The seeds of my conversion were in bits and pieces. Most of my relatives, including my parents, had little or no formal religious background. One wintry night, my father and I were bringing in an armload of wood each when I asked about the stars and moon. Dad told me about God. I was almost six. There was nothing more until the summer of my seventh year when Dad sent me with a neighbor child to their Bible school. I tried to listen in on all three classes all at once, learning about someone named Jesus. In between these two events we had lived in an area of Native Americans. In my eighth year after seeing my aunt the first time, I asked Mom, “How come Aunt Lena looks like an [American] Indian?” I learned why and was reminded by children at school as to why my father was dark complexioned. Dad sang hymns while doing chores and we would talk about them. There was a short course in fifth grade about the ruins in South America and southwest North America. I was fascinated and my first scrapbook included some pictures on it. When I was twelve, I was given an old commode (chest of drawers) and there were pictures and religious articles in one of the drawers. I went over them many times. In my freshman year, little New Testaments were passed out by the Gideon Society in school about the same time an aunt of mine was given two Bibles. She gave my folks her other Bible. My father would read out loud to the family from the Bible in the evening. I continued studying my little New Testament. I remembered some comments Dad made. He could not accept the idea that babies went to hell if they died before they were baptized; after all Jesus was grown up when he was baptized. He kept saying there had to be more than the Bible. In reading and wondering about 1 Corinthians 15:40-41, he believed that there was more than just heaven and hell. I attended different churches in Sparta. When married, Vern and I wanted something better after our child was born. According to my diary, we were going to attend some church one Sunday when Arthur, my son, got really sick. The next Sunday we were all dressed to go but then relatives came from Sparta. The following Sunday, Vern had to work. Then on Monday the missionaries came. I was not too impressed about their discussion until they mentioned a book. But then again there were other religions with books that I was familiar with. They left but were deeply impressed to return to my home and give me the book. They handed it through the door and told me it was the history of the [Native Americans]. That piqued my interest. After just barely getting into reading it, the Spirit confirmed to me it was true. I thought this must be what Dad wanted. I did not know the scripture in Moroni 10:4 until later. The first discussion I was to have was about Nebuchadnezzar’s dream yet that was too similar to the Seventh Day Adventist approach. The Book of Mormon discussion had to be first for me. I wondered why it was my father and not my mother who planted the seed for me. I talked with my mother about family history and she gave me a shoe box full of clippings and notes that she had gathered. Dad had never mentioned any family history. I soon realized that it was the Book of Mormon (more than the Bible that Dad wondered about) that brought me into the church and it’s been the spirit of Elijah and genealogy and of the great work for the salvation of the dead (the family history Mom gathered) that has kept me here.
