[mashshare]
My fourth and final child was recently baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. To say I blinked wouldn’t be accurate. Somehow it’s all happened faster than that.

Thankfully, baptisms are among the handful of anchor memories in our lives. I can’t remember what I did last Wednesday, but I can remember vivid details of each baptism. I even remember my baptism more than 30 years ago at a chapel in Gurnee, Illinois.

I recall my older sister pounding on the bathroom door and shouting. “You’ll remember this day for the rest of your life. Use soap!”

I remember rising out of the water and walking into the dressing room. I didn’t want to change out of my dripping white suit because I feared the “clean feeling” would go away. My dad was nearly fully dressed back in his black polyester suit before I’d even touched the zipper on my wet, polyester jumpsuit.

I recall going out for pizza at Journey’s End on the way home and sitting at the end of the long table. It was a treat almost as delicious as a slippery slice of pepperoni.

This week as I’ve perused pictures and pondered the memories of my own children’s baptisms, I noted that one of the strongest and most colorful memories isn’t from the last; it’s from the first. And it didn’t unfold during the service. It hit before it began.

At the time, our small family was living in northern Virginia and attending the Fair Oaks Ward (like a congregation) in the Oakton Virginia Stake (like a diocese). We’d previously been in the Oakton Ward and became acquainted with Bishop Marcus G. Faust, son of the late President James E. Faust, second counselor in the First Presidency of the Church.

Before the baptism, I went into one of the men’s rooms and discovered someone had spilled and smeared several colors of very bright paint on the bathroom floor. I suspected a child, maybe one of the Cubs Scouts in the building, got mischievous and did not want to face the latex music.

In a hurry, I stepped out of the restroom and walked toward the first person I saw — Bishop Faust. I shared the discovery and, assuming he had other places to be, suggested one of the extra folks in the building might take care of it so he could continue on in whatever direction he’d been headed.

He shook my hand, thanked me and away I went. A short time later, I felt prompted to return and make certain someone was on the scene. I imagined some child — perhaps a mini-me from decades ago — making the mural even worse.

When I rounded the corner toward the restroom, the door was propped open, and there stood Bishop Faust in his white shirt and tie with his sleeves rolled up. He was working that yellow mop bucket like a musical instrument.

He smiled simply, kept cleaning and didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Immediately I recognized that I hadn’t been prompted to return and make sure the mess was being cleaned up. I was nudged to return and witness a powerful lesson about leadership.

There are, of course, other memories about that day that are special. Lunch at Fuddruckers, and the many family and friends of other faiths who came to support our daughter. And the fact that our third child, a brand-new baby boy, was blessed the next morning.

But nestled among those more traditional memories is the image of a good minister taking matters into his hands.

We’ve not spoken in years, and I’m certain Marcus Faust will not remember this experience. But I’m grateful for the way heaven anchors certain memories to our souls and allows us to link experiences that have the potential to change us from the inside out.

The mop moment could have happened another time, but perhaps it wouldn’t have been so permanently painted in my mind. Sure, maybe it’s just a happy coincidence, but I choose to believe the greatest teacher of all knew I’d need to be reminded of this later in life.

It’s interesting, isn’t it?

Baptism changed my daughter.

A bishop and a mop changed me.

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