When I was twelve, we moved to North Little Rock,
Arkansas, where my father was employed at North Little
Rock High School as music director. We joined Park Hill
Baptist Church and became involved. A few months after
our move, our church held a revival, which we faithfully
attended. The revival preacher was an old-time "hellfire
and brimstone" preacher, who shouted and banged the
pulpit a lot. During one of his sermons, he said
something that scared the wits out of me. I don’t
remember specifically what he said; I just remember
being terrified. I went home that night in tears,
unwilling to talk to anyone, and spent most of the night
crying. The next morning, I woke up and, with all the
confidence of a pre-teen who knows everything, I
announced to my parents that I would never set foot in
another Baptist Church again.
I’m sure my parents thought I was just going through a
phase, because they ignored it. When they got dressed
that night to go to the revival, I refused to join them.
Instead of counseling with me, they shrugged their
shoulders and allowed me to stay at home. Since this
tactic worked once, I knew it would work again so, being
the mule-headed kid that I was, I repeated it each and
every time my parents tried to get me to attend church.
And it worked for over a year. Every Sunday morning and
evening and every Wednesday night, my parents would get
dressed for church, and I would stubbornly refuse to
join them. Since they were having their own marital
crisis at the time (very nearly getting a divorce at one
point), they took the easy way out and let me stay at
home. The one thing that stands out in my mind is that
neither my mother nor my father ever tried to help me
understand what the preacher had said that frightened me
so much. Instead, they basically ignored the situation.
Finally, however, they became weary of my not attending
church, so they asked me if I’d go to church if we
changed denominations. I already had gained a sense of
power where my family was concerned, so being given the
option of deciding where we would attend church only
added to my feelings of omnipotence. I had to maintain.
I had to hold my position. This was not the time to
falter! Quick thinking reminded me that some of my
friends at school attended a Methodist Church in Sylvan
Hills, just outside North Little Rock. They were "cool",
so I figured that was a "cool" church. Intent on
maintaining my power edge, I offered that church as an
option. Grateful that I would agree to attend church, my
parents acquiesced. We began attending services at that
little Methodist Church the next Sunday. About a year
later, my father was offered the paid position as tenor
soloist with Second Presbyterian Church in Little Rock,
which he accepted. Suddenly, we were Presbyterians. I
didn’t object to the church, since it was where many of
Little Rock’s upper echelon attended. It was a beautiful
old building near downtown, with wonderful stained glass
windows and a large sanctuary. I joined the adult choir,
even though I was only fifteen, and we continued our
regimen of regular church attendance that continued
through my high school years until I left for college.
Considering all of this, why do I contend that I was
raised in a "Sunday Christian" home? Because I cannot
recall one instance in my growing years when the Word of
God was used to either guide or instruct me by either of
my parents. Because when I went forward at the age of
nine, neither of my parents spent one moment with me
discussing my "decision". Because when I was frightened
by the revival preacher, neither of my parents made any
attempt to counsel with me about what had frightened me
so much, nor to explain what the preacher had said.
Because my parents allowed me — a teenager — to control
our family, not only in this situation, but in every
situation. Because "discipline" in our family meant
being shouted at, then given totally unreasonable
punishments for wrongdoings that were rescinded later
when tempers cooled. Because, except for the Ten
Commandments, the 23rd Psalm and John 3:16, I achieved
the age of 20 without knowing anything of God’s Word.
Because neither of my parents, either through verbal
instruction or through illustration with their own
lives, ever taught me who Jesus Christ is or what He
could mean in my life.
Does this anger me? No. Do I hate my parents? No! I love
both of my parents deeply, even though both of them are
gone now. My mother died in 1985 and my father in 1993,
but I love them still. But I pity them for their lack of
commitment to Christ. They were good people. They lived
their lives pretty well, considering their lack of
knowledge of what God wanted for them.
