Peek in the Past--The Grand Canyon and Later Conversion

At one point in our travels, East to West across America (click HERE for last month's post), my friend Pauline and I reached the Grand Canyon, and had to decide whether to take the Greyhound bus to Los Angeles (our final destination) via Las Vegas or Salt Lake City. For some reason, although I knew nothing about the place, I had a sudden desire to see Salt Lake City. We tossed a coin. Pauline won. We went to Las Vegas, and I forgot about Salt Lake.

I mentioned last month, that Pauline and I investigated different religions on our travels. I always felt each time that something was missing, and gradually became disillusioned with the whole concept of a “right church.” I was also unhappy about the way many of my peers lived. It felt like there was an ugly darkness and little direction in anyone’s life. Immorality, drinking, smoking, drugs—they all seemed alien to me. I could not believe that was how life should be.

So you can imagine my reaction to Las Vegas and its nightlife. Not good. We were both glad to climb on board another Greyhound bus the next day and head west.


Once in LA, I found a secretarial job working at Western and Southern Insurance on Wilshire Boulevard. I was there ten months and then decided it was time to return home to England—not just for a visit, but for good. My job involved more than straightforward shorthand and typing, so it meant I had to stay another four weeks to train the replacement secretary.

The young lady hired to replace me happened to be Mormon, and that began the most amazing four weeks of my life. I later came to believe this was the purpose for my whole trip across North America. When I heard Carolyn's religion, I was fairly interested. Her faith was a new one to me, and to be honest, I thought it would be just another concept for the “been there, done that” list.



However, I found satisfying answers to my countless questions, and spent the remaining evenings and weekends with Carolyn and her friends and family, talking mainly about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I eventually listened to missionary discussions crammed into little over a week. There wasn’t time to read much of the Book of Mormon at that point, but I had such a strong logical and spiritual conversion that I knew I needed to be baptized as soon as possible.

Nothing went smoothly. The worst obstacle happened when I came home from work one night and fell down the apartment building stairs, wrenching my ankle so badly I fainted for the first time ever. I was supposed to be at Carolyn’s apartment for the missionary discussion on baptism an hour later. Some friends saw me fall and carried me home. I thought I’d broken my ankle, the pain was that bad, and actually called Carolyn to cancel the appointment as I couldn’t even walk to the bus stop. She came and collected me anyway, and the evening was wonderful. The following weekend Elders Van Dyke and Abelhouzen baptized me. Two days later, I returned to England to a disbelieving family who took me to dinner and wanted to treat me to champagne. That was tricky.

I later discovered that Carolyn had been in the middle of a BYU English degree before she arrived in LA looking for a job. She felt impressed to leave her studies and work for a while, and live near her parents’ home in Van Nuys. She later returned to BYU and completed her degree, but always felt the purpose of taking that break was to meet me. I am forever grateful she followed those promptings of the spirit.

I had faith, and an embryonic testimony, but did not have instant knowledge. Friends held a farewell party in the Los Angeles apartment, and several young Irish men of dwindling Catholic faith were there. When they heard of my baptism, they ridiculed me, and taunted with questions I had no idea how to answer. But somehow, I instinctively knew the stuff they threw at me was false doctrine. All I could do was state my gut feelings and walk away. I quickly realized I needed to study a whole lot more if people were going to do that to me. I could not deny the burning confirmation I kept receiving that this Church did indeed contain the truth for which I had searched. However, it was a surprise to discover I would need to defend my beliefs from that moment on.

These days, my testimony of the Gospel of Jesus Christ has deep roots. It is the reason behind everything I do—especially my writing.

Peek in the Past—Beyond the Big D.C.

(Continued from Peek in the Past—The Journey Begins)

One of my new friends in our Maryland apartment was Pauline Stevens, a young lady from London, England. She had fiery bronze hair and a great sense of humor. After a few months working in Washington D.C., we were both tired of the humid summer heat and began dreaming of the west coast.

So we planned a long trip across the States and began saving pay checks for Greyhound bus tickets to our first destination—Nashville, Tennessee.

That first leg of our journey across the Roanoke Mountains in early October 1963 was awe inspiring. We couldn’t get enough of magnificent views and stunning autumn colors. And Nashville was such a cool place. It didn’t take long to find work. There were no secretarial jobs available, so we turned our hands to serving in a restaurant—a first for both of us. That was fun. Hours were long and hard, but we saved enough for the next bus tickets to Dallas, Texas, arriving there at the end of October.

Fortunately, there were more office vacancies in Dallas, and we both found jobs with a Temp agency. As soon as we had enough money for tickets, we moved on to Colorado Springs via a night in Wichita, Kansas at the home of strangers—a generous Baptist family.

During our travels, we discussed religion and attended different churches. Pauline was a lapsed Catholic, and I was raised without religion, but had a great curiosity about God. When I was eight, I went—by myself—to a local Church one Sunday, just to see what went on. My dad gave me a thrupenny bit (three English pennies—like 3 cents) , and said, “You’ll need this for the collection.” I had no clue what that meant until half way through the service a plate was passed around. Everyone around me placed ten shilling notes, or even one pound, or five pound notes on the pile. I kept my tiny, bronze thrupenny bit tight in my fist, and ducked my head, embarrassed. I didn’t understand the service and couldn’t see past all the winter coats and fancy hats. No-one spoke to me afterward so I never went back.

Fast forward to 1963. It was now November 22nd, just one week after we’d left Dallas, and we had jobs washing pots and pans in a Colorado Springs YWCA. I was standing at this large stone sink, washing a huge stew pan, listening to a portable radio, when we heard the never-to-be-forgotten news of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. There was a little old lady drying pans with us, and we all broke into tears, hardly able to believe such an impossible thing could happen. The world seemed to take a down turn after that. I was glad to be out of Dallas.

On our days off, Pauline and I explored Colorado Springs and the surrounding mountain retreats. I think we were the only people bussing and walking everywhere. It took us forever to get around, but we had a great time. Pikes Peak and the Garden of the Gods were top favorites. That Christmas, we were the only two residents left in the YMCA, and calling home was a must, despite the cost. What was another day’s work compared to chatting with family.

By mid-January, we’d saved enough to travel on to the Grand Canyon—and a new twist in my story. But you’ll have to wait another month to find out what happened next :-)