Watson Smith's Baptizin'

Common Sense Commentary:
"For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called." 1Cor.1:26.

Well, it happened about 45 years ago in Tallahassee, Florida. We were still meeting in the old storefront building on south Monroe Street. The church was only a few months old and we had an odd assortment of church jumpers, disgruntles, outsiders, a few seeking sinners, and ten or fifteen growing saints. One "good ole boy" started showing up every Sunday night and slowly graduated to Sunday morning and finally included Wednesday evening prayer meeting on his schedule. His name was Watson Smith.

Watson had been around, in his time. He had been everything from engineer on a logging train to mayor of Port Saint Joe. One of his primary enterprises during all his years was some concentrated, hard drinking. When I met him, he had just about run the course and had slowed down to building a farm and wearing out heavy equipment. God sent him to our new church, Temple Baptist, now North Florida Baptist.

Every time we had a man-sized job to do, Watson knew how to do it and always had the right tools and equipment. He was a hard handed, weather beaten, unintimidated, sincere sinner, something like a middle aged Simon Peter.

I had asked Watson several times when he was going to accept Christ as his Savior and become a Christian. He would say, "Preacher, I ain't goin' to be no hypocrite Christian". When I pressed him for a decision, he would respond, "I'll get saved when I can live up to it". Several months passed, and Watson was a more faithful church going sinner than any saint we had. He was always there and always ready to help.

One day, God burdened my heart for Watson Smith's soul and I went looking for him. I finally found him on his Blountstown highway farm, plowing. I had driven back through the woods to his field and walked out across the furrows toward him. He stopped, killed the tractor, and nonchalantly got down and looked me over. "You ain't dressed for this kinda work, preacher", he said, "You done kicked the shine off them Sunday shoes".

As God would have it, Watson Smith was ready to take his stand for Jesus. We knelled down there in the dirt next to his tractor, out in the middle of that field, and Watson prayed the sinner's prayer. When the trees had finished clapping their hands and the holy angels had sung the last verse, I told Watson I would baptize him Sunday night in our little homemade baptistry.
"No Preacher, I don't wanta be baptized inside no buildin." He was quiet a moment as he thought and looked out over the swamp at the back of his property. I'll build my own baptizin' place right down there."

Well, I don't think Watson did much else for several months but build his own baptistry. He cleared trees, dug out that swamp, built a dam and then waited for rain. On prayer meeting nights he would request prayer for rain. Of course, rain came ... and came ...and came. The next Wednesday night, Watson requested, "Preacher, you can call off the rain, my fields are flooded and my pool is full". It was more than a pool, it was a small lake. Watson was ready to be baptized.

He put an ad in the paper, posted a huge sign at his gate on Blountstown highway, with an arrow pointing toward his "pool". In big, bold, hand-done letters, it said, "WATSON SMITH'S BAPTIZIN". That Sunday afternoon, the church, Watson's many old friends, County Officials, St. Joe Paper Co. officials, and a crowd of curious passers-by, gathered on the banks of Watson's new lake, for dinner on the ground, and Watson's baptism. It was a day and time I will never forget.

A couple of years later, after Watson had cleared the way, with his bulldozer, we built our first Church building on North Meridian Road. Shortly thereafter, Watson stopped his truck at a red light on Gaines Street. When it turned green, Watson went to Heaven. He's there today. I'll see him soon.

Pass It On. RB