But there were many chinks in their armor. They taught
me good values, all the while exhibiting bad values in
their own lives. They didn’t steal, but they did save
every dime they could get their hands on, fearful of
what tomorrow might bring, giving only what little they
could "afford" to the church. They didn’t kill, but they
hated and held grudges until the day they died,
unwilling to give up their anger even when facing
eternity. They didn’t commit adultery, but they did
nothing in the way of commitment to their own marriage;
rather, they lived in unpeaceful coexistence in the same
house for thirty-nine years. Anger and bitterness were
acceptable. Fear was also acceptable, as were
vengefulness, spite and malice. Not once do I ever
remember either of them trusting God for anything —
anything at all.
No, I don’t hate either of them. Rather, when I think of
them, I am deeply saddened for all that they missed. It
breaks my heart that neither of my parents truly had the
abundant life that Jesus Christ promises to all of us
who follow Him. Whether they are with Him at this
moment, I do not know for certain. I do know that both
of them professed to be Christian. I pray that I will
see them both in heaven. I believe all of this was one
of the contributing factors in my conversion to
Mormonism in 1968. But I don’t blame my parents. There’s
a lot more to the story of my journey into captivity.
When it came time for me to choose a college, I was
filled with high hopes and ambitions. I wanted to be a
journalist. My mother, on the other hand, wanted me to
find a wealthy husband. She was of the school that
believed that women became teachers, nurses or
secretaries only long enough to find the right man.
Writing was not an honorable profession; rather, it was
something one did as a hobby. If I was going to go to
college, and if my parents were going to foot the bill,
I was going to attend the college of their choice.
Unwilling and uncourageous enough to stand up to my
parents, I agreed to attend the college of their choice
— a small church-supported school just thirty miles from
home — a school noted for its lack of a football team,
its emphasis on education, its high academic ranking,
and the large number of doctors, lawyers, scientists and
theologians who were its alumni. More expensive than
most, it was, in my mother’s opinion, the ideal
environment for me to find that man she hoped would
support me the rest of my days. To her, it represented
the perfect, protected environment — a school where six
hundred well-behaved students attended classes, studied
faithfully, and graduated with degrees that would speak
well of them and their families.
Since the college was supported by a church, it required
that all students take six hours (two semesters) of
"religion" and attend chapel services regularly. Intent
on getting all of my basic requirements out of the way,
I enrolled in my first semester of "religion" the fall
of my freshman year. I remember very little about that
first course. It was the second semester course that
created the problem. The professor was a learned man,
although young — probably in his thirties. It was his
teaching style to drop a question upon the class and
then sit back and watch what we did with it,
interjecting comments and questions as we went along to
guide the discussion in the direction he wanted it to
go. One discussion I remember that went on for more than
a week centered around his question, "Do you think Jesus
was a homosexual, since he ran around with twelve men
all the time?" By the end of the semester, any awareness
that any of us had of the truth had gone out the window,
replaced by great confusion and spiritual turmoil.
College for me, in itself, was probably very like the
college experiences of most people — four years of
study, surrounded by a healthy dose of partying,
drinking and general mayhem. In spite of my partying,
however, I did manage to maintain a relatively good GPA
and looked forward to graduation with glee. Unlike many
who end up weeping through their graduation ceremonies,
I anticipated my emancipation with great joy. Something
else happened to me during that final year ... increased
spiritual turmoil. I had a lot of questions about God.
Deep questions. Disturbing questions. Questions that
made me crazy if I thought about them very hard. I was
so disturbed, I had to find the answers, so I turned to
the only source of authority I knew of — pastors and
priests. One at a time, I made appointments with five
Protestant ministers and one Catholic priest, hoping
that one or more of these esteemed men could help me
soothe the aching in my soul. Their responses to my
questions were filled with vagaries, and emphasized by
even more questions. During those six one-hour
appointments, not one of those men opened a Bible in my
presence and showed me what God had to say about what I
wanted to know. One at a time, I walked away from those
discussions feeling disappointed and even more confused
than I had been before.
I was so desperate for answers, I turned to a fortune
teller — a woman in town who would read your fortune for
a mere five dollars. I liked visiting her. I always came
away feeling a little mysterious and excited, with
complete assurance that she knew what she was talking
about — feelings much different, and to me, much better
than those I experienced after my interviews with the
clergy.
