I must have been twelve or eleven when I asked my parents when I could get baptized. I’m not sure why, in retrospect, but I’d grown up until then under the impression that only adults could be baptized—to the point that I suppose it had never occurred to me to ask before. But right around then, fellow teenagers were about to get baptized in youth group. It was explained that it was a public declaration of faith in Jesus, and if I was ready to do so, then I could. And I was. But then I decided I wanted my dad—who, alongside mum, originally introduced me to Jesus to begin with—to be the one to baptize me, so I would wait until we had a service where he’d be in the water, which had happened often until then (as he was on staff at the church), so I didn’t think it would be long. But it was. By the time I was seventeen and we were moving back to the area where he’d grown up in Illinois, the opportunity hadn’t presented itself. We began attending Willow South Barrington as a family and, during one baptism service, I was rather taken aback by my emotional response every time someone went under the water and came back up with so much elation—I wanted to do that. Why hadn’t I done that? So I decided I would the next time they happened, which was November of 2011.