Brody is being christened today. He is not of my blood, only the issue of young friends of mine, so she, who will not pass up a chance to cry at a wedding or christening, is taking me along with her to the event.

Brody would not have been my choice of names, even though it is Irish. A Brody will probably grow up to be a boxer, gambler or prosecuting attorney. I’m just saying.

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I suggested Jeremiah, which is my name. It’s very Irish and biblical as well. Jeremiah was a prophet. You can’t go wrong with that.

I told his parents that I would leave him something in my will should they pick my name. Sadly, they know me well and are aware that I have no money, and therefore their child is in no danger of inheriting anything except, perhaps, my extensive Ralph Lauren Polo wardrobe, which would be grotesquely out of style by the time the child was old enough to wear it. But they invited me to the christening anyway.

Brody was born many months ago, and he’s just now being christened. His parents are Maronite Catholics, a faction, I suspect, that has radically different views of limbo than Irish Catholics.

At the time of my birth, when Roosevelt was president and the country was broke, the Catholic church insisted that if a baby died before being baptized, it went straight to limbo. Nobody wanted to risk limbo. Nobody even knew where the hell limbo was.

I was christened, at the insistence of my Aunt Rosie, who carried her rosary around on a key chain next to a rabbit’s foot, as soon as the blood was washed from my face, and my mother got on her feet, which was in about three days. No limbo for me. Mother had already borne eight other children and was an old hat at it. Having babies was, for her, as simple as passing gas. Only half an hour after I slipped from her, she was down in the kitchen having coffee.

Catholics of my time made a big thing of christenings. Everyone in the family, cousins, uncles, aunts and friends had to be at the church. They always showed up, because they knew there would be a big party at the house afterwards. There was always, I’m told, even in the midst of the Great Depression, a lot of food and an open bar. I was put to bed with a bottle, as were my father and his brothers. Same size bottle, different formula.

There will be a party at Brody’s house I’m told. I’m sure there will be lots of Lebanese food and wine. The Lebanese aren’t big drinkers like the Irish, which is OK with me. Christenings are way too early in the day for imbibing.

So here, I’m shocked to say, I find myself in church again. I thought I had fulfilled my church obligations. The agreement was Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day and funeral Masses for relatives. She, who knew what she was doing, failed to tell me about christenings.

This means I have to give some thought on the matter of what to wear. I may just wear the same outfit I wore on Mother’s Day, as almost nobody was there that day and I wasted a brand new white linen waistcoat.

Today, on Brody’s day, the church will be packed, and there’s the matter of walking back up the aisle from communion. It’s like a model’s runway walk. Women know this instinctively, that’s why they dress up on Sunday.

I’m thinking the blue blazer with a tiny violet boutonniere? Just asking.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.