Cold Water

If I have an irrational fear, a phobia, of something—that something is cold water. Or, more specifically, submerging my body in cold water.

Unsurprisingly, somewhat poetically, the water that I was baptized in today was what my body deemed "cold water." My chest heaved and my body shook to let me know it was in survival mode. Afterward, I felt oddly warm, which I think is attributable to some adrenaline. For the rest of the day, a dull ache has been wrapped around my body from the experience.

The water itself wasn't anywhere near freezing—but that doesn't matter to a phobia. I cannot explain why it bothers me so much: I used to be a (semi-)competitive swimmer, so I am a more-than-competent when it comes to taking care of myself in water...

And yet, my body wasn't having it.

Oddly appropriate, given what this baptism means to me: crucifying the desires of the flesh, pursuing and accepting the identity that God has spoken over me.

And so: of course it was cold water. I always knew it would be, in a sense.