As I walked up the straight and narrow passage on the old wooden squeaky steps, I noticed that the wood on each step was heavily worn by those who had walked this same path. There was a musty smell that I have never forgotten. It was a good smell though. I was clenching the handrails on both sides so tightly with fear. I finally reached the top. I adjusted my red and white wool dress that my mother had picked out for me. I began to descend down another stairwell into a large tank of barely lukewarm water. I began to shiver as I entered, but I proceeded. I reached the middle of the tank. To my left on the wall was a beautifully painted scenery of calm waters with sunlight shining through. It was surrounded by meadows and trees. It seemed very peaceful to me. To my right was an audience of people sitting in old wooden pews staring at me with pleasant smiles on their faces. I didn’t see my family, only strangers. A very kind old man with grey hair greeted me in the water and smiled. I barely knew him. He was the pastor. It was a cold wintery Sunday morning on January 7, 1973 in Spokane, Washington. I was nine years old. I had never been to a church before this. I had never seen a bible nor sang a hymn. I thought Jesus Christ was a cuss word. He wasn’t. He was the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords, who was now in my heart. “This baptism signifies the beginning of a new life for you,” Preacher Vaughn said. It definitely was.
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