In a Dark
Projection Room
by
Tracy Hickman
It was in the
end of 1974 when I received an unforgettable message from God. You
probably think that rather presumptuous. Who, after all, am I to
receive a personal word from Deity? I certainly agree with you.
In fact, it is all the more astonishing when you consider just who
I was back in the fall of 1974.
I was eighteen
that year. Looking back, it seemed as though I wore the Church like
a Sunday suit ... all on the outside without ever letting it touch
my soul. I had been 'born in the covenant' but it was a covenant
that I had not really accepted. I had signed the contract without
reading it or understanding it. At eight I was baptized, at twelve
I was ordained as was all good and proper. Deacon, Teacher, Priest
... all according to schedule. I had been going to Seminary for
four years (including junior high school) and, incredibly, had managed
NOT to graduate. Four straight years of Book of Mormon ... and never
once past first Nephi in any meaningful way.
I tried to
be good. I bounced prayers off the ceiling regularly and even occasionally
managed to feel inspired enough to give a testimony in church on
fast Sundays. I tried to read the scriptures without falling asleep.
Getting through
high school in Provo, Utah it was impossible to avoid church, of
course. It was ingrained in our society. Several of my friends were
non-Mormons and it was tough on them. Still, I was card-carrying
and 'a member of the club' so I didn't have to worry. To me, it
was just another part of my life ... a thing one did ... not more
or less important than any other aspect of life.
There was a
lot of life to live, too. I had graduated from Provo High School
the previous spring and the summer had been a great one. I was making
payments on my really great 1972 Volkswagen Superbeetle by working
as a movie projectionist at the Academy Theater downtown. What a
sweet job! It paid better than just about anything else around and
you got to see all the movies you wanted for free. I spent part
of the summer getting some great use out of my glider pilot's license
and had even learned to fly power planes, too. I was dating the
girl of my dreams. Life was good.
Or, at least,
pretty good. My girl wanted to marry a return missionary. All my
friends seemed to be mission bound as well. It was a conspiracy.
Every now and then one of my Mormon high school buddies would ask
me, right out of the blue, 'So, are you going on a mission?'
Each time, I'd
give them the same response; "I've thought about it but I just don't
think a mission is right for me."
It was a conspiracy
... and I suspect my father was the ringleader. As my nineteenth
birthday approached that November, our family would gather at the
dining room table for dinner. Conversation would continue easily
enough but then my father would turn to me and casually ask his
inspired questions.
"Son, have
you thought about what you should be doing with your life?"
I thought and,
somehow sensing danger, replied, "Yeah, I've thought about it, Dad.
I'm still thinking about it."
"Well, son ...
have you thought about going on a mission?"
Here we go
again, I thought. "Yes, I've thought about it, Dad ... and I just
don't think a mission is right for me."
He would then
nod and quietly let the subject drop ... for a couple of days. Then,
once more at the dinner table he would quietly ask me again.
"Son, have
you thought about what you should be doing with your life?"
What? I thought.
Again? "Yes, I'm still thinking about it, Dad."
"Well, have
you thought about a mission?"
And so it went
for several weeks: my father, the communication professor, gently
planting seeds in the rocky places of my soul without my knowing
it. Silently they took root and I found myself actually thinking
about my future and what a mission might mean for me.
These were
the things that I was pondering in the darkness of the projection
booth of the Academy Theater. The only light came from a small reading
lamp and whatever spillage leaked out from the ancient projectors.
My father's seeds and those of my friends had taken root, however,
somewhere deep in my soul. Strong roots can break rocks over enough
time. So, in that darkness, I pondered eternity and whether I had
any place in it.
I decided I
should at least give prayer another try, right there in the dim
confines of the projection booth. With a forgetable movie droning
on in the background, I knelt down for one more attempt.
Somewhere in
the eternities or somewhere in my soul ... I could not say which
... God flipped a switch. I heard His voice. He, the Master of the
grandeur of all creation spoke to the soul of a lost and frightened
eighteen-year-old boy. His quiet voice resounded shook my spirit
and rolled like thunder throughout my being.
I knew ... I
just KNEW ... that I had to go on my mission. It is the single truest
moment I have ever experienced in my life.
I had in that
moment a pure and undeniable testimony that I had a mission from
God. I had no testimony of the first vision ... that would only
come to me in the Mission Home in Salt Lake months later. I had
no testimony of the Book of Mormon ... that would have to wait until
I was well into my Language Training in Hawaii. I had only the most
basic understanding of the gospel. The only testimony I had was
that I had to go ... and it undeniably came from God.
I left my girlfriend.
I left my family. I left my Volkswagen and my great job and my flying
and my life all behind because I knew the voice of God and could
not deny it.
Just over two
years later I returned home. I had served in the Indonesia-Jakarta
Mission. That girlfriend I had left behind was somehow standing
at the top of the jet way when I got off the plane. We married nearly
three months later in the Los Angles Temple.
That was four
children and almost twenty-five years ago now. I look back over
the years and see the gospel as a foundation for my life. I do not
know if my mission service helped convert anyone else to the gospel.
I can only really count one convert from my mission, me. I've been
a member all my life, but whenever anyone asks in church if there
are any converts in the room, I always raise my hand.
I became a
convert in that projection room when I was eighteen years old -and
found myself ready to hear God's quiet voice.
Editors'
Note: Submit your missionary stories to our Meridian Missionary
Journal editor, Peggy Proctor at missionaryjournal@meridianmagazine.com
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© 2001 Meridian
Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
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