My stomach roiled. I knew this occasion would be difficult, yet a necessary occurrence. This was for my son…and my commitment to Christ. We always christened our children as an act of worship. It is a way of returning, through ritual act, your child to Christ whom entrusted you with the child in the first place. I wanted to do right by Jordan, who I secretly felt I’d let down already by conceiving him so prematurely.
As I walked down the outer aisle with my baby nestled in my arms, my body went cold and trembled. I heard and felt the hardwood hidden beneath the aged tan carpet creak, and I quickly wondered how many times had I traveled this aisle over the years. The number didn’t matter because none of those times were as terrifying as this moment. There were never the stares and silent throws of judgment that were being cast at me and my innocent child right now. Never had I been so closely regarded as I took the walk. I told myself during the journey to the altar that it was for Jordan. He was pure and precious. I had nothing to be ashamed of or uncomfortable about. He was born out of a love that some of these hypocrites wished they had a day of.
I made it up to the foot of the altar and observed Pastor Whitaker’s comforting smile as he descended the pulpit.
He continued, “Amen.” Then he turned to the crowd and asked, “Who will stand with this mother and child?”
I ducked my head at that portion of the ceremony. It was customary, but today meant much more. Usually the father, mother and baby arrived first and he’d ask, Who will join this man, his wife and child? But that was not the case. Even Karen and Angela had men with them to carry the burden of scrutiny. I was alone. I had no husband. My focus then became my beautiful sleeping baby.
My father, mother, sister and Karen joined me. There was no man by my side, which was odd in this church. I glanced over to my parents who held their heads high, supporting me once again. There seemed to have been a long stretch of silence. I held my breath, waiting for that moment to pass. I glanced over at Angela who still wouldn’t look at me, but pretended to play in her baby’s hair. That hurt.
Then I heard movement from behind me. I turned to find Bernard clearing his throat and smoothing his skinny pink tie as he stood and made his way by my side. The act would have been noble if he wasn’t so dramatic about it. Bernard loved attention and this was furnishing him with plenty of it. Standing with an unwed mother and her bastard child? That’ll garner him some respect. In all honesty, I didn’t want him there. I wanted to do this alone. I’d prepared for it. It was my life. My choice. My consequence. My blessing. My child. Bernard didn’t have to stand with me to help me save face, but there was no way I could relay this to him in that moment without being rude.
I sighed my frustration. Yet another circumstance of not wanting traditionalism. Not wanting marriage. I’m a single mom and here’s my path. This is the road I have to travel. I would make the best life for Jordan…along with his dad, wherever he was.
And then I heard commotion down the middle aisle, leading to the doors of the church. A door was yanked open and the first one crossing the threshold was a pensive and jumpy Paul. My stomach churned. His petite frame looked formal in dress shoes, fitted black slacks, dress shirt, textured vest and a skinny tie just as pink as Bernard’s. In fact, they were identical. Noticing my quizzical glare, Paul shrugged with his hands in the air, almost apologetically.
Right away, I knew what that meant: Stenton’s here! My heart dropped into my belly and the wind had left my lungs. Twice I’d consulted Paul about this occasion without exactly telling him what it was. I asked him about cute christening gowns for boys. I didn’t want one made, which is what a woman in our church did for our babies for a small fee. I wanted to involve my church as little as possible. And since Paul, by default, had become my go-to person, I’d asked him. I also inquired about a shoe store for babies. The ones my mother recommended in New Brunswick were with outdated styles or closed down.