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Hi, my name is Jessica and I’m a convert. I say this so boldly because being a convert to the Church can sometimes be a bold thing in ones life. It can be a mildly trial free moment in life, or it can be a struggling journey, reaching the ultimate goal of eternal happiness in the end. Sometimes we converts are supported by our families and friends, and other times we are critisized, called naive or brainwashed, and under extreme circumstances, we are left to the world without those who should stand at our side. My conversion was quite a mixture of both.

I grew up in Salt Lake City, though it took me moving 800 miles south to New Mexico to find the Church. I was raised by my Mother’s side of the family, most of which had been baptised when they were eight, but had since fallen away from the Church, some finding new beliefs, while others struggled with the question of whether God existed or not. I however, was encouraged to attend and to find out for myself.

My Sunday School teacher would pick me up every Sunday morning, and I would sit with her during sacrament, coloring in books, playing with flanel boards and snacking on bags full of cherios and goldfish. I was afterall only seven years old. Months before my eight birthday, tragedy struck our family and suddenly there was no time for Church. Eventually, I forgot all about it and Sunday became a ritual of early morning cartoons and over-night stays with friends and family members. I however was still curious. Who was this God? Did He really exist? Upon asking my paternal Grandmother these questions, bringing up what I had learned in Primary, she replied, “Now Jessi, don’t you go believing them Mormons. They say Joseph Smith was only fourteen when he had them visions. No fourteen year old cares what Church he goes to.” It seemed to make sense at the time, until I turned fourteen myself and found myself contemplating the purpose of life, and where we go when we die.

When I met a young inactive LDS boy when I was fourteen years old, I had no idea that I would eventually marry him, let alone in the Salt Lake City Temple. In fact, I had no desire to join the Church. There were too many rules to follow, and I prefered coffee for breakfast. However, in order to get his strict parents to allow us to spend time with one another at such a young age, I agreed to visit with the Missionaries. Through their talks, I had many questions answered, and I felt that things I found to be natural in my own beliefs, happened to be Doctrine for the Church all along. Through the talks with the Elders, my young inactive boyfriend found his testimony again, and we both began to strive together.

When another death hit our family in November of 1999, I knew that it was time to make a commitment, and I found myself stepping into the waters of baptism early January. I had asked our Bishop to baptise me, mostly because he was a very kind man, but also, in the back of my mind I didn’t know that any priesthood holder could do it. I thought it was something that only big guys like Bishop did. The water was slightly cool, but even in winter it felt soothing. A prayer was said and I was placed under water. I had been instructed on how to grip the Bishop’s hand to be pulled up out of the water, but no one had told me where my feet were supposed to go! As Bishop Brown pulled me from the waters, I lost my footing and fell back under with a splash. “God needed to make sure you were really clean,” My friends and family joked, and still do eight years later.

I remember the first time I took sacrament. I remember knowing how important it was. I remember knowing that I was different now, and that everything from this point on counted for something very special. It was a wonderful experience, and I share this moment with every convert I know.

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