At this time, I knew a young man who was serving in
Japan as a missionary for the Mormon Church (Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints). He and I had dated
in high school and had struck up a correspondence after
he left for his mission. I thought it was wonderful that
he was so sure of his faith that he would dedicate
two-and-a-half years of his life in the mission field
for his church. I envied that assurance! So it is not at
all surprising that, in the midst of my spiritual
turmoil, when I spotted two Mormon missionaries walking
down the sidewalk in front of the duplex where I lived,
that I stopped them in their tracks and said, "I have a
couple of questions I’d like to ask you, if you have
time."
Those two were on me like two ducks on a junebug! It’s
not often LDS missionaries had someone approach them out
of the blue like that — especially in 1968. The LDS
church had not yet begun its new public relations
campaign and was still held in total distrust by the
majority of people. Eager to teach what they saw as the
next convert "notch" on their belts, the two Elders were
happy to come inside and sit down with me, happy to
answer my questions.
And answer them they did. No matter what I threw at
those two young men, they came back with confident
answers, showing me "proof" of what they said in both
the Bible and the Book of Mormon. It didn’t matter to me
that what they said sounded strange. What mattered to me
was that I had finally found two people with enough
confidence in their faith to give me answers! After an
hour or so, I was so enthused by their confident air
that I agreed to begin the six missionary "discussions"
the following week. They prayed with me, left me with a
copy of the Book of Mormon and encouraged me to read it.
They also encouraged me to ask God whether what I was
reading was true and to seek His assurance of its
truthfulness through a "burning in the bosom".
Excited by my newfound direction, I eagerly agreed,
pleased beyond measure that someone was finally
answering my questions. Never mind that their answers
were strange! Never mind that what they said conflicted
with what little I remembered of my Sunday School
lessons. I only knew that here were two young men —
young men with that same confidence and faith that I
believed my friend who was serving a mission in Japan
had — who were willing and eager to guide me in my
spiritual search. During the following weeks, I tried to
read the Book of Mormon. I gave it my most valiant
effort. But even though I was capable of understanding
the most difficult of studies at my tough,
academically-oriented college, I found the Book of
Mormon incomprehensible. To me, pure gibberish would
have been easier to understand. Every night, I prayed
for that "burning in the bosom", and every night I was
disappointed.
"What is wrong with me?" I asked myself. Why was I
having so much trouble with what seemed so simple to the
two young missionaries? Neither of them had even
attended college yet, much less graduated. I was an
upper-half-of-my-class senior at one of the toughest
schools in the nation. Why was I unable to either
understand this book that they both saw as simple, or to
receive the assurance — the "burning in the bosom" —
that they said would come to me? Was I so unworthy that
God didn’t see fit to answer me? Was my faith so weak
that I didn’t deserve an answer? Shaken by my own
perceived failings, I told the missionaries on the last
visit that I was not yet ready for baptism because I
didn’t feel worthy yet. I promised them that I would
continue to pray and to read the Book of Mormon, and
that I would call them when I was ready. They continued
to contact me over the next month or so until I
graduated and went home to North Little Rock where I
spent the summer working on a political campaign,
reverting to my partying mentality and trying to ignore
my feelings of inadequacy, unaware that in late summer,
something would happen that would change the direction
of my spiritual life forever.
In late summer, my friend came home from his mission. At
that time, I was unaware of what young Mormon
missionaries are told — to get married as soon as
possible upon return from their missions. All I knew was
that this very handsome and polished young man was
intent upon dating me — whether I was interested or not.
So intent, in fact, that he had his mother call me and
keep me on the telephone until he could get to my house,
making sure I couldn’t put him off any longer. So we
dated. We fell in love. We decided to get married. In
the process, I began attending the Mormon Church with
him since I wasn’t particularly "connected" with any
other church.
