Yesterday, June 16th, was the anniversary of my baptism. I remember being the nervous young college student who (after two years of being a “dry Mormon”) had finally persuaded my parents that what they feared was an “adolescent whim” was in fact a stable commitment to follow the path I sensed God calling me to. We gathered at the mission home in Mt Prospect, Illinois, and I was baptized in their small kidney shaped backyard pool. I remember clutching the poor missionary’s arm so tightly it probably left marks. I remember being nervous while changing into dry clothing, hoping I’d done the right thing — or at least a right…