I believe the Mormon missionaries won’t stop coming to our door. I believe their white shirts will be awkwardly ironed by their 19-year-old wearers. In fact, they looked a bit stunned as my 6-foot 8-inch father leaned out the door to greet them.

It was my first weekend back home in Utah after a long absence, and they already knew I was there. I saw them coming up the walk, and our geriatric dog, Buddy, waddled toward the front door as my dad stepped outside to talk with them.

My brother and I grew up in the heart of Mormon Utah. My mom is Methodist, my dad Jewish, and my brother and I are 100 percent not Mormon. Kids learned of this early on, and in third grade during an afternoon of making thanksgiving turkeys out of magazine ads, my friend Matt told me I was not really baptized. You can’t be baptized if you are a baby, he said.

And now, here they were again, the grown-up Matts of my childhood, standing on my front porch.

I watched through the dining room window. Their visit made my heart pump faster, I started getting nervous–and I was a grown women…or at least 23-years-old. Their presence shouldn’t bother me anymore. It did. And I wanted to face this fear.

I slid it open and stepped out. I looked at the younger-looking missionary. He just looked so scared.

I never thought about it until that moment–what it would be like to wonder around an unfamiliar neighborhood, actually ring a stranger’s doorbell, and then tell them about the most personal, intimate information in your life.

Aside from jumping off a cliff without a parachute, that would probably be the hardest thing in the world to do.

After getting slightly lost in this thought, the porch came back into focus, my dad still nodding compassionately, the two boys sweating in their Sunday clothes clutching leather-bound scriptures. The conversation ended, and I smiled cordially as they turned to leave. I hadn’t said a word.

When we got back inside, I asked, “What did you say to them?” My dad said he told them it’s great they found something that worked for them. And that he hopes they respect his beliefs just like he respects theirs.

My mom also chimed in, “I just have to remember that they have moms too who are worried about them and love them.”

I was in the midst of a classic Hallmark card moment. I wanted to contribute in some deep, meaningful way–or be funny and crack a joke–but all I could do was nod.

They do have moms, and we each deserve to feel that our beliefs matter.

And after 23 years, my heart finally keeps a steady pace when the doorbell rings, and the visitors are in their Sunday best.

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