The sad fact of the matter is that I hate family history work. Sure, I loved doing baptisms, and sure, I was pretty okay with paying tithing. But when it came to turning the hearts of the children to their fathers, I much preferred turning the heart of this child to pizza, Harry Potter books, and Lizzie McGuire. I went my whole life feeling that way, wanting nothing to do with these people I never knew. After all, someone would do their work, right? I came from a very active family and there was no reason for me to feel obligated to search for ancestors that needed work. It was simply a boring waste of time.
Then a year ago, out of the blue, I felt prompted to go to a family history class. I was sort of confused, because, as mentioned, it was the last thing in the world that I wanted to do. The feeling just kept nagging and nagging at me, though. So on a Tuesday night, I went to my stake-hosted Institute and slipped into the family history class. Angelic messengers didn't show up and set my soul aflame, dead great-uncles didn't materialize like dead Jedi to teach me the ways of the Force, and the ghosts of Reeses past, present, and future didn't bang on my doors and drag me through the life my life could be if it weren't for my ancestors.
Nope. I got kicked out. And it was the best thing that ever happened to me.