What's ironic about my son's baptism is that while he was becoming involved in that church, I was finally delving into the Unitarian/Universalist faith. While he was with his father and stepmom studying the Bible those weekends, I took a four-hour class called "Finding Yourself at UU," which confirmed my suspicions that I am theologically home in this liberal religious community. Robby was baptized on Easter Sunday. I became a UU member one week later.

Only about 200,000 people formally identify themselves as UUs in this country. About 1,000 of them belong to First Universalist Church of Denver. I was stunned to learn only 200,000 of us exist because the UU philosophy strikes me as so peaceful, logical and all-embracing that I feel everyone could love it.

But so, too, do Christians feel. And people of most every other faith. All of us believe to some extent that our way is THE way, and thus come the misunderstandings, and sometimes downright hatred.

Because I believe so strongly in Unitarianism, and because there are so few of us, it seems the least I can do is to shed some light on what some view as a faith without a faith.

Simply put, the UU faith is in people, the basic goodness that is inside us all.

Its principles stress the inherent worth and dignity of every person, justice and compassion, acceptance of one another, the encouragement of spiritual growth along with a free and responsible search for truth and meaning;, the goal of a worldwide peace, liberty and justice and respect for the interdependent web of existence of which we are a part.

It draws upon concepts from religions worldwide, including Christianity, Judaism and paganism, as well as Humanism, reason, science and nature. Most poetically, the UU faith is fed by the "direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces which create and uphold life."

What Unitarians like to do most is something called social justice, taking action to make life better for others. Thus, I can already feel the pressure to volunteer. The choices are dizzying: The Habitat for Humanity, Green Team Task Force, Gay and Lesbian Rights, Criminal Justice and Prison Reform task forces, along with projects specific to anti-racism, disadvantaged urban teens, poverty, reproductive choice and religious freedom.

The church has three different choirs and a school open to all of Denver that offers classes such as "Thoreau as Spiritual Guide," "The Heart of Christianity," "Compassionate Communication" and "Becoming a Love & Logic Parent." Its adopted a family from a Third World country, paid for them to come to Denver and given them a home. It has its hands in so many projects citywide that I cannot yet get my head around it all.

These things may make sense to me, and I may find a place in them, in time. For now, I'm focusing on the message.

Yesterday, while my son was trapped in the car with me on our way home from a weekend ski trip, I tried to frame it for him.

I asked him if he understood what the Unitarian faith was about and he said 'no.' I was so surprised I almost jumped in my seat. On and off for years, we have been attending Unitarian services. Never, in all that time, has he understood it, and never had we discussed it. I felt I had let him down, failed to communicate an entire philosophy, and one that means so much to me. It was clear that at his father's church, they had explained their faith to him, not just once, but many times.

So, I tried, yesterday to do so. I told him that I felt God is hard to define, so big and wonderful we can't quite grasp it, but that whatever kind of God it is, I think it's a loving spirit. One who would never create a place called hell. One who would never send a man to earth to be tortured and die for our sins. I didn't say that I believed God isn't necessarily a loving spirit or even a being with the capacity to make decisions about any person's life or death. I didn't say I felt people came up with definitions of God only to try to sense out of something I felt was incomprehensible.

Jesus was a good man, I told him. Maybe, I silently wonder, he was the Martin Luther King, Jr. of his day, a powerful inspiration, but not the son of any god or a person with powers beyond Robby's or mine. I suggested to Robby that we celebrate his life and learn from the good things he taught, and that his death was nothing to revere or even something on which I felt people should focus.

"I don't think people are really all that bad, that someone would have to die for the things we've done," I said. "I think we're all pretty good. It's just that some people get twisted by life, hurt so much they become confused about what's right and wrong. But most of us, we know what's right or wrong whether we go to church or not. I think we're put here to help one another, and to enjoy this world that God created for us."

Faith, I said, is a mysterious and beautiful thing. We use the words "faith" and "beliefs" because they are not facts, because people can think they know, but no one can possibly know for sure, I said. But most people can't live a life based on logic alone. Most of us have have faith in something bigger than us, even though we may express it differently, and when you think of it that way, isn't it great?

Robby stared out the window away from me. He opened his mouth to speak. I waited for questions, a profound comment, a smile of gratitude, maybe even a tear of recognition.

"What ski area is that?" he asked, pointing.

"That's Loveland," I said. And after a pause, "If you ever have any questions, just ask me. Do you think you'd be comfortable doing that?"

He nodded almost imperceptibly, and I could see he did indeed have a question. He turned his head away again, resumed looking out the window.

"Is Loveland a big ski area?"

"Well, no, not really," I said easily. "But it's close to Denver and easy to get to, and a lot of people like it because of that."

I smiled in equal parts amusement and relief. For this question, I had an answer.

My son was baptized today. Baptized into the fire-and-brimstone, you-must-be-saved-or-you-are-eternally-doomed kind of church I dislike most.

I went to support him. But hours later, my stomach is churning. The words repeated by the fiery-eyed preacher, a man nearly rabid in his beliefs and insistence, bounce around in my head: "Judgement," "Evangalize," "Salvation," "Hell," "Doom," "Damnation." And the phrases: "There can be no happiness without Jesus." "If salvation doesn't make you smile, I don't know what does." "Put your hand in the nail-scarred hand." "Death, agonizing death, for our sins."

