It was early in the morning on a Saturday.
I sat in the baptistry of the Los Angeles Temple, waiting for sisters from my ward to finish. Four young single adults walked in and sat together in a nearby row: boy, girl, boy, girl. They were also waiting for my group, not to end their time at the temple as was my case, but to begin.
An older gentleman, dressed in white, slowly walked over until he stood in front of them, and asked in a voice loud enough for me to hear, “Which one of you wants to baptize, and which one of you wants to serve as witness?” The young woman furthest away from me was the first to answer. Clearly and confidently, she said, “I want to baptize.” The previously calm temple worker threw up his hands and shook his head emphatically as he cried, “No! No! No! I wasn’t talking to you!”
Maybe I wondered if he saw her sitting there, before she spoke, or only her male companions. Maybe I wanted to hug her, or at least give her a high five.
Maybe I had woken up before the sun’s rays, specifically to do baptisms with my ward sisters (rather than the initatories and endowments I had been doing for eight years), simply because I longed to be in the House of God and hear words of an ordinance that were the same for all persons–male and female.
Maybe the girl’s reply to a question she had not been asked broke my heart a little bit, because it reminded me that even then, even there, all were not yet alike unto God.