Getting old...

Going through RCIA (you'll recognize the word if it matters to you) the second time around is a trip. Last time, back in the early Seventies, I fell off the mechanical bull (or was that because of the mechanical bull...?) This time, I've resolved to put up with anything, swallow everything, and get through with grace, integrity and all flags flying. Heh.

So I had to come up with a baptismal certificate. My grandfather was an elder in the Presbyterian church, so of course I was baptised. But the Edgerton (Kansas) Presbyterian Church no longer exists. Thanks to a cheerful and friendly church secretary in Gardner (Kansas), I found out about the Presbyterian Historical Society in Philadelphia. And they had my record on microfilm.

I was baptised nearly a full year after my birth date. My parents stood by. I wonder about the elapsed time, but the war was still on for most of 1945, so that probably accounts for it.