What God Sounds Like

by Allison

I was raised in no particular religion; although my parents went between Unitarianism and agnostic, my mother now says that she is an atheist. My conversion story starts in July of 1982, in El Cajon, outside of San Diego, CA, where I was staying with my parents after the birth of my second son. It was a horrible time for me, as their god was money, and they did their best to try and get me to divorce my husband, who had stayed up in Santa Cruz, CA at college while I “visited” with my family in El Cajon. If we had known their agenda, we would never have agreed to my staying there, but I had had difficulties after my delivery, and as my mom was a nurse it seemed the best option at the time. If I had been feeling better I might have been suspicious that they insisted on taking all the furniture that was mine or loaned to me by them with them to San Diego.

I ended up walking to the nearby 7-Eleven every day to call and talk to my husband about what a hard time I was having—I eventually found out that my parents wanted me to leave my husband, stay with them with my two young sons, and do housework for them and my sisters as a way to pay my way. I was treated despitefully and with contempt by my sisters as well, so I was in a constant state of turmoil and depression. When my husband came down to pick me up, after finding out their plans and behavior, he was told to get a job down there in San Diego in one week or forever take himself out of my life. His efforts were almost enough, but not quite, and yet he hesitated trying to take me back up to Santa Cruz in his old 54 international pick-up truck, because the alternator had been giving him a hard time all the way down.

He told me he was going to find the name of the local Mormon bishop, and go talk to him. My husband was an inactive convert member of the Mormon Church at the time, and had shared a little bit of what he had learned, so I told him to go ahead. When he came back and said the bishop had said he couldn’t do much, but he would pray for us, I did not think that would do much for us. Yet, staying at my parents’ house was unacceptable (and later I found out that my father was mentally ill, and was affecting the other family members in their behavior, so much so that the family all went their own way and my parents divorced. What would have happened to me and my children if I had chosen to stay I am afraid to think).

So we started to travel to Santa Cruz on a wing and a prayer, with all of my stuff that I could load on in the back of the truck and my two little ones strapped in between my husband and I. We had not even gotten out of San Diego when we started to have alternator trouble, and I felt like despairing. We made it as far as Del Mar, and then our lights started to flicker and go out. We pulled into an all night Sambo’s Restaurant. As I sat talking to my husband about our situation, and the fact that he was going to have to try and get a friend to forward us the money for the part while he worked on the truck all night, the first miracle happened. Even if we had had the money for it, we could not have stayed in any local Del Mar hotels because the horse races had filled them, and there were no rooms at the inn for our little family. A lady in the booth behind me turned around, and gave me a five-dollar bill. When I asked for her address so that I could send her the money when I got more, she said for me to not worry about it, but to “pass it on” to someone else in need, (which I have done several times since). That $5 enabled me to stay there with my little ones in a booth all night, because I could keep purchasing a little bit of food along the way to justify our staying. The second miracle was that my husband got the truck fixed and running, and we got up to Big Sur where we were able to stay with friends for the night, and then made it to Santa Cruz the next day. This all made me think about what the bishop said, and I started to believe in the power of prayer.

My parents sent me a letter disowning me not too long afterward, and I felt that I was in the pit of despair. Then my husband wisely told me that I needed the Relief Society, and that we were going to a Mormon Church the next day. I told him that I needed more than a social organization, and he told me that it was, but that they also teach me how to bake whole wheat bread! I thought that it was worth a try, since I had been searching for a church for a while, and knew I needed one, but hadn’t tried this one yet. So the next day we got the boys all dressed in their best and went to the little chapel in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

My newest son, at two months old, was a bit fussy, so I took him into the nursery to rock, where there was speaker to listen to the sacrament services with. As I listened to the first speaker, some older brother, a wonderful feeling came over me, and I felt like I was bathed in golden light. He did not talk about anything extraordinary, but tears of joy ran down my face as I rocked my little one in the old rocking chair they had there. I felt a powerful witness that there was something great going on in that Mormon Church, and as I watched the members dismiss into the lobby in a little while, I noticed that all their faces seemed to be glowing. I knew I needed to find out more about this Church, so when two young men in white shirts approached me (who seemed to be glowing more than the rest) I took the book they offered me.

I have read the experience of Parley P. Pratt, and I know how he felt when he read the Book of Mormon, for I had a similar experience. I did little else that week, except for take care of my children and read that book, as a thirsty person in the desert suddenly given fresh pure water, or a starving person suddenly granted a feast. I had most of it read by the end of the week and made the missionaries come back and teach me every night. My reasoning was that this book could not have been written by a farm boy with a third grade education, so it had to be of some origin other than man. “By their fruits ye shall know them” ran through my mind, so, based on what I had seen of the members, I decided that it was from God. I had already decided that baptism was the next step, after reading Alma’s plea at the water’s of Mormon, so when the missionaries asked me on Thursday if I had thought of being baptized, I replied yes, and I was ready to be baptized that night. They said that I had caught them flat-footed, and I needed an interview and for them to get the font ready, so would Sunday be all right.

So Sunday was set for the baptism, a full week after I had first gone to Church. On Saturday, I was having a few second thoughts, wondering if I had gone too fast, when suddenly an immensely loud roll of thunder sounded right overhead, out of nowhere. There were not even any clouds in the sky, no rain or other thunder, just this huge sound reverberating through our upstairs student apartment. It was so loud that my husband heard it from miles away, in the downtown area, and my eldest son, then two, came running up to me white faced and asked me “Mama, is that what God sounds like?” I told him I thought so, and decided to interpret it as a warning that I should, indeed, go ahead with my baptism.

The next day, we loaded all of us into the truck and headed down the hill to the highway. About halfway down the hill, the old truck, whose fuel gauge did not work, ran out of gas. Also, my husband realized that he had left his wallet back at the apartment, so he took my oldest son, leaving me with the baby, and started walking back to the apartment. I was sure we were going to be late for the baptism, but decided to exercise my new faith and pray to the Lord, asking him that if He really wanted me to be baptized into this Mormon  Church, would He please help us. A little while later my husband showed up with my son and gas. Someone had picked them up, heard that I was going to be baptized (not caring what church it was in), and gave my husband a ride to the apartments for his wallet, down to the gas station, and back to the truck! I decided that I needed no further witness of the truthfulness of this Church and an hour later I was entering the waters of baptism. Indeed, I felt the spirit of my recently deceased grandmother as I went to the chapel, as if she were sitting a little behind and above me. I later made sure to do her temple work, and wondered if she had been also helping me to make it there though all my trials, watching over me as a special mission from the Lord.

I am still a steadfast, faithful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, almost 24 years later, and have raised all my children in the gospel. My testimony grows more every day, and I still feel that the decision to be baptized was the best I ever made. One of my sons, the one who was a baby at the time of my conversion, went on a Mormon mission to the California Fresno Mission, of which our ward in Santa Cruz had been a part at the time, so I feel that we have sent back the blessings to that area.

I say this all in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

For More Information
WhyMormonism.com
Mormon Missionaries - BBC Religion and Ethics