I always thought I came to Jesus on May 11.
It was Mother’s Day 1975. I was eleven.
That’s what the baptismal certificate says, anyway.
The Saturday night before, I called my parents into my bedroom. They sat on either side and my scrawny legs hung off the side of my twin bed with the wadded up blankets because I didn’t then, and do not now, find much use in straightening sheets that would just mess up again. I told them I knew it was time. I cried.
I’d seen it done. You were supposed to cry.