Recently, my family and closest friends gathered for my son’s baptism. We were joined by our larger church community, people we’re connected to in varying degrees, some of whom we embrace upon greeting, others whose hands we clasp briefly with a single word—peace—only once a week. Even my husband’s parents, unable to make the trip, were present. My son’s uncle, the baby’s godfather, set up a video call and tucked his phone in his pocket so they were able to witness the splashing of holy water and joyful singing even 1,700 miles away.
We laid hands on my son and prayed. We passed him around, parent to godparent to grandparent, and so on. One by one, the entire community traced the sign of the cross with their thumbs on his forehead and heart, welcoming him into the fold, naming him one of us.
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