Rough Stone Rolling

As a new year embarks upon us, I thought I’d start it by (among other things) explaining how I became a Mormon. It’s an unusual enough story that, if it didn’t happen to me, I’d say it sounded pretty wild. I debated whether or not to put this account in my blog. I questioned whether sharing it so indiscriminately might not open it to ridicule. I finally decided if Brother Joseph could share his story to the world, who was I to keep mine under wraps. I would just like to apologize up front for my lack of storytelling talent. I hope the content itself will be enough to engage you.

Prequel

First, a quick backdrop: When I was a kid, my family lived in Long Island, NY. Once, when we went to the movies, a travelog short was shown before the main feature: Come to Utah. I guess Dad was pretty taken by what he saw, because within two weeks we packed up the old Buick and took Highway 80 straight to the Beehive State. Shortly after he started his new job, his boss sent the missionaries to our home. My Dad thought, “well, when in Rome” and we were all baptized. None of us was converted, we just joined… and within a couple of years we all left. Consequently, the ward neighbors cooled on us. Mom and I returned to Catholicism, and Dad returned to his agnosticism and beer.

Fast forward 4 years: Now a senior in high school, I’m active in my local diocese as a lecturer (the guy on the podium across from the priest during mass) and in the CYO (A sort of YM/YW). From time to time, LDS classmates tried to approach me about religion (practicing what they learned in seminary, I’m guessing) and I’d quickly slap them down. “I was a Mormon. I know all about your church. Don’t waste my time.” I was excited at this time because Dad was in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, settling in with a new job and getting ready to move us up when I graduated. Finally out of Mormon country and into a bastion of Catholicism. But then, late that March he was killed in a car accident. He had been depressed, being separated from the family, and was taking pills on top of his beer. Dad always had a reliable radar when he drank, but the pills were too much for him. He crashed into an unoccupied house after taking a dangerous curve. Mom, my kid sister and I were, once again, trapped in Utah.

The Conversion

The summer after I graduated was a time of many changes. I had applied and was accepted to the University of Utah. I had my first full-time job, working at Ernst Home Center, and spent endless nights hanging out, driving around and partying with close friends. Right around this time, I was listening to a new record, the soundtrack to Superstar, a rock musical about the Lord in the Gospels. It fascinated me; as a Catholic all the characters of the Passion Play seemed so porcelain and one-dimensional. But here, suddenly I was introduced to Christ’s enemies as men with motives and passion, to Pilate as a frightened politician who didn’t want to jeopardize his post, but wanted to set Jesus free; the disciples who loved & followed Christ, but didn’t fully get what he was telling them. The primary and recurring question in Superstar was, “Who are you, Jesus Christ?” which I thought was an excellent question. It caused me to ponder it a lot, and as I sang along with the songs, it drew me emotionally and became something of a prayer–though at the time I didn’t realize this is what was happening.

One day I was home alone, getting dressed for work and listening to my stereo. Suddenly, a great force overtook me and I had to lean against something to steady myself. A voice came to my mind. It said, “David, the Catholic church is not the right church. But you will find the right church.” Then the feeling left. I started sobbing. I cried for some time, until I realized I had to get to work, so I finished dressing and left. At the store I helped on the floor as was needed, but ducked into the back whenever I could to try to pull myself together. Finally, a co-worker asked if I was all right, and that’s when the floodgates burst. I sobbed uncontrollably and all I could say was, “I want to be good, I want to do the right thing, I want to be good!” On my lunch break I went to a drug store and bought a King James Bible. I started reading the New Testament, looking for clues & signs, and told friends of my experience. A few of them invited me to their churches, and at a Baptist friend’s party, the minister laid his hands on me and made me “born again.” Still, I kept looking.

I had two Mormon friends at that time– Steve and Julie. Steve was very smart and shared my warped sense of humor. When I told him about the incident, he took it to heart, but didn’t offer any suggestions about his faith; he knew my history. Julie also knew my background, but she was fed on a diet of New Era and Jack Weyland, so when Steve told her about me, she had a different reaction:

“I heard what happened to you.”

“Oh, yeah? Uh-huh.”

“Did you consider looking at the Mormon Church? Reading the Book of Mormon and praying to know if it was true?”

I gave Julie my usual snide response. I knew all about the Mormon Church and I know it wasn’t true. She got very upset. “The only reason you won’t read the Book of Mormon and pray if it’s true is because you’re afraid! You’re afraid if you find out it is true then it’s going to change everything you thought you knew, and you’d be wrong.” I was so mad, I bolted out of her house to my truck, and she ran after me saying, “Call me!”

For two weeks I avoided Julie. Her house, her calls. And, of course, I started reading the Book of Mormon. I read, I prayed… It looked like a good enough book, read like the Bible. It could have been true, but who knew? One day as I lay on my bed, idly handling the book, I opened it to the inside cover and read Moroni’s promise. It was then I was filled with the same force as before. There were no words this time, but it was as if I was given a pat on the back, as if to say, “All right, you got it. Now go for it.”

I called Julie first and then other friends. Mom was hurt. She felt as if I was betraying my faith. I called the local ward bishop, introduced myself and told him what had happened. I told him I was coming to church Sunday and I’d present myself. When I told my Baptist friend, he wasn’t excited at all. I got a call from his mother afterward, and she asked if I’d come over and talk to their minister (the one who made me born again). I agreed and called the bishop again, informing him of the meeting. He asked if I wanted him to come along; I said, no. I’d be all right. He told me to call him when I returned home (I’m sure by this time he was wondering who this weird kid was that was bringing such drama into his life). The minister sat with me and opened the Bible. He showed me scripture after scripture of how the Mormon Church was not only not true, it was evil. My friend’s mother grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “David, it’s the church of the devil!” I told them I appreciated what they were saying, but all I knew is what I felt. When I stepped out of their home I literally felt like I walked through fire, unsinged. It was a victorious feeling. I called the bishop afterward and reassured him everything was cool.

Epilogue

While it was that summer that I gained my testimony of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, it was later on my mission that it petrified. The mission started out rough. Three primary things were beating on me: The concept that no matter how wrong my leaders were, they were always right; being told on a daily basis that we were an evil cult; my mom wanting me back home. It got so I would fantasize about sneaking out in the middle of the night and taking a Trailways bus back to Utah. I seriously weighed the consequences. Finally, I decided I knew what I knew, and I had to stick it out. The rest of the mission, despite the trials, was a tremendous experience. As I indicated in a past entry, some of my companions’ testimonies didn’t make it and they left the Church after their missions. I can think of a couple of them that seemed so much more “with it” than I; I marvel, and am humbled, how it is I could hold on when they gave up. It’s also a lesson to me never to be too confident in my spiritual condition.

Well, that’s it. And while there were times in my younger life that I would have preferred not being LDS, I could never deny what I knew and it kept me out of harm’s way more than a couple of times. Today I feel strong and engaged. I pray it may always be so for the rest of my mortality.