23 DECEMBER 1972

The Christmas lights that evening were a shining reflection of my mood as I headed over to the church in Santa Rosa, California from my home in Sebastopol. I rode with Matt, my boyfriend and baptizer, and my family followed behind. It had been a long, emotional day, perhaps more for others close to me than for myself. I was at peace, totally confident that my dad would at last sign the permission form that would allow me to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints at 16 years old. My mother, a fellow Christian, understood that this was the next step for me in my walk with Christ, and had already given consent.

The missionaries called at midday to suggest, "Maybe we should wait on this."

"No. He'll come around. It will all work out as planned."

Matt called. "Do you think we ought to postpone this?"

"No. Don't worry. It's all okay. Just come get me at 6:00."

I couldn't stop smiling. This felt so right. I knew what my dad, and probably my mom too, was worried about. They thought I might be doing this for Matt, because he was a Mormon and I was a sixteen-year-old in love. Both Matt and I knew better. This was a soul-choice, my choice. I knew that what Matt and the missionaries had taught me about the gospel and about the Mormon Church was true. I knew it in the still soul spaces beyond my mind, beyond explanation, beyond this world. Once you know something like that, it never lets you go.

When we got to the church, I found that many of my LDS friends were there already. They were there to share my joy, and their support surprised and moved me. Then I saw my family walk in, dressed up as only we Southerners can do it, and my heart melted with love for them all. And there was my dad, who loves me, his face still worn with worry. But I saw traces of faith and hope there, too.

I stepped into the warm water, where Matt waited. He raised his hand, pronounced the simple, powerful words of the baptismal rite, and immersed me in the water. As I emerged into his arms, I felt as free as I have ever felt, clean, new, and ready for whatever lay ahead.

Later, Matt's father placed his hands on my head in the confirmation ritual, and said, "Receive the Holy Ghost." I had never seen this done before. The details had not been explained to me. So I did not expect that sweet rush of warmth from my head to my feet, like God moving in and taking over. He has never left. I have never asked him to.

It has been 37 years today. Every year on this important anniversary, I sink deeper into prayerful gratitude for what it has meant to me to be a Mormon. It has changed my life, in ways far beyond what I could dream of on that December evening in 1972. It is not a perfect church, because it is comprised of imperfect people. But the power is here. The truth is here. God is here.

And I am here, to stand as a witness of Christ, to walk with him wherever he leads.