It's weird growing up religious-adjacent.
I was baptized at the Methodist church down the street, but my family doesn’t go to church or say grace at the dinner table. My brothers and I went to Bible Camp every summer until sixth grade, but only because it was free. We’ve been to a couple of church services, but not enough to even be called C & E Christians. My mom would probably call us something like “socially religious”—not totally uninvolved in the goings-on of the church, but still definitively on the sidelines of any actual religious worship.
Today is a bit of a change of pace for me. Last night I slept over at my cousin Julie’s apartment in Leesburg, and today I’m going to church with her. Julie, along with a handful of my other extended family members, are devout Mormons. They all live too far away for us to see regularly, but it’s something we’re aware of from a distance.
On Sunday morning we get up early—earlier than I’m used to on a weekend. My cousin makes breakfast burritos that I don’t really like, but eat anyway. I put on the church clothes I packed just for this. I notice a run in my tights, but can’t be bothered taking them off, so I don’t.
The drive is short and soon enough she’s leading me down the pews of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I immediately feel out of place, restless. A man in a white button down shirt comes out and starts talking about Jesus and I focus hard on looking like I’m paying attention. It’s not that I think God or religion is weird or ridiculous or anything, it just doesn’t interest me.
When it comes time for the prayer, I close my eyes and say “Amen” like everyone else, but it’s just for show.
The service ends, finally, and a couple hours later it’s time for me to go home. In the car, Julie turns down the music we were both half-listening to.
“You know those two missionaries we were talking to at church?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“They said they’d love to be there for your baptism! We just have to figure out the logistics.”
At first I think I must’ve misheard…baptism? But she’s still talking, and I realize she really is serious, she wants me to be a baptized Mormon. Oh, God, how am I gonna get out of this? Why can’t I just tell her the truth? My chest starts hurting, and is this what an anxiety attack feels like? Oh, right, she’s still talking.
“Does Thursday work for you?” Julie asks from the driver’s seat. “Otherwise, we could probably figure out a day next week.”
She’s looking at the road, so she doesn’t notice that my eyes have gone watery and my breathing unsteady as I try to keep it together. It’s one of those moments where I wish I was anywhere but here. Unfortunately, the seatbelt across my lap doesn’t leave me with many options, so I settle for making a vague noise of affirmation and praying it puts an end to the conversation. It doesn’t.
“Great, I’ll let them know. Maybe your parents can have them over for dinner so you can all talk things over.”
I try to imagine telling my parents that I’m inviting two Mormon missionaries to our house to discuss my imminent baptism. It’s not a pleasant thought.
Julie finally glances over, and she must see some of the misery on my face because she reaches for my hand.
“Are you crying?” she asks, voice laced with concern.
I say, “No,” because even at twelve I know that I hate being vulnerable in front of people, even my own cousin. It must be unconvincing, though, because suddenly she’s pulling over and now it’s just me and her in the parking lot of a Red Robin, and there’s nothing, not even the hum of the engine, to mask the sound of my sniffling nose and trembling breaths.
“What’s wrong?” Her seatbelt’s unbuckled and she’s turned fully towards me now. She takes both my hands, but I keep my body stubbornly oriented towards the windshield and my eyes trained on the little Pikachu figurine stuck to the dashboard.
A beat of silence, and then I finally manage to get out, at barely above a whisper, “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
What I really mean is: “I don’t think I believe in God, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to be a Mormon. Plus, I’m only twelve, so why are we even talking about this?” But I’m shy, and that would probably be rude.
“Hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to do it right away,” Julie says, her hands still holding mine.
Again, not exactly what I meant, but at this point I’m just ready to be home and away from this entire conversation. I nod and gently untangle one of my hands so that I can wipe my eyes. She gives my hand one final squeeze, then reaches into the glove compartment and hands me a tissue.
The rest of the drive is quiet save for the light pattering of rain that’s begun to fall. I lean my head on the cool glass of the window and pretend to be asleep.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re parked in my driveway and Julie’s handing me my duffel bag from the backseat. She hugs me and gives me a kiss on the cheek and says, “I love you,” and then I’m waving at her from the porch and watching her drive away and thanking God that I’m finally home.