When I began to visit the LDS Church, I was overwhelmed
with how "friendly" everyone was. They would nearly wear
out my right hand and arm at every meeting. I had never
been made to feel so welcome anywhere. Unlike some, this
friendliness didn’t change after I joined the church —
probably because I was not "friendshipped" into the
church. Instead, I married a return missionary whose
family was already firmly established in the Little Rock
First Ward.
Another thing that impressed me was that, as soon as I
was a member, I was given something to do. No "pew
warming" allowed for new members! It’s been so long ago
(nearly 30 years now), I can’t remember what that first
job was, but I do remember that it kept me busy. I
didn’t become active in Relief Society because I was
completing my student teaching at the time of our civil
marriage, and then went to work full time a couple of
months later. But, because I am a good organizer, I was
called upon often to organize special events — like the
special dinner that was given when one of the General
Authorities visited our Ward. With every job, I was made
to feel important, being told by the Bishop that
Heavenly Father had told him to give that job to me.
Since I didn’t have any children yet, it wasn’t that
much of a burden, so I gladly took on any assignment
that was given to me, throwing myself wholeheartedly
into it and doing my very best to make sure it went
well. But all was not well in Mormondom where we were
concerned. Before long, virtually every conversation I
had with anyone in the Ward included the question, "When
are you going to start your family?" This began to
rankle me more and more with each asking of the
question. I wasn’t ready to have children yet. I wanted
to enjoy my new marriage for a while. Children would
come, but I wanted it to be a few years down the road.
Although I had gained my "testimony" of the truthfulness
of the gospel and that Joseph Smith was a true prophet
and that ours was the only true church on the earth, I
hadn’t delved deeply enough into the LDS doctrine to
realize how "sinful" my attitude was.
When I told my mother-in-law that I was taking birth
control pills, she was appalled. But, to her credit,
rather than giving me a tongue-lashing for my "sin", she
merely warned me not to let anyone at church know about
it. It was some time later that I learned why everyone
was so concerned with my lack of children. My "real" job
in the church was to provide bodies for the spirit
children of Heavenly Father. How irresponsible of me to
delay their arrival on earth! How I must be grieving
those who had chosen me as their mother! Denying them
the opportunity to obtain their bodies and to continue
their progression towards exaltation!
What I didn’t tell anyone, including my own non-LDS
parents, was that our marriage was a disaster from the
beginning. We had married over the Thanksgiving weekend
and, other than a very romantic wedding night, the rest
of the honeymoon stunk. My groom spent the rainy weekend
watching football games on television, while I read a
book. We did go to a dinner theater one night, but it
was so unimpressive, I don’t remember what was playing.
Prior to the honeymoon, my husband had already fallen
down on the pre-conceived image I had of him, concocting
a beautifully detailed lie in order to get us into the
apartment we had chosen. A month later, when we realized
we couldn’t afford the apartment, he concocted another
tale to get us free from our lease. We moved to a
horrible little duplex in North Little Rock, where the
paint ran off the walls when the weather got too hot,
where it was so noisy that our friends thought we were
in a phone booth when we called them, and where I
nicknamed the oven the "vulcanizer". It was while we
were living in this duplex that my husband committed his
first act of adultery. Beginning the pattern that would
dominate our lives for the next eight years, he
carefully wove a beautiful lie to convince me that I was
imagining things. And it worked. I didn’t want to
believe that he was being unfaithful, so I readily
believed his lie. In the fall of 1970, two years after
our marriage began, two milestones occurred in our
lives. First, I learned something about my husband that,
at the time, I could not understand. He was unable to
accept being anything less than perfect. This came to
light when he returned from a sales conference. He had
been working for Xerox Corporation since his return from
Army Reserve Basic Training, and was doing very well
with the company. At this national sales conference, a
number of competitions were held. My husband won the
majority of them. In the one he didn’t win, he placed
second. I was overjoyed! How great my husband was! What
a prize I had been given — a man who was better than all
his peers nationwide! I decorated the house and prepared
a special, candlelight dinner to celebrate the occasion.
