I had gone to church every Sunday for a year. I had attended seminary and Young Men ever since my baptism. I had followed the commandments to the letter, and still no luck. My family had still not joined the Church.
I had started with the easy things, leaving missionary pamphlets on the coffee table and other Church literature and videos in strategic places. Even the bathroom looked like the first floor of the London National History Museum, and still no luck.
They had gone to church meetings a few times, when they knew it was important to me, like my first church talk and, of course, my baptism. They never seemed interested, and I didn’t want to pressure them. It seemed hopeless.
The Rigby family in the ward decided to join the effort. At family home evening, we submitted the game plan. I would distract my family with a volley of church talks and my seminary graduation, which they would have to come to. Sister Rigby and the missionaries would sneak around the back with discussions and the Ensign magazine.
Well, that was the plan, anyway. They came to my talks and to my graduation. They didn’t seem to take in what I was saying in my carefully structured talks. They ignored the Ensign like all the rest of the Church materials I brought home. And they skillfully deflected the missionaries with “sorry-my-son’s-not-in” karate.
I had had enough. I jumped straight in and said, “Mother, will you listen to the missionaries and think about joining the Church?” I braced myself for rejection. My mother looked at me and said in a matter-of-fact way, “Of course I will, darling. Can the missionaries come on Thursday when your dad is home from work?”
I was shocked, but it happened. We’ve had two baptisms and we’re working on the third. I hear you saying, What’s the moral, Paul? Well, it’s basically don’t be afraid to ask. Sometimes great things can happen if you only ask.