Rivers of London
Expecting Someone Taller
I was the Baby with No Name. I’d been baptised quickly, on the spot; water had hit my head before milk had gone near the back of my throat. God waited for no baby in the slums. He took them back as soon as He’d given them, but He threw them away if their souls were still stained. He delivered them soiled but expected them back spotless. It was a race. Each day of life was a fight and a triumph, an endless race to stay a few inches in front of the greedy hand of God. God’s gift, Original Sin, had to be washed away in case God sent another of his gifts - fever, typhoid or whooping cough, smallpox, pneumonia or rats. So I’d been baptised. I was without sin. But I didn’t have a name either.