An Invitation to Live

My family didn’t attend church when I was growing up, and I can remember wondering if God actually existed. The first time I ever thought about an afterlife was when my grandfather died. I remember thinking that perhaps I would see him again someday, but the minister I asked about this explained to me that when we got to heaven we wouldn’t know anyone. After listening to more doctrine about heaven that conflicted with what my heart told me, I decided that the preacher had to be wrong. With this decision began my intense interest in different beliefs and religions.

In college I studied religion in earnest, taking every course that was available—Hinduism, Judaism, Catholicism, and numerous classes in Protestantism. These classes often left me with more questions than answers. I visited many different churches and worship services, too, but did not find one that felt permanently right.

By the time I graduated from college with a degree in social work and psychology, I was married, with two children. I grew used to working long hours, and sometimes weekends, in my job as a therapist. Then I was diagnosed with a very serious illness and underwent six major surgeries in as many years. The last one came after my husband had lost his job, leaving us with no medical insurance, and after we had lost our house to Hurricane Hugo in September 1989.

There seemed no end to the mounting hospital and doctor bills. I lived with chronic pain day after day—pain that made it hurt even to breathe. I sometimes fell into deep depressions that seemed to engulf me.

In August 1990 we took a job transfer back home, to Alabama. I had hoped that things would start getting better. Instead, in October I was told that I needed yet another operation. With no medical insurance, I didn’t see how we could handle any more medical bills. I decided it would perhaps be better to end my own life. I planned how and when I would do it, and determined to spend as much time with my children before then as possible. Each night I would stand by their beds and watch them sleep.

One Friday in November, I was in a tremendous amount of pain. For the first time in months, I got on my knees and prayed. I asked Heavenly Father to help me cope, to send me hope, and to forgive me for what I planned to do.

The next afternoon there was a knock at my door. It was two young men in white shirts and ties—the same young men I had seen and spoken to in the grocery store a few days earlier. They told me they were missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Despite the warning one of my college professors had given in class—“never let the Mormon missionaries in”—I decided to listen to them.

Actually, I was more interested in analyzing them than in listening to them. I kept looking for what I thought of as “cult tendencies,” but they seemed relatively normal. I invited them back, and they gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon. It was the first time I had ever seen one. I thumbed through it and laid it on top of the television set. As soon as they left, I tossed it into the wastebasket.

I stepped back and looked at the book. It seemed a shame to throw away something with “Another Testament of Jesus Christ” written across the front of it. I retrieved it and put it on my bookshelf.

The next week they returned to teach me the first discussion. Speaking of the Book of Mormon, they told me, “We know this book is true.” I told them it was impossible to “know” anything like that; they simply believed it was true. They insisted that they “knew.” I found their certainty somewhat amusing.

Just before they left, they asked me to pray and ask Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon is true. I asked them if they would baptize a person who had planned one’s own death. They told me they would teach the person about God’s plan of life and salvation; then that individual wouldn’t want to die and could become ready for baptism. I found their answer intriguing. And I realized that while they were in my home, I wasn’t in pain and I wasn’t depressed. I felt good.

I began to read the Book of Mormon and found it much more interesting than I had anticipated. In one college class on ancient Central American history, I had learned about different peoples there. The Book of Mormon explained who they were. Maybe it could be true, I reasoned. As the missionaries taught me over the next few weeks, I went on reading day and night. But I was afraid to pray—afraid to learn that the book was true.

Finally, a month after the missionaries started teaching me, I bent down on my knees and asked Heavenly Father if The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the Book of Mormon were true. That night I had a dream. In it I was walking in a meadow. I was in the presence of someone I could not see, someone who told me, “Listen to them. What they say to you is true.” I sat up in bed. I knew immediately that everything the missionaries had taught me was true. I knew it.

I was baptized seven weeks after I had been given that copy of the Book of Mormon.

In January I received my patriarchal blessing. Among other things, I was blessed with physical strength. In February my doctor told me that my disease had gone into remission. Could this be the physical strength I was promised? I believe it was—or at least one manifestation of it.

I have no way of knowing how long I will be in remission, but I have come to enjoy and appreciate the life I have. The knowledge I have gained has shown me just how precious that gift is.

Thinking back, I can see that Heavenly Father answered my prayer for hope. I found it through the gospel, and through the book I tried to throw away. My entire life has been changed as a result. I do not know how others may view my conversion experience, but to me it was a miracle.—Name Withheld