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When my husband Jose and I chose to baptize our children in the Catholic Church, the decision did not arise from a place of certainty. It emerged from a season marked by waiting, prayer and the quiet perseverance of hope when the desire to become parents felt fragile and deeply tested.
We are a Catholic family from Costa Rica. Because of local legal limitations, our journey toward parenthood unfolded in Mexico. This reality added layers of complexity—logistical, emotional and spiritual—to a process that already required patience and trust. Yet throughout it all, our faith remained the place we returned to when clarity was scarce and outcomes uncertain.
Our faith has never been a distant topic. It has been lived—sometimes joyfully, sometimes through grief, always imperfectly. One of the most defining moments of our journey occurred in October 2023 during a period of profound disappointment.
Throughout it all, our faith remained the place we returned to when clarity was scarce and outcomes uncertain.
During that time, we received discouraging news: a negative pregnancy test. After a long and complex process, the result seemed clear and final. We were heartbroken. The possibility that our desire to raise children might not be realized suddenly felt very real.
Sunday, October 29, 2023 we did what our faith had taught us to do in moments of uncertainty: we went to Mass for a moment of prayer.
At the time, we were in Washington, D.C. and attended Mass at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. The basilica, with its many Marian chapels, seemed to mirror the journey of human life. In some images—such as Our Lady of Sorrows—Mary stands with those who experience pain, loss and uncertainty, reminding us that suffering is not foreign to God. In others, like Our Lady of Guadalupe, she speaks words of deep consolation: “Am I not here, I who am your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection?” In that moment, the basilica felt like a place where sorrow and hope could coexist—where Mary accompanies both the wounds and the promises of our lives.
Mary stands with those who experience pain, loss and uncertainty, reminding us that suffering is not foreign to God.
After finding our pew, we began to pray intently, still carrying the weight of the news we had received. Immediately we noticed that just to our left was an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Although we did not yet know what the coming days would bring, that image spoke to us deeply. As we gazed upon the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, it was impossible not to think about Mexico and our desire to become parents with sorrow in our hearts. I remember thinking, “Why, Mary? Why is this happening?”
Two days later, on October 31, 2023, another unexpected sign arrived—this time from the heart of the Church. The Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith published a response, approved by Pope Francis, addressing whether children in complex family situations could be baptized. The answer was brief but clear: for a child to be baptized, the essential requirement is the presence of a well-founded hope that the child will be educated in the Catholic faith, affirmed in canon law (Can. 868 §1, 2).
From the beginning, my husband’s and my intention was to raise our children within the life of the church—to teach them to pray and accompany them toward the sacraments forming their consciences in light of the Gospel. This commitment is deeply rooted in our faith. This response from the Pope was not merely a juridical clarification. It articulated something we already knew in our hearts.
The very next day, on the Feast of All Saints, we received a phone call that what we had been told only days earlier was not, in fact, the end of the story. The discouraging result we received turned out to be false. Not only were we becoming parents, but parents of two children.
This experience was deeply healing, because it reminded us that the church is not a tribunal of perfection but a community entrusted with safeguarding hope.
In hindsight, God’s action in those days feels almost impossible to ignore: disappointment, prayer, a Marian sign, a clear word from the church and unexpected joy. None of it erased the difficulty of the journey, but all of it revealed God’s quiet fidelity within it.
Our son was named Mariano, in honor of Our Lady whose image gave us encouragement that day in Washington, D.C., and our daughter had already been named in advance: Elisa. Only later did we learn the meaning of her name—“God is my promise.” Looking back, it feels less coincidental and more like God’s action gently written into our family’s story.
The decision to baptize our children had never been in question. What we did not know was how we would be received. Like many LGBTQ Catholics, we approached the process with both trust and caution. However, what we encountered was grace.
Our parish welcomed us warmly and the priest received us openly and respectfully. The catechists who accompanied us through the pre-baptismal preparation were genuinely supportive. There were no interrogations or demands for explanation, only a shared concern for the spiritual well-being of our children.
This experience was deeply healing, because it reminded us that the church, at its best, is not a tribunal of perfection but a community entrusted with safeguarding hope.
Baptizing our children was an act of Christian hope.
The baptism of our two children was presided by Father José Manuel Díaz who has long accompanied diverse families with pastoral sensitivity and fidelity to the Gospel in our home country of Costa Rica. The ceremony was profoundly moving as our families gathered around the baptismal font accompanied by the choir and united not by uniformity, but by love.
Our children were baptized as beloved children of God who “will be educated in the Catholic faith”.
Looking back, baptizing our children was an act of Christian hope. Not the hope that everything would be simple, but the hope that God’s grace is not limited by complexity and that the sacraments are not rewards for ideal circumstances, but gifts meant to draw us closer to God.
Almost two years later, our children recognize the Virgin Mary instinctively, like we did at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C. Whether in a church, a home or elsewhere, they point and say, “Mama Mary.” It is in that recognition of their spiritual mother, we encounter again the grace that first led us to the baptismal font.
