Donut Days Read Free

member. But I knew it was her way of speaking in tongues.
    “Today,” my mom said from the other side of me, “maybe that will be you.” I nodded. Maybe.
    Most everyone at Living Word spoke in tongues—except me. In fact, I’d never really experienced anything extra-spiritual—ever. I mean, sure, I’d felt at peace in church, and one time when I saw a homeless man walk through our front doors and the whole church took up an offering just for him, I believed God must be really close by. But I just never experienced God the way other people in the church did, with tongues and falling down and visions and whatnot.
    I knew some people expected the pastor’s daughter to be more spiritually connected, and I knew my parents worried about the fact that I read the newspaper more than my Bible. I honestly wasn’t trying to be difficult—it’s just that the Bible didn’t always seem as relevant to me as, say, the headlines of the day. Still, I didn’t want to be a disappointment to anyone, and of course I wanted to feel the power of God personally. With any luck, God would show up today while I was submerged in the water and splice in the religious gene I seemed to be missing.
    Nat grabbed my hand and squeezed as the last praise and worship song ended. I squeezed back. “Let us make our way to the water,” my dad said. The crowd spread out as we headed down a small trail toward the banks of the river. As Nat and I walked together, I thought about how most people get baptized when they’re infants—when they’re too little to really know what’s happening and they just get a few sprinkles of holy water on their head. But at Living Word, baptisms have to be a choice, which is why you can’t get baptized until you’re at least sixteen. You have to believe in the renewal and rebirth of your soul, so much so that you’re willing to submerge your whole self in the Minnetonka River in the springtime. And trust me, if you’re going to go into a body of water in April in Minnesota, you darn well better believe in something.
    “Okay,” my dad said. “Let’s do this.” He barged into the cold water with a tiny copy of the New Testament tucked into his breast pocket. The entire congregation watched as he waded in up to his waist, Nat and I trailing behind. The cold hurt like jellyfish stings and our teeth were chattering before the baptism even started.
    My dad opened his little Bible, turned to Matthew Chapter 3, and started reading. “And when Jesus was baptized, he went up immediately from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and alighting on him; and lo, a voice from heaven, saying, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.’”
    As my dad spoke, the water swirled around me and I felt small rocks tumbling over my toes. I glanced over at Natalie and noticed how her eyes matched the mossy river bottom. She held her hands out from her sides, palms down, as if resting them on top of the current.
    “Emma, you first,” my dad said, tucking the Word back into his shirt. I nodded and took two unsteady steps toward him. Please, God, I prayed silently, please let something really spiritual happen to me in this water. My dad reached out and put one hand on my back and one over my clavicle bones on my chest. “Hold your nose,” he said. I did. With one hand he pushed me toward the water, at the same time using his other hand to lift up my back and help get my feet out from underneath me.
    With my face toward heaven, I was submerged into the icy water. I tried keeping my eyes open but couldn’t—the current was too strong. The cold took my breath away and I suddenly felt winded and panicked. I tried breathing and got river water up my nose instead. As my dad lifted me out of the water, I sputtered and gagged, spitting up lungfuls of the Minnetonka River.
    “You okay?” my dad asked.
    Nearly convulsing with cold, I just stared at him. Was I