Going Under

"They tell you the water washes everything away. What they don't mention is what rushes in to fill the space — or who you'll be looking for when you come back up."

The chapel was a sea of hushed anticipation. The air hung heavy with the scent of polished wood and fading flowers, and sunlight filtered through the windows, casting pools of vibrant light across the congregation.

I sat in the front pew, my small frame engulfed in pristine white fabric that felt both comforting and constricting, as if I were wrapped in a cocoon of expectations and tradition. The white clothes were new — Mum had bought them specially for today. The white shirt, the white trousers, even white socks. Everything pure and unblemished. Ready to be made new.

To my left, Dad mirrored my attire. A pillar of strength and expectation. His face was set in a mask of pride, but I could see the tension in the corners of his eyes, the slight twitch of his jaw that betrayed his own nerves.

"You alright there?" he murmured, leaning close so only I could hear.

"Yeah," I whispered back. "Just nervous."

"That's normal. I was nervous at mine too."

"Really?"

"Absolutely terrified. Nearly tripped going into the font."

The image of Dad — tall, steady Dad — stumbling into the baptismal water made me smile despite my anxiety. "Did you actually fall?"

"No. But it was close. Your grandfather had to catch my elbow."

On my right, Nan's weathered hand rested gently on my knee. A lifeline to a simpler time. Her touch was warm, reassuring, but there was a tremor in her fingers that spoke of age and fragility.

"My beautiful grandson," she said softly, her eyes glistening. "Getting baptised on his birthday. What a blessing."

"Thanks, Nan."

Behind us, the pews stretched back in orderly rows, filled with familiar faces. I could hear the soft rustle of Sunday clothes, the muffled coughs, the whispered conversations that rippled through the congregation like waves.

Paul sat on Dad's other side, unusually still for once. He caught my eye and gave me a thumbs up, then crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue when no one was looking. I stifled a laugh, nearly choking on it.

I was beaming with joy. Or at least, I thought I was. The smile on my face felt genuine — a reflection of the happiness I knew I should be feeling on this momentous day. My cheeks ached with the effort of maintaining the expression. These amazing people surrounding me, family and friends alike, had come to witness my spiritual rebirth. Their collective gaze weighed heavily upon me, a pressure that threatened to crack the facade of calm I was desperately trying to maintain.

Yet beneath the surface of my apparent elation, a current of unease rippled through my veins. It was a feeling I couldn't quite shake — a nagging doubt that whispered in the back of my mind, questioning every certainty I thought I had. The white fabric of my baptismal clothes suddenly felt too tight, constricting my breathing and making me acutely aware of every bead of sweat that formed on my skin.

Unable to resist, I turned my head, scanning the faces that filled the pews behind me. Each familiar visage blurred into the next — a kaleidoscope of proud smiles and expectant gazes.

But as my eyes roamed over the crowd, I became increasingly aware of a glaring absence.

Jamie.

Where was he? The question echoed in my mind, drowning out the soft murmur of the congregation. Despite not being a churchgoer himself, he had promised he wouldn't miss today. The memory of that promise — spoken in hushed tones in a quiet corner of the schoolyard — sent a shiver down my spine. His words had been so earnest, his eyes so intense as he swore he'd be there for me on this important day.

"I'll come," he'd said. "I don't care if it's boring. I want to see it. I want to see you."

"You don't have to. It's okay if—"

"I want to. I'll be there."

And I had believed him. Had counted on his presence like a talisman against the fear that coiled in my stomach. But the absence of his familiar face in the crowd left a void that seemed to grow with each passing moment. I could feel my heart rate increase, a flutter of panic beginning to take hold. What if something had happened to him? What if he had changed his mind about coming? What if his parents had found out — about us, about the kiss — and forbidden him from attending?

The possibilities swirled in my mind, each more distressing than the last.