When he arrived home from his plane flight two hours
late, I asked where he had been. Glaring at my carefully
prepared celebration, he asked what all this was for. I
told him it was to celebrate his success. He then
informed me that he was late getting home because he’d
gone by the office to resign his job! He was infuriated
that he hadn’t won all of the contests, saying that they
had dangled a carrot in front of him long enough. He
wasn’t going to put up with their lies any more! I was
devastated. Somehow, he had turned overwhelming success
into failure. For many years, I blamed this inability my
husband had to accept any form of defeat on his parents.
I thought they had caused it all with the way they
raised him. I’m not discounting his responsibility for
his own actions. No matter where we came from, no matter
what our upbringing, no matter what factors have come to
play in our psychological development, we are each
individually responsible for our own actions. However,
after leaving the church and studying LDS doctrine with
an objective eye, I have seen the destructive effect it
can have on an individual such as my ex-husband. So,
whether it was just the church, or it was the church
teaching his parents who taught him, my husband’s
inability to accept anything except first place came
directly from Mormon doctrine. He was trying to achieve
the impossible — the Mormon concept of perfection.
Living under the law of Mormonism, he was cursed by it,
always falling short, never understanding that
perfection is an impossible goal in this life.
In December of 1970, I discovered I was pregnant with
our first son. I was a statistic, one of the four
percent who get pregnant while taking the pill. By this
time, I was past my desire to "wait" for children, so I
was thrilled when the doctor confirmed what I had known
for several weeks. My husband was less than thrilled,
but finally accepted the inevitable. We announced my
pregnancy with Christmas cards to our parents that were
addressed to "Grandparents". Needless to say, both sets
of grandparents-to-be were joyful. My non-LDS parents
were excited as all expectant grandparents are. My LDS
in-laws were exuberant. At last, I was fulfilling my
role as a Mormon woman. Our first spirit child of
Heavenly Father was on the way.
I remember the conversation I had with my mother-in-law
about this time. She told me of the children she had
lost — one stillbirth and (I believe) two miscarriages.
With a look of peaceful confidence, she told me how
comforted she was to know that during the millennium she
would be allowed to raise these lost children to
adulthood. Although I didn’t express it, I couldn’t
understand this concept. The stillbirth didn’t give me
any problem. This child had a fully formed body. But
what about the miscarried babies? Would she be
impregnated with them once more, carry them to term,
then raise them? Or would they somehow be "zapped"
forward to fully-developed babies? And would she be
given them one at a time, or all three at once? As much
as this worried me, I kept my concerns to myself.
For several years, I was a typical LDS woman. I had a
strong "testimony", as I said before, and for a while,
thoroughly enjoyed the jobs I was given within the
church. But after our first child arrived, I found that
caring for him, plus keeping up with the many demands of
my husband, plus keeping up with my church work were
more than I could handle. I wanted to be perfect, but
kept falling down on the job. It seemed that the harder
I tried, the worse things got. My husband constantly
reminded me of how poorly I was doing, finding fault
with my housekeeping, my cooking, my inability to do
things the way he insisted that I should. Never mind
that he wasn’t doing anything he was supposed to do as a
husband and father or as a Mormon Elder. Never mind that
he was sleeping with every woman who would let him.
Never mind that he was neglecting his church duties.
Never mind that he had started drinking like a fish. It
was my fault. If I was a better wife, he wouldn’t be
having these problems. He wasn’t the only one who told
me this. The one and only time that I had the courage to
talk to someone else about our problems (leaving out the
adultery and alcohol consumption), I went to talk to our
Bishop. He told me the same thing. If I was more
faithful in my church duties, if I was a better, more
loving wife, all these problems would stop. It was all
up to me.
In the fall of 1972, we went to Salt Lake City to be
sealed in the temple. I was pregnant with our second
child at the time. I remember coming away from that
experience greatly disappointed. I didn’t feel the
spiritual "high" I was told I would. While in the
temple, I found everything much more disturbing than
uplifting. But I didn’t tell anyone. I was convinced it
had to be me. I was the one with the problem. Maybe I
just wasn’t "worthy" enough yet to understand.
