when my niece was born, her inactive mother and non-member father brought her to our hometown, where they did not live, and asked my husband to name and bless her. it was very poignant. the entire family turned out, the whole mishmash of members and non-members and not-quite-sures. and it even took place in the chapel! the tiny ward was a third bigger that day, thanks to our oddball of a family!

a cousin had a baby shortly thereafter and also asked my husband to also give their baby a name and a blessing in church. we later discovered that mom was never actually baptized as a member… she just always assumed she was, having grown up in “an lds family.” her parents never practiced, but her cousins all went to church, so i guess she assumed she was lds, too? it’s been common to watch some of the relatives come close to full circle as they’ve had children. the most disparaging of the family admits, “it’s a nice way to raise children.”

when my husband was growing up, his father was an inactive recent convert and only one uncle of the six was active lds. that uncle’s name is on every blessing, baptism, and ordination certificate for any occasion. my husband has slowly been taking over that role and it’s lovely to see him work on filling those very large shoes.

Just before my cousin moved to Japan as her husband would be working there in the foreign service, her husband blessed her baby at a ward in Washington D.C. He–an eloquent soul, with a Princeton PhD in linguistics to boot–spoke the blessing in the halting, searching tones that give voice to a spirit seeking whispers from heaven; his–hers–was one of the most beautiful blessings I’ve heard. Chief among the blessings was a promise that this little girl would be a special friend to her mother as they lived together in remote places all over the globe–the unspoken and unbreakable ties that bind were palpable. Thanks for reminding me.

Over the next several days my condition deteriorated rapidly, until I was nearly delirious with dehydration and pain. My companion, who was leaving for home in several weeks, used the time I was sick to do I know not what. He would disappear in the morning and return late at night. We lived in one of a series of connected huts. A steel gate at the street opened onto a concrete path with one-room units on both sides—each had a single bedroom, small kitchen and bathroom. The front of each unit was a waist-high cinder-brick wall, with wooden louvers reaching up to a corrugated metal roof, which would heat up during the day to unbearably hot temperatures, turning each room into an oven.

Across from us lived an older couple who, according to my companion, were inactive or lapsed members of the church. Most of the other units in our alleyway complex were populated by prostitutes, which made returning at the end of a missionary workday an ironic affair, usually involving a gauntlet of catcalls, chirps and hoots from the women and their customers. When I felt myself literally on the brink of death, the portly woman across the way ambled over, and upon seeing my condition she helped me procure IV fluids and antibiotics from the gynecologist conveniently located across the street from our neighbors, and later she returned with her husband.

He brought with him a very large bottle of olive oil, the entire contents of which he poured over my head as I lay feverish on my hammock. He then gave me a blessing, the actual language of which I could not understand. Whether or not the oil had been consecrated and he followed proper protocol, I don’t know. Whether or not he had the Melchizedek priesthood, I don’t know. I don’t even know with any certainty whether or not he was still a member of the church. What I do know is that while my mission President was entertaining a general authority back at mission headquarters and while my companion was eating dinner at Denny’s with the two Assistants to the President who had stayed to explore Acapulco’s beaches, the two people who cared enough to actually help were two humble souls who officially were no longer “in the fold.”

Regardless of whether Linda was still in the fold or genuinely believed in the efficacy of her father’s actions, her whispered instructions reveal with rare eloquence the love and desperate desire for a higher order that anyone who has held their own newborn child would instantly appreciate. And if that order is one which ranks a kind and selfless heart above dedication to religious routine, then I’m inclined to believe that as the scriptures promise, in the world to come, if there is such a world, the last will indeed be first—whether or not they found a comfortable spot in the various folds this world has to offer.

My ward is looking forward to next Sunday when our old Primary (all seven of them) are coming back from their new ward to sing Christmas songs for us. We miss the kids that much. But imagine a branch going for years without witnessing a baby blessing!