I forced my attention back to the front, where Mum was at the podium, just finishing her testimony. Her voice — usually so familiar and comforting — sounded distant and distorted, as if coming from underwater. The words washed over me, their meaning lost in the tumult of my own thoughts.

"...and I'm so grateful to be here today to witness my son taking this important step," she was saying. "I know that Heavenly Father loves him. I know that this gospel is true and that families can be together forever."

She paused, her eyes finding mine in the front row. Something flickered across her face — love, certainly, but also something else. Something I couldn't quite read.

"In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen," she concluded.

"Amen," the congregation echoed. The finality of her statement seemed to echo through the chapel, a reminder of the irreversible step I was about to take.

Mum descended from the podium. She paused in front of me, bending down to whisper. "You're up next, sweetheart. Are you ready?"

"I think so."

"You'll be wonderful. Just read what you wrote. Speak from the heart."

I drew in a deep breath, my lungs expanding against the constricting fabric of my white shirt. It was my turn now — the moment I had been preparing for, dreaming of, and, if I was honest with myself, dreading.

"Do you need any help?" Dad's voice was low, meant only for my ears. His hand hovered near my elbow, ready to steady me if needed. The concern in his tone was evident, and for a moment, I was tempted to grab onto him, to seek the comfort and security of his embrace. But I knew that to do so would be to admit a weakness I couldn't afford to show.

"No thanks. I think I'll be alright," I replied, surprised by the calm in my own voice. It was as if another Luke — one more confident and assured — had momentarily taken control. This other Luke stood straighter, moved with purpose, seemed untroubled by the doubts that plagued me. I clung to this persona, using it as a shield against the turbulent emotions that swelled within me.

I stood. The pew creaked slightly as my weight shifted. The walk to the podium felt endless — each step measured, deliberate, watched by a dozens of pairs of eyes. The carpet muffled my footsteps, but I could hear my own breathing, too fast, too shallow.

The piece of paper I had clutched throughout the service now felt damp with sweat as I unfolded it, placing it carefully under the microphone. The words I had prepared seemed to blur before my eyes, the letters rearranging themselves into meaningless patterns. I blinked. Focused. Made the words come clear again.

"Hello, brothers and sisters," I began, my voice sounding small and distant in my own ears. The microphone gave a slight feedback, the high-pitched whine cutting through the silence of the chapel. I flinched at the sound, my composure momentarily shaken.

"Sorry," I mumbled, though I wasn't sure what I was apologising for.

The sea of faces before me beamed back, their collective gaze an almost physical pressure. I could feel their expectations pressing in on me from all sides, threatening to suffocate me with their intensity.

I was about to continue when a movement at the back of the chapel caught my eye. The heavy wooden door opened with a creak that seemed to echo through the stillness, admitting a slim figure I would have recognised anywhere.

Jamie.

He walked in alone, his hair slightly dishevelled, as if he'd run here. He was wearing a button-up shirt that was too big for him — probably his father's — tucked haphazardly into jeans that were clean but clearly not church clothes. His presence sent a jolt through my system that was equal parts relief and anxiety.

Our eyes met across the expanse of the chapel. For a moment, everything else faded — the congregation, the podium, the weight of expectation. All of it dissolved, leaving only the two of us connected by an invisible thread. He offered a gentle wave, a small, almost secretive movement that was meant only for me. Then he settled into a seat along the back pew, alone, separate from everyone else.

The sight of him — finally here — nearly broke my composure. An enormous grin threatened to escape, but I managed to rein it in, forcing myself to continue with my prepared speech.

I looked back down at my paper. The words suddenly easier to read.

"I am so grateful to be getting baptised today," I continued. The words still felt hollow in my mouth — each syllable felt like a betrayal, a lie I was telling not just to the congregation, but to myself. But I spoke them anyway, because they were expected. Because they were safe. "I know that Heavenly Father is pleased with me and that it is what Jesus wants me to do."

Did I know that? Did I really? I thought of the nightmares, the rats, the bad man with his burning eyes. If Heavenly Father was pleased with me, why did he let those things haunt my sleep?