My stomach churns at the idea that my beautiful boy believes he is not good enough the way he is, that he believes he must be baptized to be "saved," that he now a member of a church that preaches that those unlike him - those who are not saved - are hellbound. This rural church is a mini-version of the Bible-based mega-church he and I attended several months ago, the one from which I left saddened and discouraged, confused that so many people could believe they are only a heartbeat away from eternal damnation and that a loving God would condemn anyone to such a sentence

The idea of Robby's baptism and the actual ceremony came within only a few days of one another.

Robby has been with his dad and step-mom for many weekends in a row now as he completes a 10-week snowboarding class that has made it logistically impossible for him to be with me the usual three out of four weekends a month. He has been to church there, about which he had complained for months, week after week. Wednesday, the phone rang and my son's sweet voice came down the line.

"Hi Mom, this is Robby," he said. This was his standard phrase, one that made me smile each time.

"Hey sweetie, what's new?"

"Well, I'm gonna be baptized," he said.

In only a split second, I recovered enough to say, "Really? When?" in a tone that suggested a delight I did not feel.

It was Sunday, he said, and even though he hadn't asked me, I knew he wanted me to come.

I asked to speak to his father, who told me his wife had asked Robby earlier in the week if he'd like to be baptized with her. He had said 'yes,' and Zach had since decided he would be baptized, too. It had happened so quickly, Zach said, that he hadn't had time yet to tell me. He described the church as "sort of Baptist."

"Really, we just study the Bible," my ex said. "We've just fallen in love with this little church."

I reassured Robby I would be there, but my heart was sinking. Baptist churches preached salvation and damnation. Strict Bible followers believed the same. I asked my son only a few questions, not wanting him to feel I was in opposition, not wanting him to shut down.

I asked him why. "So I can be saved," he said.

"So, honey, do you want to do this because you love God or because you're afraid of what will happen if you don't?"

"God wants me to," he said. "God loves me."

"Of course he does," I said. "You are completely lovable."

My mind searched for reasons, and then one came to me. "Do you like the idea of believing you have answers rather than just not being sure?"

He hesitated, then said, "Yes."

"OK," I said, putting a smile in my voice. "I understand that. And you know I'll support you in anything you decide, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation this time.

We said goodbye, and I hung up feeling heavy hearted in two ways now. A child needs structure and assurances - that Mommy and Daddy will always be there, that school is a non-negotiable reality, that he will be tucked in and kissed on the forehead each and every night. But also, that after people die, they live on in a different kind of way, that there is a force greater than us that guides us on our way, that there is a reason - however mysterious to us - for every tragedy and loss.

I never had to struggle with not knowing. These "truths" were instilled in me from the day I was born. There was no question of their veracity, and those who believed otherwise, like the Lutherans down the street, were sadly misguided. It was only later, as a young adult, that the absolutes became suspect, and only then that I began to question.

For a child, believing these huge truths is like cuddling a teddy bear. It is comforting, soft and easy on the mind, ultimately reassuring.

As Robby's mother, I yearned to give him these answers, to offer him the reassurance I see now he needs. Part of me feels a monumental failure for my inability to provide that security.

But I cannot give him answers I don't have.

I believe that ever person - saved, unsaved, Muslim, Iraqi, gay, imprisoned or atheist - has equal value and while some may be irreprebaly twisted by life, that we are all born good. I believe we are here to make life better for one another, to find the joy in life, and when that's a shadowy, slippery illusion, to ease the pain. I believe our actions send shock waves to people and places we may never know. I believe some mysterious force set this magnificent world in motion. My heart sings with this truth at the miracle that is a flower; something so complex and beautiful cannot be an accident. I believe my brain is not capable of comprehending what that force is, that it is too big, too amazing, to understand.

I believe wars are started because of one group's fear that their beliefs will be taken away, or worse, that they are wrong, that horrendous battles are fought to keep that security blanket of religion tightly wrapped around people.

I believe that those who preach hell inspire more fear than joy, create more division than unity.

I do not want my son to be afraid.

I watched this morning as Robby's stepmother and father, dressed in loose, white cotton gowns, stepped into a half-filled hot tub in the church basement. Watched as the preacher asked if they had accepted Christ as their saviour, then guided their spines over his arm, arching them backward into the water, plunging them down, then bringing them face first back up.

"When we are in the water, we are buried with Jesus, dead like he was," he said. "When we come up back into the light, we are saved, we ascend with Jesus into eternal joy."

He saved my son for last, deliberately, I know. My boy, clad in a gown that looked more like a long, white T-shirt, stepped into the water next to the preacher. He looked like an angel, absurdly pure, brilliantly beautiful. I knew I was looking not simply through a mother's eyes; everyone saw this. My heart ached for a hopelessly knotted tangle of reasons.

"Have you accepted Jesus as your saviour?" he asked. Robby stared back into the preacher's eyes. "Yes," he said.

