On Sunday a tiny baby was blessed in our ward. I didn’t know the family at all (it turns out that pregnancy didn’t sit well with the mother at all, so they haven’t been around), but I’ve known people with the same last name, which I will abbreviate as J. In particular, when my oldest younger brother turned 12 and stole my home teaching companion (our father), my new companion was Brother J.
I was 16 years old, and Brother J. remained my companion for several years, possibly until I left for BYU. Before and after visits we would visit in his car. He heard about school, girls, and friends, and he told me about playing football when he was young, his children and grandchildren, and their activities. He and his wife sometimes came to my high school orchestra concerts. He was a good man for me to be around, and serving with him was very good for teenage me.
Anyway, when I heard that the baby’s middle name was Brother J.’s first name, I knew they were related. I went to talk to the young father after Sacrament Meeting, and he said (pointing to his own father standing next to him), “Yes, [Brother J.] is [N.]‘s father.”
But it gets better.
I shook hands with the baby’s paternal grandfather, N., and he suddenly asked me if I work in the U District [of Seattle]. After my reply in the affirmative, he followed up asking if I rode the bus home in the afternoon, which was when I recognized him.
My old home teaching companion’s son is my bus driver.