Who am I? Memory 3. My testimony.

"What are you?" 
"What do you mean, I'm a girl." 
They laugh at me. 
"No. What religion are you?"
I pause and pick bark off the tree next to me. 
"I don't know, what is that?" 
"Do you believe in God?" 
"Yeah." 
"Then are you a Christian or a Catholic?"
"I don't know." 
"You're probably Christian." 
"Yeah... Probably."
"Thank goodness you're not a Mormon." 
I go quiet. That name sounds familiar. 
Two days later, I go to church. That night, I ask what we are at dinner.
"We are Mormon, Maren." 
"Oh." 
I slouched in to my chair and began to lightly cry. 
I don't want to be a Mormon. Mormons are evil. They don't believe in Christ. Some man wrote The Book of Mormon in prison. He made it up. I must be evil. 


"You pray funny." 
"Why don't you  just call him God instead of Heavenly Father?"
"You need to clasp your hands when you pray, not fold your arms." 
"When Satan comes, don't give him the number 666. That way you won't go to hell." 
"My church has been around longer than yours. That proves it's true and your's is fake." 
I believe them. 


I'm sitting in Young Women's. 
"God loves you."
"You can be with your family forever." 
"You're going to be okay." 
"There's a plan for you." 
"Christ died for you." 
I start to believe them. How can this be evil?


I'm sitting in Seminary. 
"Underline this..."
"Don't you love this part here..."
"Look how amazing this next verse is..."
"I'd like to bear my testimony." 
"Christ died for you." 
This is it. 


I'm sitting in Sacrament meeting. 
"I know this church is true." 
"I'm alive because of this church."
"He thought your name on the cross." 
"He love us." 
"Through Christ, everything is okay." 
"You can do it." 
And it comes to me. 
The Church is true, He did think my name on the cross, He does love me, through Christ, everything WILL be okay, and yes, yes I can do this. 


I'm sitting in my car. I'm praying. 
Please. Please listen to me. I need to know what is true. I need to know. Not just believe. Not just accept. I need to know. 
I'm begging. 
I'm crying and I'm begging and for a moment, nothing in the entire world matters more than the answer I want to receive. 
It comes. 
"I love you." 


I'm sitting here. 
I'm thinking back to first grade. 
"What are you?" 
I hold little first grade Maren's hand and whisper "Tell them. Tell them you're a Mormon. Tell them how much you love it. Tell them how true it is."
Or at least, I would, if only I could go back.