The other day, I asked my cousin if he remembered what church I was baptized in.

(I realize I could ask my parents, but I’m not ready to tell them why this is relevant…)

He didn’t know, which I suspected, since he was in high school at the time. But what he remembered instead surprised me, because for a moment I’d forgotten who my godmother was—his mother.

I can picture so clearly my mother holding you at the altar.
After you were born, the conversation of godmother came up and your grandmother and mother just said, “well, it’s got to be Aunt E!” My mom was already in her late 50s and I remember her just beaming at the church!

We weren’t close to that side of the family growing up, and regrettably I couldn’t make the funeral when she passed away during my college years. But Aunt Edith was a good, honest soul. I may not have been raised in the Church. I may be doing this much, much later than most. But I still feel like she’s guiding me through it. She very well may be.

One day I’ll discover what church it was, and I’ll visit again. And I’ll picture Aunt Edith up there with my parents, and with me, beginning this journey long before I even knew I’d be taking it.