"I am thankful for everyone that has come here today to help celebrate this occasion with me."

I paused, my eyes drawn once again to where Jamie sat. There was something in his posture, a tension in his shoulders that I couldn't quite decipher. His face was a mask of neutrality, but I could see something moving behind his eyes — worry, perhaps, or sadness. It was a look I had never seen on him before, and it sent a chill down my spine.

Pushing down the urge to abandon my speech and run to him, I forged ahead, my voice growing stronger with each word — or at least, louder.

"I know that the church is true. I know that we have a prophet who speaks with God and helps us in these latter days. I love my family and know that we can be together forever. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen."

"Amen," the congregation echoed. The word reverberated through the chapel like a final seal on a contract I wasn't sure I fully understood. The unity of their voices was overwhelming, a tide of faith and conviction that threatened to sweep me away. In that moment, I felt more alone than ever — an island of doubt in a sea of certainty.

I stepped down from the podium, my legs slightly unsteady. As I arrived at my seat beside Mum, she reached out and squeezed my hand. "Beautiful," she mouthed. I nodded, tried to smile.

Bishop Wallis took my place at the podium. His imposing figure seemed to loom over the congregation, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

"Brothers and sisters, that was a wonderful testimony from young Luke. I can feel the Spirit strongly today." Several amens and murmurs of agreement rippled through the congregation. "We will now witness the baptism of Luke Smith. If you'd like to follow him and his father to the baptismal area, we'll proceed with the ordinance."

My father stood, his hand finding my shoulder. "Ready?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Remember — I've got you. I won't let you fall."

The double meaning of his words — whether intended or not — settled into my chest.

As we made our way down the aisle, I could feel the eyes of the congregation on my back, their collective gaze a physical weight. Row by row, they filed in behind us — a solemn procession that felt more like a funeral march than a celebration.

Paul fell into step beside me for a moment. "You're going to be fine," he said quietly. "And afterwards, we can ride your new bike."

The reminder of the bike — of normal life waiting on the other side of this ritual — was oddly grounding. "Thanks, Paul."

"Also, Mum said there's going to be a party at our house after. With more cake."

"Of course you're thinking about cake."

"I'm always thinking about cake. It's my gift."

He dropped back to join the procession, leaving me alone with Dad again. The sound of footsteps on the carpeted floor created a rhythm that seemed to match the frantic beating of my heart.

As we left through the main chapel doors, we headed down the corridor towards the baptismal font. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly before us, the distance to our destination growing with each step. The walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced prophets and scenes from scripture — Jesus walking on water, Moses parting the Red Sea, Joseph Smith kneeling in the Sacred Grove. Their eyes seemed to follow me as I passed. Watching. Judging.

Were they proud of me? Or could they see my doubts? Could they see the questions that coiled in my heart like snakes?

Dad and I turned off into the men's bathroom as the others continued to the room fronting the baptismal font. The harsh fluorescent lights cast strange shadows, making Dad's familiar face look alien and severe. The stark white of the tiles and porcelain fixtures was a jarring contrast to the warm woods and muted colours of the chapel.

We were alone now. Just the two of us in the echoing, antiseptic space.

"How are you feeling?" Dad asked. His voice softer now, away from the crowd. "Really feeling?"

I hesitated. "I don't know," I admitted. "Scared, I think. A little bit."

"That's okay. Being scared is normal."

"Were you scared? At yours?"

"Terrified." He crouched down so we were eye to eye. "But I'll tell you something my dad told me. He said that sometimes the things worth doing are the things that scare us most."

"Did that help?"

"Not really." Dad smiled. "But I did it anyway. And afterwards, I was glad I did."

He straightened up, checked his white tie in the mirror. "You're not alone in there, Luke. I'll be holding you the whole time. I won't let anything happen to you."

