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Poem

There was always something different 
About a Sunday morning baptismal 
In salty ocean seashore waters
Down in the yard of the old Gypsum plant
With the sun quickly warming the night time
Coolness out of ten am.

It was hard to say whether those who got dipped
Did so in true belief or just to have it done and over with,
Being told that to do so was to have one’s sins
Forgiven and prepare them to live eternally in that place 
Called Heaven.

God knows that come Monday morning, most of the dipped went 
Right back to being and doing exactly what they did 
Before they were dipped on Sunday morning, including dipping.

But, there was a different feel to a baptismal Sunday Morning, 
More than other Sunday mornings, whether because 
It was enhanced with church members singing hymns, 
Raising spirits in each and everyone involved to 
Different heights of feeling something different or 
Because Jesus, though invisible, was in fact there 
Among the dipped and the dippers alike, without it being
A true Sabbath day.

I never saw Him, myself.

Still, I most enjoyed the whole proceedings, sitting on the grass
Waiting for the next one to get dipped and saved
And watching ants, oblivious to the reasons for it all,
Scurrying purposefully through the blades of freshly cut greens. 

It was entertaining.

I was tempted but, resisted, and just enjoyed it all
Passing a morning until Sunday dinner and smells of roast meat 
And boiled salt riblets grasp a hold on my nostrils
Bidding me go home to momma’s cooking.  

W.C.Hull © 2017-19-1-956-E

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