I was five years old when I walked into my mother's bedroom and told her I wanted to give my life to Christ. We got down on our knees beside the bed and I asked Jesus into my heart. After that, I proudly told everyone that Jesus had saved me, but my pride slowly diminished over the years.
As I got older, the more I questioned the efficacy of my salvation prayer because, let's be honest, the five-year-old motives behind it didn't exactly demonstrate any depth of understanding about what I was doing.
On the one hand, my parents taught me a lot about the Bible, so by that age, I really had developed a childhood affection for the miracle-working Savior who held little kids in His lap and then died to save them.
On the other hand, I wanted to be born again because I would get to take the grape juice and cracker during communion at our Baptist Church — not to mention the most important reason of all: I would avoid going to hell. These reasons didn't seem like very good ones for wanting to commit my eternal life to God, so I eventually began to wonder if perhaps I hadn't actually been saved after all.