Free Sister Mother Husband Dog: (Etc.) by Delia Ephron

come up once, as I recall. My parents, who were a screenwriting team, told us that in the movie
The Ten Commandment
s, the Red Sea was actually Jell-O. The filmmakers had made the sea part, they said, by pouring the Jell-O in and then running the film backward.
    Twice in my life I converted to Christianity. Once by accident. Once because my husband told me, “Just do it, it’s no big deal.”
    The first time I was seventeen. The Reverend Billy Graham was having a rally in the Los Angeles Coliseum, and my friend Stephanie and I went out of curiosity. We sat high in the packed bleachers and listened to him preach. We expected to see something out of
Elmer Gantry
, a movie about a charismatic revivalist (con man), featuring stomping, singing, religious faints. We were disappointed. Graham wasn’t charismatic or rabble-rousing. He was ordinary, boring even, matter-of-fact. Flat.
    Many of those around us, who felt otherwise, said they had come to hear him many times, and when Graham asked us all to “put a brick in his church”—a phrase that has stuck with me—a large plastic container traveled down the rows, and everyone except us threw in a dollar (which was worth a lot more then).
    Stephanie and I hadn’t brought binoculars, and Graham was a mere speck. When he said, “If you believe, come down here,” and people began to pour down the aisles and gather in the bowl of the Coliseum, we decided to join them to get a closer look.
    While we were milling around on the grass, still without much of a view because of the crowd, Graham said, “Now that you have given yourself to Christ . . .”
    That came as a shock.
    I had no idea that simply by leaving my seat I had given myself to Christ.
    He continued, “. . . one of our advisors will help you get started on your new life.”
    A man grabbed my arm. Another grabbedStephanie’s. I realized that many of the folks who’d poured down the aisles were working for the reverend.
    “When did you begin to believe?” the man asked me. He sort of boomed the question. Like he was God from above, only he was standing right next to me.
    “When did you?” I asked.
    I wasn’t being brash. This was more of a panicked defensive move, because I thought he expected some booming back from me. I remember the trapped feeling so clearly, because it was one of those teenage moments when you pull off a goof (which I liked to do now and then) and get way more than you bargained for.
    My “advisor” told me about his realization that Christ died on the cross for him, and then he asked my name, address, and phone number. I gave fake ones—the name Annette Sorenson comes to mind (I thought it was Swedish). He handed me a fill-in-the-blank book to get me started on my new life.
    He helped me with the first question, which he read aloud. “Who have sinned?” He filled in, “All have sinned.”
    I said that my mother was expecting me home, pulled Stephanie away from her advisor, and we left.
    My parents loved the story. I told it that night at dinner and got big laughs.
    Then in 2010, my husband and I were asked to be godparents. I was already a godparent twice over, one child was half Jewish, the other was Anglican. In those instances, our friends, the parents of our godchildren, never mentioned religion. I assumed that being a godparent meant taking an extra special interest in the child of someone you love, although I also remembered that Jenny Sullivan’s godfather (her parents were friends of my parents) gave her a car for her sweet sixteen. I had no plans to give my godchildren cars.
    In this case, however, we were invited to the baptism ceremony in an Episcopal church in Connecticut.
    When we arrived, we all gathered near the altar: the parents, our six-month-old godson, Teddy, in an adorable white baptism outfit, my husband and I, and the minister, who was a woman.
    The minister prepared us for the ceremony. It would take place during the service in front of the congregation.