water running in rivulets down her hair!

We rounded off the occasion by having a luncheon in a farmer's field. My mother-in-law had us all cross a stream in our Sunday best. The shoes I had worn before only at our wedding were caked with mud. But despite the brisk Dejeuner sur L'Herbe, we all had a good feast of salmon and strawberries. Except for the guest of honour, of course. I had the honour of changing our newly baptized daughter's nappy by the cold stream.

Susannah, our second daughter, had a comparatively easy time with her baptism, crying only a bit. By the time we had Robbie, there was a new minister who carried him all around the church -- as good a way as any of introducing a new child to the community. But nothing quite matched the mayhem we had our first time around.

I look forward to telling Leila, maybe 10 or 20 years from now, the remarkable story of her first public appearance and how she must be one of a few children who have been baptized twice in one day!

And I know exactly what she'll say.

"Da-aD!"

Father of three children (now 5, 9 and 12), Don Nichol has published three books and more than 100 articles, stories and reviews on both sides of the Atlantic. He is a professor of English at Memorial University of Newfoundland in St. John's.