Baptism.

This an assignment for my Creative Non-Fiction writing class. We had to tell the story of an event from our childhood that we don't remember, but others do remember. So here it is, Enjoy;

Infant baptism was a tradition held by my Lutheran family for many generations. The Lutheran church doctrine believes that through baptism, comes salvation. However for me and my family, the tradition of baptism became something else.
Its a mild Saturday evening in March at Emmaus Lutheran Church, and the stage is set. The pastor is in his long white robe, the wooden pews are swept clean of dust, and the water on the alter is warm and awaiting my immersion. The smell of burnt candles and the musk of elder relatives is immersed in the air rising all the way to the peak of the sanctuary chamber. My mother is anxious and emotional amongst her family in the audience, my father is cracking jokes at my feminine blue baptismal gown, my older brother is complacent and desiring the attention of the evening to be on him, and my dear eldest sister is patient, calm, and wearing the most beautiful white dress.
The hour finally came. The singing of hymns began, echoing throughout the sanctuary halls like a chorus of bats in a cave. “Let us pray” the preacher said, and the service began. “Baptism is one of our most precious held traditions.” The preacher said. “We are here to commit this child to the Lord our God. Just as John the baptist baptized the believers of his day, so we do the same to this child before us.” My father handed me over to my sister who could barely hold onto me without shaking as if she were having a mild seizure. “Do you Scott and Vickie Smith give your son to God, to be baptized in the waters of his love, to atone for his sins?” “Yes we do.” My father and mother said. “Good, now hand me Travis” the Preacher said. My sister couldn't stop her nervous shaking. She was literally inches from handing my small, frail, infant body off to the pastor wearing the whitest piece of clothing, second to my sister's dress. Centimeters away, millimeters. She was so close to avoiding complete disaster. So close but so far. Just before my sister could hand me over to the pastor's open arms, my tiny infant bowels released , pouring excrement all over my sister's beautiful white dress. A mix of gasps, laughs, and awkward silence, fell throughout the sanctuary. Her face as red as a cheek in the cold, my sister walked swiftly away from the altar towards the bathroom to salvage what was left of her beautiful white dress. In front of family and friends, she walked to save what hadn't been sullied by my feces. My mother then cleaned me up and the baptism commenced, continuing our families tradition.
Today, my infant baptism remains a distant memory, occurring nearly 20 years ago. It is cataloged as one of three times that I, as a young child, hurled unpleasant bodily functions onto my sister. However thanks to the poop incident, my infant baptism remains the most vividly remembered baptism in all my family. Its something we will never forget, even if we wanted to.