Baptism by Fire

Eight is a magic number. If born into the Mormon religion. It is the age at which God and a few other men with special powers unavailable to women remove sins one has committed prior to the age of eight. I'm trying to think. Sins before eight. That time I stole a quarter from the pile of change sitting on top of my father's dresser. Wishing my hair could be as blonde and luxurious as Tiffany's, my next door neighbor with five brothers and sisters. One day they came to take the furniture and when I next saw Tiffany she was living in a hotel where I was offered filet mignon for the first time. But it wasn't the kind of filet mignon that you might be thinking about, the hotel not as luxurious as Tiffany's hair. Or that time that I wished my brother would die because he swung at me and hit with a metal baseball bat. Or that time I said dammit. Or that other time that I said shit. And liked it.

And then the sins that I didn't know I had committed. Complaining that I had to go to church. Three meetings on Sunday--one hour each--while other children played outside. And then after church, no recreating. Must think about God all day. Must not spend money. Must not use electricity (some folks were actually this obsessed with not spending money on a Sunday). I know that before the age of eight I wondered whether or not God existed, the ultimate sin for which I must be cleansed. Bad, bad, bad eight-year-old.

My sins. Black stains. On my soul. Lifting, one by one, as my shiny seal-like head emerged from the tepid baptismal waters. Floating on chlorine and a prayer and my father's words, as he was the one who baptized me, ultimately relieving me of the weight, the dirt. Both of us wearing all white, polyester, in front of friends and family. I was once again pure.

Getting into the head of a very literal eight-year-old is easy. Sins one day. Gone the next. Do not sin. Do not sin. Do not sin. Do not ever sin again. Clean. Clean. Clean. All white. Dirt gone. New. Shiny new.

But then it happened. As much as I tried to be his sunbeam. "To shine for him each day. In every way try to please him. At home, at school, at play." I sinned again. And now "Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam." And there was a black stain. And another. And another. And then I started to lose track of the cleanliness that had been me and the blackness took over. And I tried to get back to the minutes following my baptism. The banana cream pie at Marie Callendar's, my special day.

It has taken me nearly 26 years to realize that there is no going back to baptism. At least this one. And more importantly, why would I want to? And most importantly, eight-year-olds don't sin. At least the eight-year-olds I know. They sometimes lie and steal and covet. They sometimes wish that someone would die. Usually for a good reason. But sin?

Eight is a magic number for me. Eight is the age, whether I knew it or not, at which white became black and then beautiful grey the color of hair. Perhaps eight is the age of my first real breath. Of fire.