I don’t really talk about being religious.

I don’t really talk about the fact that I’m a Mormon, except for when it’s brought up. When someone asks why I don’t drink coffee or alcohol, I tend to get a slight tightening in my stomach before answering with a practiced flippant tone, “It’s because I’m a Mormon.” People don’t treat me any differently, they just say “Oh, alright,” and the conversation shifts.

I don’t really talk about how I go to Church every Sunday, I don’t talk about how I love hearing the organ’s preludes in the morning or about all the wonderful people I’ve known over the years. I don’t talk about how my ancestors crossed oceans to be with the growing number of Mormons in the 19^th Century. I don’t talk about how those same ancestors had their homes burned, were chased out of entire states, or how they tightly held onto their spiritual beliefs despite being persecuted and even killed for their religion. When talking to non-Mormons, I don’t even say, “I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.” I don’t even say the full name.

And that’s a bit sad, that I’m so afraid of sharing this part of me.

It’s gotten easier, recently, now that a few blocks from the South Park musical The Book of Mormon—LDS youth have begun to say “Read the book because the book is always better!” in response—there is a Mormon.org billboard in the middle of Times Square. Now that more people have some kind of idea about who Mormons are I don’t get as many odd questions.

“What’s a Mormon? Does your dad have two wives? Do you eat cucumbers?”

It’s a nickname for someone who is a member of the LDS Church. You’re thinking of polygamy, and we don’t practice that. And yes, I do eat cucumbers.

It wasn’t that I got made fun of as a kid for being a Mormon, or even being religious. But I had friends who didn’t understand why my faith was so important to me, or that they didn’t understand what my religion was. I remember one friend giggling when I tried to explain baptism by immersion to her—it’s a spiritual cleansing where you are briefly immersed in a pool of water, it is also part of the ceremony by which you become a member of the Church—or how we had to do this exercise in class where we write one of our identities on a piece of paper, and all of our papers were put outside on a wall. I came back to the classroom the next day and where I had written, “I’m a Mormon” on my paper, a kid had crossed out the second “m,” so it read, “I’m a moron.”

Sometimes I get questions that aren’t easy to answer. Sometimes I try to rationalize those as much as I can to help someone understand, like explaining why I drink Coca-Cola but not coffee if they both have caffeine. Or trying to succinctly explain what we believe the afterlife to be like. Or, what can be especially tricky, trying to explain the difference between cultural observations and spiritual rules. Like how at Brigham Young University (the LDS Church-funded university), men are required to shave their beards, but that rule does not apply to Mormons everywhere. Asking why I didn’t serve a mission was a hard question, and one that has a very personal answer.

I find that sometimes we keep more spiritual things to ourselves, that we don’t tend to share them. I don’t talk to my non-member friends about the more sacred of my spiritual practices. The reason that I tell myself is because I don’t want to mess up my explanation and leave a bad impression with them. Maybe it’s because I’ve kept my religion and my spirituality so close to me, that I’m more concerned with protecting it.

But, to go along with a famous scripture, “do not hide your light under a bushel,” the things that make you feel warm and happy are supposed to be shared and loved, not hidden and cherished.

So, hello. Nice to meet you. I’m a Mormon.