Robby plugged his nose and grabbed the preacher's wrist. My camera flashed. I missed seeing the plunge, my eyes refocusing in time to see my son's hands push back his hair, streams of water running down his face, off the gown.

He looked at me, and I smiled wide, giving a stunning performance.

Later, I hugged him tightly, asked him how he felt, ruffled his damp hair, told him I loved him, and said goodbye.

I could write him pages about what I believe, and how I feel about his decision. I also could lambast myself for my fear of losing control, for childishly panicking at the realization that my influence is not all that matters to him, for fear of losing my son to a world into which I cannot follow.

But if I respect him, this thoughtful child I created, I must do nothing. I must let him explore, confident in his intelligence. I must let him take the months and years he needs to ask his own questions and come to his own conclusions. I must let go of my son, and see him not as a child to be molded and shaped into a being who pleases me. I must see him instead as a person.

Hillary is glowing. I want to know her secret.

I googled "Hillary's transformation" and "Hillary's face" and found I am not the only one wondering. One columnist described her as "bordering on babelicious." A Web site called Plasmetic.com -- highly esteemed -- I'm sure, claims her upgraded appearance is "a hotter topic than John Edwards' $400 haircuts." Her skin is described as flawless, Columnists and bloggers use the terms "dazzling" and "radiantly beautiful" to describe the senator.

Personally, I'm happy for her. Ever since she stepped into the public eye, her looks have been criticized. Most newspaper photos of Hillary printed in the last six months show her in her worst moments: looking tired and haggard, shot from below the chin up, taken when she's looking down and her skin is sagging. Profile shots, mouth-open shots, college-hippie-days shots. They all struck me as cruelly, deliberately unflattering.

Obama, meanwhile, flashes a smile and a wave darn near every day on darn near every front page. He is pinch-those-cheeks appealing. Sure, he's got those ears, but we love him anyway. He's just plain cute, and that's good enough. If he were hot, we wouldn't trust him. Such was the case, one co-worker said, with Mitt Romney. "He's too good looking. Somehow that makes him seem slimy." Given that, would John F. Kennedy even have stood a chance?

Rumor has it that Hillary has discovered Botox. Or perhaps it's microdermabrasion. Then again, microdermabrasion treatments are too harsh for a woman who is in the spotlight several times daily. "Who did the work?" the columnists wonder. "When?" "Where?"

After this morning, I join them is asking, "Where can I get his card?"

I needed a bra, you see. My beige bra had lost elasticity and life without a beige bra, as all women know, is unthinkable. On Kohl's racks, I spied a particularly cute one: beige, yes, but a push-up with lattice piping. It was as sexy as a beige bra can be and this morning, the Kohl's flyer announced it was on sale. It was featured front and center, right under the red-and-white words, "Seniors take another 15% off!"

En route to work, I ducked into Kohl's and snagged my new bra. The clerk, gray-haired and by my estimate somewhere in her 60s, smiled as she looked at it. "Oh! Isn't that pretty?"

"Isn't it though?" I said, delighted that she shared my good taste. My delight was short lived.

Still smiling, she asked, "Are you 55 or older? It's senior discount day."

I smiled again, looking for the joke. I waited for her to wink, for her to whisper, "Just say 'yes' and I'll give you 15% off!"

But she didn't. She studied my expression, decided she understood it.

"Oh, good for you! You're not!"

My mind reeled in confusion. "You don't really think I look 55, do you?" I held firmly to my smile.

"No. But we have to ask everyone so we don't offend anyone," she said.

"Yes, we do!" the idle clerk at the next check-out lane chimed in.

I wanted to suggest they change their policy to precisely the opposite: Ask no one so you don't offend everyone.

"Well, I could be 55 and just have had a really great facelift!" I said cheerily, digging for a response. Waiting for something like, "Well, if you've had a facelift, it was a great one because you look 35!"

But none came.

I swung out the door with a chuckle. It was all silliness, an older woman who spoke without thinking. Indeed, without even really looking.

I got into the driver's seat of my car and twisted the rear-view mirror toward me. Today was a pretty good day for me. And morning was when I always looked my best. I was having neither a good or bad hair day. Just a nice hair day. My makeup was 8 a.m. fresh. It had not had time to settle into the grooves of my wrinkles as it sometimes did at the end of a long, hard day. I was well rested, lightly caffeinated, nicely groomed. I was clearly no more than 43, passably 38.

The lady's comment -- excuse me, SENIOR lady's comment -- would have been completely laughable had I not started, in the last couple of years, noticing ... things going on in the area of my visage: the afore-mentioned settling of makeup at day's end, the seeming accelerated pace with which my laugh lines are deepening, the still subtle but oh-so-definite sagging of my jawline, and then the neck thing. We don't need to talk about the neck thing again.

I am saddened by how this all makes me feel, that a subtle shift in my looks bothers me as much as it does. Shallow or not, I'm determined to fool time, to twist its arms behind its back like a school yard bully picking on the class geek.

The solution rests with that babelicious new woman blasting across television screens every nano-second of this intensely heated political race. And if she truly seeks to represent the People, Hillary needs to lend a hand to sisters across this nation and answer our collective burning question: Girlfriend, what are you doing to look so fine?