The words settled into me — a small comfort against the vast unknown.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"I'm ready," I replied, summoning a confidence I didn't truly feel. The words tasted false on my tongue, but I forced them out anyway, clinging to the role I knew I was expected to play.

Dad walked toward the door that led to the baptismal font and opened it slowly. The smell of chlorine hit me — sharp and chemical, burning my nostrils and making my eyes water. It was a smell that would forever after be associated with this moment, this turning point in my young life, where I farewelled whatever innocence remained.

Dad took a few steps down into the font, still holding the door open for me. I hesitated for a moment at the threshold. The tile floor of the bathroom gave way to more tiled steps — wet and slippery. Dozens of people, maybe hundreds, had walked down these same steps, had stood in that same water, had made the same choice I was about to make.

Or had the choice been made for them, too?

Taking a deep breath, I stepped through and stood on the top step. Through the glass wall that separated the baptismal font from the foyer, I could see everyone watching. Their faces pressed close to the glass like visitors at an aquarium.

Mum was there, her hands clasped in front of her. Nan was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Paul stood slightly apart, his expression unusually serious. And in the corner — Jamie. Our eyes met again through the glass. He nodded once, a small, encouraging movement.

The weight of their collective gaze settled on me like a physical thing, and I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to run. But there was nowhere to run to. This was my path, chosen for me long before I had the ability to choose for myself. Eight years ago, when I was blessed as a baby, this moment had been set in motion. Every Primary class, every Sunday School lesson, every family home evening had led here.

With a sense of inevitability, I descended the remaining few steps. The water rose to meet me, warm and enveloping. It soaked through the thin white fabric of my baptismal clothes, clinging to my skin in a way that made me feel both exposed and cocooned. By the time I reached the bottom, it came to my mid-chest, lapping gently against the fabric.

Dad stood waist-high in the middle of the font, waiting for me. I waded towards him, each step careful on the slippery floor. The water swirled around my legs, resisting my movement, as if testing my resolve.

When I reached him, Dad extended his left arm in front of himself, bent at the elbow at a right angle. "You remember what to do?" he asked quietly.

"I remember."

He took my right wrist in his hand, my palm facing upwards. With my left hand, I held tightly to his left wrist. Our arms formed a circle — a symbol of eternity. In this moment, it felt more like a chain.

The warmth of his skin against mine was reassuring, his grip steady and sure. Yet even as I took comfort in his presence, a part of me rebelled against the finality of what was about to happen. After this, I would be different. Changed. Bound by covenants and promises and expectations. After this, there was no going back.

We closed our eyes and bowed our heads. The onlookers followed suit, a collective hush falling over the room. In that moment of silence, I could hear my own heartbeat — rapid and insistent, as if trying to squeeze in as many beats as possible before the plunge. The sound of water lapping gently against the sides of the font seemed unnaturally loud, a constant reminder of what was to come.

Dad's voice broke the silence. "Luke Nathaniel Smith, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." He paused, drew a breath. "Amen."

The final word quivered as he spoke it, exposing the emotion that swirled below his stoic surface.

"Amen," echoed the voices beyond the glass — a chorus of affirmation that seemed to seal my fate. The word reverberated through the room, each repetition feeling like another nail in the coffin of my childhood.

I didn't open my eyes. I trusted completely — or at least, I told myself I did.

Dad placed his right hand in the square of my back for support. With his left arm, he gently pushed me toward the water. As I moved backwards, I gripped Dad's left wrist more tightly with my left hand and grabbed my nose with my right. The chlorine smell grew stronger as my face neared the water's surface, and I could feel the warmth of it on my skin, a stark contrast to the coolness of the air.

Taking one last breath — deep, filling my lungs completely — I allowed myself to be lowered into the water.

The world went silent, muffled by the liquid embrace. For a moment, suspended in that watery limbo, I felt a profound sense of peace. All the doubts, all the fears, all the confusion of the past months — they seemed to wash away, dissolving into the warm water that surrounded me completely.

