My childhood memories are scattered but when the Holy Ghost spoke to me in a profound way, I was changed and it stayed. I’m so thankful.
I was a Navy kid and moved around often when I was young. I can remember going to various churches on rare occasions, Christmas Eve at midnight being one of them. When I was twelve my step-father retired to a small town in New Hampshire. I remember going by myself to the churches in town that I could walk to. There was a Congregationalist Church, a Baptist Church, an Episcopal Church and a Cat
holic Church. I attended catechism classes with a school friend, which ended with me not being able to attend anymore because I asked too many questions of the priest. It was at this time that I started thinking deeply about the things of God that I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how to pray and had taken to writing God letters in a yellow, spiral notebook. Within that notebook I narrowed down my wonderings to three questions: Where were we before we came here? What does God want me to do while I’m here? Where do we go between the time we die and the judgment day? I made appointments and met with the pastors, reverends, and priests of the local churches asking them my questions and not getting satisfying answers. Mostly that it was one of God mysteries and that I needed to have trust.
During the summer of seventh grade, I went to the Deerfield Fair with my family. When we got there, we headed in different directions. At the fairs there were long, white tents set up, each with a theme: foods, quilts, etc. usually set up to be judged. I headed over to the religion tent—this was my norm, to come home with a bag of pamphlets and handouts that would be spread out over the living room floor that I would go through. On this day I walked across the field to the tent and could see the tables lined up inside that held materials of the different churches and religious clubs. Then my eye caught onto a painting. It was set up at the end of the tent so that it was visible to all those walking in. I couldn’t look away. The longer I looked, the more the rest of the world faded away. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I now recognize that I was feeling the Holy Ghost. I was absolutely overwhelmed with a feeling of rightness, goodness. I finally walked up to the painting that was framed, on at easel, and taller than I was. I saw a man on his knees looking up and two people coming from heaven. The missionaries that were there apparently tried to talk to me, but I didn’t hear them for a few minutes. I was truly in the moment with the message that this painting of the First Vision was conveying to my soul. Finally, I spoke to the missionaries and they told me what the painting was depicting. I was in awe. They gave me a Book of Mormon because I didn’t have enough money to buy it and they gave me some pamphlets. They were the first things in my bag. I continued around the tent, gathering information, but returned to the painting one more time before leaving to find my family.
As my goodies were spread out over the living room floor, my parents were concerned after seeing that I had a Book of Mormon. But thinking that I would lose interest, they just told me that it wasn’t good idea and left it at that. I began reading it and the pamphlets and as it was apparent that I wasn’t losing interest, so my Book of Mormon was taken away.
A couple of years later, I think I was about sixteen years old, the missionaries knocked on my door. I was excited. My parents, not so much. They came into my living room and I told them of my experience and that I didn’t have my Book of Mormon anymore. They remedied that right away. They asked if they could teach me a lesson and I agreed. They opened up their flip chart and it had three questions: Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going? I asked the Elders if they could wait a minute and I ran upstairs. I got my yellow, spiral notebook from it’s trusty hiding place between my mattress and box springs. I compared my three questions with the Elder’s three questions and decided that we were on the same page. This was the second time in my life where the Holy Ghost had come in strong and testified of truth to me.
Even though I only was able to have one more lesson before they weren’t allowed to come anymore and my Book of Mormon disappeared again, the seed was planted. I didn’t know everything, but I knew there was truth there and I knew the feeling that I felt.
After graduating high school, I was then able to decide for myself. I needed to move away to be able to embrace and live the gospel. My sister invited me to stay with her—so I moved to Orange, California. I remember well my first meeting with the missionaries. They came in and introduced themselves and I told them that I just wanted to be baptized. They said that they’d have to teach me some lessons first and I responded with something along the lines of “how soon can you do that so I can get baptized?” It was just a couple of weeks later that I was able to join the Lord’s church and I got a Book of Mormon that I would get to keep.
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