I never thought I’d see an axolotl in church. But there it was—pink, squishy, and smiling like it owned the place—doing lazy circles in the baptismal tank.“Please tell me that’s a toy,” I whispered.

Pastor Dan leaned over the railing. “That thing’s moving, Caleb.”Perfect. The one Sunday he asked me to help fill the baptismal, and now we had a tiny water lizard doing laps in the holy water.

Mom always said I had a “helpful spirit.” She just never mentioned how often that spirit caused trouble. Like the time I “helped” clean the communion cups and turned them purple forever.

Pastor Dan sighed. “We’ve got twenty minutes before service starts. Can you… uh… get it out?”

I stared down at the tank. “With what? My hands?”

He handed me a spaghetti strainer from the kitchen. “The Lord equips the called.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “but I was hoping for armor instead of pasta tools.”

The axolotl floated near the bottom, feathery gills wiggling like it was laughing at me.

“Come here, little guy,” I said softly. “Let’s not make this weird.”

Of course, it darted away like lightning. I splashed half the water onto my sneakers trying to catch it.

From behind me, Pastor Dan said, “You’re doing great!”

“Really?” I panted. “Because I feel like I’m losing a wrestling match with a pink noodle!”

Just then, the sanctuary door creaked open. Mrs. Jenkins peeked in, holding her clipboard. “Pastor, the choir’s ready! And—oh dear—what is that?”

“God’s unique creation,” Pastor Dan said quickly. “Currently under new management.”

Mrs. Jenkins blinked at me, drenched and holding a dripping strainer. “You do realize people are arriving, right?”

That’s when the axolotl leaped. I didn’t even know axolotls could jump, but this one launched over the tank and onto the carpet.

Mrs. Jenkins shrieked. I lunged, missed, and face-planted as it slid under the communion table.

Five minutes later, I was crawling on my stomach with a flashlight, whispering prayers like, “Lord, if You could just make this little creature cooperate, I’ll never eat gummy worms again.”

I spotted its pink tail under the table leg and lunged. Success! The axolotl squirmed in the strainer, looking mildly annoyed.

Pastor Dan clapped softly. “Well done, Caleb! See? God answers prayer.”

“Yeah,” I said, holding up my dripping trophy. “And apparently He has a sense of humor, too.”

We carried the axolotl outside to the garden pond. It blinked at me once, then disappeared under a lily pad.

As we walked back in, I noticed the water trail I’d left down the hallway. Mrs. Jenkins sighed but didn’t yell. She just handed me a towel and said, “Next time, maybe just pass the offering plate.”

That night, I kept thinking about it. Everything went wrong, and everyone saw it. But Pastor Dan said something that stuck with me as we cleaned up:

“Sometimes serving God looks less like singing on stage and more like catching an axolotl with a spaghetti strainer.”

It made me laugh, but it also made sense. Serving God isn’t always neat or planned. Sometimes it’s weird. Sometimes it’s messy. But if your heart’s in the right place, even chaos can glorify him.

So yeah, I’ll never live down the “baptismal axolotl.” But now, every time I see a baptism, I remember—God doesn’t just call perfect people. He calls the willing ones. Even the wet, nervous, spaghetti-strainer-wielding kind.