The water enveloped every part of me. My hair floated around my face. My clothes billowed like wings. I was weightless, suspended between the world I knew and something else, something larger. In that moment of submersion, I felt a connection to something greater than myself — a sense of belonging that I had been desperately seeking.

This was what they meant, I realised. This was the rebirth. The washing away of sins. The beginning of a new life. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was just the warmth and the silence and the strange, peaceful darkness behind my closed eyes. But for that one moment — that single, eternal moment — I believed.

And then, just as quickly, I was rising. Dad's hands guided me up, strong and sure. My face broke the surface, water cascading down my features as I gasped for air. The world rushed back in a cacophony of sound and sensation.

I felt... different. Cleaner, yes, but also somehow more vulnerable, as if a layer of protection had been stripped away along with my innocence. The weight of the water-soaked clothes clung to my body, a physical reminder of the transformation I had just undergone.

Through the glass, I could see the onlookers, their faces alight with joy and pride. Mum was crying openly now. Nan was beaming. Even Paul looked moved, though he was trying to hide it. And Jamie stood watching, his expression unreadable from this distance. But he was there. He had come, just as he'd promised.

The excited chatter of the onlookers reached my ears, their voices a blur of congratulations and praise. But as Dad and I ascended the stairs back to the change room, I found myself thinking about Jamie. Had he understood what he was watching? What did he think of all this — the ritual, the prayers, the going under? The memory of his tense posture in the chapel sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the cool air on my wet skin.

"How do you feel now?" Dad asked once we were back in the change room, his voice tinged with a mixture of pride and curiosity. His eyes searched my face, looking for confirmation that this pivotal moment had had the desired effect.

"I feel great!" I exclaimed. The words came automatically, a response I knew was expected of me. And part of me did feel great — lighter, somehow, as if a burden I hadn't known I was carrying had been lifted. But there was also a heaviness settling in my chest, a sense that something important had shifted, though I couldn't quite put my finger on what. It was as if the baptism had opened my eyes to a world of complexity I hadn't been aware of before, a world where faith and doubt, joy and fear, could coexist in uneasy harmony.

We changed quickly, exchanging our wet white clothes for dry ones. Dad peeled off his soaked clothing, his skin pale and goosebumped beneath it. I struggled with my own buttons, my fingers clumsy with cold and emotion.

"Here," Dad said, helping me. "Arms up."

He pulled the dry shirt over my head, smoothed down my wet hair.

When it came time for my tie — a thin, red leather thing that I secretly despised — I fumbled with it helplessly.

"Let me." He stepped in, his fingers deftly knotting the leather with ease. The familiar ritual was comforting, a reminder that some things remained constant even as others changed irrevocably.

When he was done, he took a step back. His eyes roamed over me, as if seeing me for the first time. There was a shimmer in his gaze that I had never seen before — a mixture of pride and something else. Was it sadness? Regret?

Before I could ponder it further, he pulled me into a tight embrace. "I love you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. The words, so rarely spoken in our family, hit me like a physical force. My eyes welled up, a confusing mix of joy and sadness threatening to overflow. In that moment, I felt the weight of his expectations, his hopes and dreams for me, settle on my shoulders like a mantle.

"I love you too, Dad," I managed to choke out, my voice muffled against his chest. The words felt inadequate, unable to convey the complex swirl of emotions that churned within me.

As we broke apart, I saw a glimmer of moisture in Dad's eyes, quickly blinked away as he regained his composure. He cleared his throat, straightened his own tie.

"Right then," he said, his voice almost steady. "Let's get out there. Everyone's waiting to congratulate you."

I nodded, ready to face whatever came next — the handshakes, the hugs, the congratulations from people I barely knew. And somewhere out there, Jamie was waiting too. I didn't know what I would say to him, or what he would say to me. But I knew that when our eyes met again, something would pass between us that no one else would understand.

Something that had nothing to do with baptism, and everything to do with us.