Throughout my time in the Mormon Church, sometimes I was
a "worthy" Mormon, sometimes I wasn’t. At all times,
even at those times of feeling pretty "worthy", I knew I
wasn’t doing all I could do. Frustration and depression
came when I realized I couldn’t. I knew there was no way
I would ever be able to do everything the Church was
telling me that I had to do in order to achieve
perfection.
In 1974, I had to have a hysterectomy. I had wanted more
children, but now that would be impossible. I was
already suffering from post-surgical depression when my
husband slammed in the worst blow of all. He informed me
that I was no longer a woman. Again, I attributed that
comment to his nature, not realizing at the time that,
in his Mormon mind, I really wasn’t a woman any more. I
couldn’t make any more bodies for spirit babies. I had
lost my usefulness by being unable to perform my primary
responsibility in this life.
From the time I got pregnant with our first child until
our divorce in 1976, I recall very few moments that were
good ones. I freely admit that I made my share of
mistakes and did a lot of things wrong during our
marriage. But those "wrong" things were a result of
several factors. First of all, I was living the Mormon
lie. When a person is working her way towards being a
goddess, she certainly doesn’t want anyone to know that
she’s failing miserably in her attempt, nor is it
something one wants to admit to oneself. Second, I was
dealing with a man who was an alcoholic, who was abusive
and who was an adulterer. Even as strong as I have
become over the years, I know I couldn’t deal with that
same situation any better without the help of Jesus
Christ. That brings me to third, and most important,
factor — I did not have Jesus Christ in my life. I
didn’t know Who He really was. The Jesus I knew was
rarely mentioned, much less worshipped. I didn’t know
anything about grace or unconditional love or what His
blood meant to me.
After our divorce in 1976, I continued to actively
attend Little Rock First Ward.
Although it was difficult seeing my ex-husband and his
family in church, I didn’t have any intention of leaving
the church. I did have a conference with the Bishop at
one point, asking how I might go about obtaining a
temple divorce. He was a kind and gentle man, someone I
really liked a lot. His greatest concern was whether I
would be sealed to another man in the temple. At that
point in my life, I really didn’t care. I just wanted
all ties with my ex-husband to be severed. I followed
the Bishop’s instructions for obtaining a temple divorce
to the letter — and was ignored. Totally ignored. I
finally assumed that my ex-father-in-law was somehow
"blocking" my attempts, since the process would have
caused his son to be excommunicated. About six months
after our divorce, I retrieved my children from Sunday
School one morning, only to find my oldest child near
hysteria. I took him out to the car and, after helping
him to calm down, discovered the reason for his tears.
His Sunday School teacher had informed him that God
didn’t love us any more — that the only way God would
love us again would be if I remarried their father. I
couldn’t get away from that church fast enough. I was
furious. How dare she say something like that to a
five-year-old child!
Without any sort of conscious decision, I became
inactive in the Mormon Church. I never could bring
myself to subject my children to that type of thing
again. Without realizing it, that Sunday School teacher
gave me and my children the greatest blessing any person
could ever hope for. She shoved me out of the influence
of the Mormons long enough for God to get my attention.
By August of 1977, I had become a "Jack Mormon", with no
intention of ever going back to church. However, I also
had no intention of ever renouncing the LDS Church. I
had been told that was an unforgivable sin. The very
idea scared me to death.
One Sunday morning, a friend called and invited me to go
with her to an antique automobile auction, enticing me
with the fact that a lot of men would be there. Since I
was now single and wanted to be otherwise, it didn’t
take much convincing to get me to go. At the auction, I
noticed a young man across the room, talking with a
group of other men. My first thought was that he was
quite handsome. On closer observation, I realized that I
knew him. It had been years since I had seen him, but I
remembered Pat Carraway as a "swinging single". From the
looks of his left hand, he still was.
I ran over to him, gave him a big hug and asked him to
come sit with me and my friend for a few moments. He
agreed, then began to tell me about how his life had
changed. He was studying for the ministry at Melodyland
in California and was only in Little Rock for a few
hours before heading back to school.
