[Glenn Wright]

The Christening Gown

(about 1,200 words)

My mother, as her mother’s oldest daughter, was the custodian of the family christening gown. She kept it in the ugly, old armoire her mother had left her, under layers of grayish tissue paper, in a dry, brittle box of pebbled cardboard like the skin of an albino iguana. Its last outing had been four years earlier when my nephew had been baptized. I had worn it thirty years before that, my mother and her brother before me. I didn’t know how many generations had worn it when they were brought to the font, or which of my however-many-great-grandmothers had made it.

I gently unfolded the crackly tissue paper and looked closely at the gown for the first time—yards of ancient, ivory linen, thin satin ribbons, lace trim, tiny whitework crosses, seed pearl buttons, and a little bonnet. As I studied the gown, my sister, Rose, came into the bedroom.

“You’d better put that away. If Mom catches you with it, she won’t be happy.”

“I’m not going to hurt it. I just wanted to take a closer look at it.”

Rose swept her hand over the soft fabric and stiff lace. “it’s beautiful.” She covered it with the tissue paper, closed the box, and put it back in the armoire. “Have you asked her yet?”

“Asked her what?”

“To use the christening gown.” She saw the blank expression on my face and gave me an exasperated look. “Ask her.” Rose left, and I realized that Mom and she had already discussed my daughter’s baptism and her use of the family christening gown.

My wife, Claire, is Catholic, and our newborn daughter would join Christ’s family in Saint Dominic’s Church. Our wedding had been a masterpiece of negotiation. Claire’s parents had welcomed me as a son, and managed to convince the bishop to allow our Presbyterian minister to officiate the wedding, which their priest had then blessed, in our church. Even after six months of pre-Cana classes, I had no desire to convert, but knowing how important it was to Claire, I promised her, her parents, and her priest that I would help her fulfill her promise to raise our children as Catholics.

My mother had been unable to conceal her displeasure at our marriage. Her family had a history of mistrust for those whose rites were different from their own. She met the kindly overtures of Claire and her family with brittle politeness, finding all manner of reasonable excuses to promptly decline the invitations she received to join Claire’s family for dinners or barbecues. She visited Claire and me in our home and invited us to her house for holidays, but she remained tepid to Claire’s warmth and graciousness. She was not particularly religious. It was not a deeply felt difference of belief that fueled her antagonism. Once, when I tried to confront her about it before we were married, she denied it. When pressed, she said that she simply felt that people should stay with their own.

Claire was not terribly bothered by my mother’s attitude toward her, but she was concerned that it bothered me. “Now that the baby is here, she’ll have a change of heart, Mark. Just give her time to work through it.”

“I think Rosie has been trying to get her to see that she’s just making everyone miserable—mainly herself.” Claire and Rosie had been friends since kindergarten.

“Well, if anyone can win her over, Rosie can. Just let it go. Did you ask her about the christening gown?”

“Sounds like you and Rosie have been talking.”

“You need to ask her for it, Mark. The baptism is scheduled for a week from this Sunday. I know it’s important to you. Let her know that. And be sure to invite her to the reception.”

Later that afternoon I called to let my mother know that I wanted to drop by and see her about something. She didn’t ask what I wanted to discuss, and when I arrived, she seemed surprised that Claire wasn’t with me. She knew why I had come.

“You know we are going to have Madeline baptized next week at Saint Dominic’s, Mom.” She nodded and waited for me to ask my favor. “I was hoping that she could wear the family christening gown for the ceremony.”

A pained expression crossed her face. Had she rehearsed it? “It will be a Catholic ceremony. Don’t Claire’s parents want to use their own christening gown?”

“I want . . . It would mean a lot to me to give our child to Christ dressed in our family’s gown.” Clearly she was going to make me beg.

“I’m sorry, Mark. I don’t think it would be right to use our christening gown in a Catholic baptism.” She looked down at the floor, avoiding my astonished expression. I knew if I allowed myself to start speaking, I would regret it. I turned and left without a word.

When I got home, I told my wife the things I wanted to say to my mother. “Does she think our daughter would desecrate the sacred garment? Doesn’t she want to be Maddy’s grandmother? She just smears her bigotry on everyone and everything to make us as miserable as she is.”

“That’s enough, Mark. You’re right that she’s miserable. I worry about her living all alone since your dad passed away. You know she loves you, but she was raised with a lot of prejudices. She has to choose between her love for you and her most cherished hate. Let her struggle with it. Pray for her, but don’t let yourself get drawn into her struggle. She has to figure it out on her own.”

For the next week we had no contact with my mother. I knew that Rosie was talking to her, using all her skills in high-level diplomacy to try to resolve our conflict. On Thursday, when we had given up hope and bought a mass-produced, white christening gown, my mother called us with a peace offering.

“Rosie and I have been talking. She thinks I should let Madeline wear the christening gown.”

“And what do you think?” I could not resist making her admit she was wrong.

“I think she’s right. She’ll bring it over to you this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Mom. This really matters to me.”

“I won’t be at the ceremony or the reception, but I’d like to have you and the godparents for a dinner at my house.”

“The godparents will be Claire’s parents.”

There was the slightest pause, then, “I have their number. I’ll call them right now and invite them.”

“Thank you, Mom. We’ll see you on Sunday.”

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Mark.”

“I know. Thanks, Rosie.”

I heard Rosie in the background, “You’re welcome! We’ll be at the christening!”

And so Madeline Marie Allison, dressed in the white gown, became a child of God. We joined Claire’s parents, Rosie, and her family at my mother’s house for a lovely dinner. I knew that things between my mother and wife would probably never completely heal, but they might get a little better. My daughter’s original sin was washed away. The gown was cleaned and put back in its box. My mother’s house held the shattered, glued-back-together fragments of my family.