A Small Baptism

A quiet reading.

It was the last leg of my trip, and I was ready to get home. Something happened as I was getting off the plane.

We all know the routine. The rows empty slowly. People stand, reach for their bags, and wait their turn to move toward the door.

My row was next. I sensed that the woman standing in the aisle beside me was about to slip ahead. It did not sit well with me. So I planted my foot in the aisle and stood up to claim my place.

Then I heard her say, “Oh, that is your foot,” as she tried to roll her bag forward.

“Yes,” I said, “it is my foot.”

I reached into the overhead bin and pulled down my backpack. Water sprayed out from my bottle. The cap had come loose.

But the deeper discomfort was already there. I knew I could have let her pass. Instead, I had chosen to hold my place.

For me, the sprinkling is what carries the meaning.

It is Eastertime, a season of holy water and baptismal remembering. In that small and awkward moment, I found myself wondering if I had been given a kind of baptism I did not expect. 

I found myself wondering if I might have let her pass.

It gave me a way to see myself more clearly.

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