I kept looking at Pat, intrigued by what I saw.
Actually, I couldn’t figure out what it was that I was
seeing, I just knew that there was something incredibly
warm and beautiful and magnetic about him. The
"male/female" thing went right out the window. This man
had something I wanted that had nothing to do with
dating or anything like that. I didn’t know what it was,
but I wanted it.
I now know that — for the first time that I can remember
— I was seeing Jesus Christ in someone’s eyes. Pat was
so full of the Holy Spirit, he nearly glowed. But at the
time, all I could see was that Pat had something — had
found something — knew something — that I didn’t.
Whatever it was, I wanted it.
When Pat had to leave to catch his plane, I wanted to
drag him back into his chair. I didn’t want him to go
away. But he did, telling me that he had some things he
wanted to mail to me when he got home. I gave him my
address, then watched him leave, noticing how cold and
empty the room felt after he was gone.
About two weeks later, on August 11th, I called in sick
to work. This was totally out of
character for me, since I had become something of a
"workaholic". But for some reason, I just didn’t want to
go to work. About 10:00, the mail came, and in it was a
package from Pat.
I know now that it was the Holy Spirit urging me to stay
at home. Normally, that package from Pat would have
ended up shoved in a bookcase somewhere, left for "later
when I have time". But since I wasn’t sick and by 10:00
had gotten pretty bored, I opened the package and began
to read. The first book on top was Mormonism by Walter
Martin. Inside the front cover was written, To Bonnie
Wiggins from Pat Carraway, 8/8/77, John 8:32. I grabbed
my Bible and looked up the referenced verse. "And ye
shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you
free." "Okay," I thought. "Well, let’s see what this
other stuff says." Four hours later, I was still sitting
on my bed, surrounded by the books Pat had sent and all
my Mormon books, reading and researching everything Dr.
Martin and the other writers had to say about Mormon
Doctrine. I stopped about 2:30 to go pick up my
children. After I put them to bed that night, I stayed
up reading until about 3:00 a.m. The next day, I called
in "sick" again, unwilling to stop studying. While my
children were at school, I read and researched more. As
I studied, one thing overwhelmed me more than any other.
For the first time in my life, I was reading the Bible
and understanding what it said. And I was reading the
Book of Mormon and recognizing the lies. At that time, I
didn’t know who the Holy Spirit was, but He was opening
my eyes just the same.
About 1:00, I began to cry. I got up off the bed and
removed my clothing, nearly ripping the temple garments
from my body in my revulsion of what they really were. I
dressed again, then went deliberately to my dresser,
pulling open the drawers and dragging out all the other
garments. I went to the kitchen and retrieved a large
garbage bag, shoved the temple garments inside, then
systematically searched the house for anything and
everything I could find that was of Mormonism. I went to
the back yard and emptied the contents of the garbage
bag into a big heap, then went back inside for a box of
matches. When I came outside, I pulled out a match and
tried to strike it. But I was shaking so hard, I
couldn’t get it to work. An old tape kept playing in my
head that said I was sentencing myself to hell ... that
what I was doing would never be forgiven.
Finally, I stopped and looked up toward heaven. I said,
"Lord, if what I’m trying to do here is wrong, please
strike me dead now before I can do it. But if it is
right, then please help me strike this match!" As I
spoke the last word, peace — incredible,
incomprehensible peace — washed over me like warm water.
I was no longer shaking. I was no longer crying. I was
calm, peaceful and filled with joy. Without another
hesitation, I struck the match and set fire to the pile
before me. As I watched it burn, I couldn’t think of
anything to say but, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
It was nearly a year before I learned the word for what
had happened to me. But on that day, I was saved. On
that day, I was made a new creature. I was born again
into the Kingdom of God. I was adopted into the family
of God. I became one of the King’s Kids. Praise God for
His goodness and mercy and for loving me enough to make
sure I got to know Him.
—
Bonnie Ricks