The devil made me do it.

One of my earliest memories is when I was four years old, watching my mom's baptism. For many, this would be quite a sentimental thing to remember. Unfortunately it was one of the more terrifying experiences in my life. Before you get all Billy Graham on me, allow me to explain.

At age four, I had a very basic idea of how the world functioned. Contrary to popular belief, I was not a child prodigy.

Part of it was shaped by my upbringing in the church. I thought everyone died on a cross like Jesus. After watching soaps with my mom and seeing a dead person (probably the result of some sinful, commandment-breaching love tryst), I asked my mom, "Who nailed him?"

The other part was shaped by stupidity. I thought all people who refused to talk were doing so because they had a talent. So when my mom encountered a very rude and unresponsive teller at the bank, I asked, "Is she a mime?"

And when I first realized my family members were black, I thought all black people were my family. "Uncle Phil?" I pointed to a man at the grocery store. My mom had to correct me embarrisingly, "No, sweetie, that's our neighbor." I was 17.

Okay, 17 months :)

So when my mom told me she was getting baptized, the only thing I took away from it was that my aunts, uncles and grandmas were coming to church with us, and that Mom was finally going to be able to eat a piece of cracker and cranberry juice during the sermons after this day.

While much of the ceremony is fuzzy, I remember having anxiety because my mom was not sitting next to me in the pews like she normally did. I couldn't sit still and was being fussy. After being scolded by many family members for my antsy behavior, I finally saw her. She was on stage with the priest in a white robe. I didn't understand why she wasn't wearing the pink dress she arrived in. Maybe it was a commandment that I missed in Sunday school. Thou shalt not wear pink.

The priest said some words, placed one hand on my mom's back, and another on her forehead and suddenly he began drowning her! What the hell was this?! Alarmed, I began crying and wondering why no one was running up to the stage to save her. I attempted to leap from my grandma's lap, but she had a strong grip for an old lady. My family members were crying tears of joy, which I mistook for sorrow, as they sat idle watching my mother get murdered by the same dude who taught me the words to Jesus Loves Me. Traitor!

What was this? Some sick, sadistic ritual all for cranberry juice and crackers?! Even I didn't want cranberry juice and crackers that bad!

I was yelling out, acting out, freaking out during her baptism. I was crying so hard I was gasping for air every time I inhaled. I was close to fainting when finally, she emerged from the water. She was breathing. She's alive!

I don't remember the explanation of the ritual that I'm sure I received. All I remember is running up to her promptly after the ceremony, and giving her the biggest hug my four year-old frame could muster. Oh yeah, and I also was not allowed to go within 10 feet of the priest that I was convinced attempted first degree murder on my mother.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but little boys aren't the only ones priests are after.