Corridor of Faces

Today my mind traveled down a long corridor in a gallery of faces. The emotions attached with each face were the colors of fall that transformed into winter which eventually melted into spring. These particular faces have given my life the most meaning, the most fulfillment.

I sat in an auditorium listening to the sunday school teacher prompt questions regarding conversion. My thoughts turned to the souls behind these faces. Eventually, my thoughts turned to myself. Have I been converted? Do my actions reflect my conversion? Do I need to make modifications to my life currently? The reoccurring answer to the latter question was predictably "yes."

My eyes fell to my scriptures. They were open to a page that tells of a man named Alma. He was a prophet, but first he was a missionary. He shared the gospel from one end of the ancient world to another, proclaiming the divinity of a man named Jesus Christ who was to come.

Among the pages of his testimony and proselyting, I saw a name scribbled in the margin in my own handwriting: Jeremie Flanigan. My mind suddenly was lost inside the corridor of Jeremie's conversion.

I remembered warm summer days sitting on a porch in Kalispell, Montana. Evenings in a home of a family by the name of Pitts where Jeremie strengthened my own testimony of the power of the Book of Mormon. I remembered the time Jeremie told us he had stayed up nearly all night reading the word of God. Indescribable joy filled my heart as I watched him progress in the gospel. This man was truly a miracle in my life.

This memory acted as a catalyst to countless others. Countless faces in the museum of my memory came flooding back into my consciousness. Georgie Scheetz. Josh Wilhem. Geri. Alex. Jan. Marvin. All of these souls that have kept a small portion of mine.

Unexpectedly, my thoughts took a detour. It was to a different face nearly 20 years ago. At the end of that long, far away corridor sat a small girl. The girl loved three things: sun dresses, letting the boys chase her at recess and her aunt Mimi. Her aunt would come to visit every once in a while telling her great stories of California and sailboats that filled her with a grand excitement for life.

Though the girl grew up attending Sunday school and bible camp, when her aunt came to town she would attend church with her. For the girl, it was exciting to go to a new place where families would sit together, sing songs and say words such as "Savior" "primary" and "sacrament."

On a sleepy Sunday morning, the girl walked into her parents' room. They had slept through their services at the local Methodist church.

She sat on the bed in between her mother and father wrapped in white blankets and white sheets, the sunlight pouring in through the windows. The girl's favorite part of her house was the gray window seat in hers and her parents' bedroom.

Something her parents were discussing pulled her thoughts away from the window and the magnificent window seat.

They were discussing the possibility of attending a later service because they had missed the morning one.

"Let's go to Mimi's church," the girl offered.

The mother and the father exchanged looks. Agreement passed between them and it was decided. An hour later, the girl sat with her own family and sang songs and heard words like "missionary" "families" and "forever."

10 days after that sleepy sabbath morning, the girl's family had two visitors to their home. The girl quickly became enamored with the young gentlemen dressed in suits with name tags that read Elder Meldrum and Elder Nyland.

Nearly every night the girl's new friends would come over for what her parents called a "discussion." They were always very serious conversations. Her parents would always talk with the young men in what the girl recognized as "serious" tones. But despite the tones, there was always a different feeling when her friends came. Years later, the girl would recognize it as peace. Then, she simply knew it was good.

On more than one occasion after being sent to bed, the girl wondered what was being "discussed." Ever so quietly, clutching her yellow blanket and stuffed kangaroo given to her by her dear aunt, the girl tip-toed out onto the staircase just to listen. She couldn't hear every word. Sometimes laughter would erupt unexpectedly. Sometimes she would hear sniffling as if her mother was crying. Curious, she knew whatever was happening down there was important and she wanted to be a part of it.

10 days after her friends started coming over her parents did something that would change her life forever.

The small girl watched as her parents, dressed in white entered a small pool in the church they now attended weekly.

Her mother went all the way into the water, and came out with tears in her eyes. Her father was next. They were baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on October 3, 1993.

Added to this corridor of memories are the two missionaries that forever changed my life, my dear aunt Marney and a family by the name of Bates. They too, will forever have a portion of my soul. Because of them I went to a place called Montana. A place where my heart still rests somewhere along the open fields and winding gravel roads. A place that will forever be home.