That is the witness received by a young man I met at a youth conference on the campus of BYU-Hawaii. The boy’s name was Jack. His nickname was “Jack the Ripper.” He was not as big as that name might suggest, but he was tough. Heaven only knows what got him to the youth conference where I met him. Rumor was that he rolled his truck and his dad told him the only way he would help pay for the damages was if he attended the youth conference. One thing for sure, Jack didn’t want to be there. He ignored most of the activities and wore a face that let everyone know he was bored and distant.

I thought, “How do I reach this kid?” I’d almost decided I couldn’t, but still, I felt I should try to arrange for our paths to cross. It was more difficult than I imagined. If he came to anything, he was always the last one there and first to leave.

Finally, during one of the meals, I saw my chance. Jack had just gotten his plates (yes, plates, and no one dared to tell him it was against the rules to take more than one) and sat in the back of the cafeteria away from everyone. I quickly got my food and joined him. I didn’t ask if I could sit at the same table. I was afraid Jack would say no. I didn’t ask. I just did it.

“Hi!” I said, “How are you?”

No response.

“Well, I’m sure hungry. How about you?”

No response.

I kept talking, “I’m glad the food is good because I love to eat and that reminds me of something.” During the entire meal, I carried on a beautiful conversation with the top of Jack’s head. Jack never even lifted his eyes or acknowledged my presence. As Jack got close to finishing his food, I felt strongly that I needed to reach this young man somehow. “Do you like sports?” I asked.

No response.

“How many are in your family?”

No response.

Finally, completely dry of ideas and fishing for anything to say, I asked, “So, why do you wear that earring in your ear?”

Jack’s head shot up and he stared at me. Had his eyes been a karate move, it would definitely have been black-belt material.

He said, “I wear this earring to bug old farts like you.”

I told myself to stay quiet and let it go, but I felt upset. I had really been trying hard to be nice—and Jack knew it. I disobeyed the restraining feelings I was having and said, “Well, Jack, congratulations. You have reached your goal. It does bug me. And I’ll tell you why it bugs me. Because you are not only wearing an earring, you are wearing a crucifix, and you are not wearing it for any religious reason whatsoever, and that is like the cross my Savior was killed on.”

Jack pretended not to be listening as he quickly stood and left, banging his cafeteria tray down on the table and then the door behind him. Several of the adult leaders looked at me with puzzled expressions. Things had backfired. After all, the goal of a youth conference is not to drive teenagers out of the Church. I picked up my fork and pushed at the cold food I’d been too busy to eat. For one of the few times in my life, I wasn’t particularly hungry anymore.

It would be nice to report that Jack came to the rest of the activities with a better attitude or that he bore a tearful testimony at the end of the conference. But he didn’t. After the cafeteria episode, he took off and did not come back.

On the Sunday after the conference ended, I had been asked to speak at a special fireside for the deacons and beehive girls. They had not been able to attend youth conference, and local leaders make it a point that no older youth would be allowed in.

I was at the pulpit in the middle of my talk when, at the chapel doors, “Jack the Ripper” appeared. He found a place on the back row and folded his arms. Adult leaders around the room began playing eye-tag back and forth. Their unspoken messages were easy to read: “He’s not supposed to be here,” “I know, so you tell him,” “I’m not going to tell him so you tell him.”

At the pulpit, I instantly changed my subject to one about repentance. Now all the young people were listening to words and a testimony that were pointed directly at the young man on the back row who wasn’t even supposed to be there.

After the fireside, the 12- and 13-year-olds lined up to present me and some of the other guests with Hawaiian leis. Suddenly Jack stood and started coming forward as well—and he was not about to wait in line behind a bunch of younger kids. He plowed to the front. I was scared. We were in a church, surrounded by witnesses, but I knew I had been pretty point-blank with this kid.

As Jack reached the stand, he looked straight at me and said, “It’s about what you said.” Then he reached up to his ear, took off the crucifix, and placed it in my hand. “Now don’t you go wearing that”—he smiled slightly—“because that is what they killed my Savior on, and that would really bug me.” I hugged him.

Everyone has treasured objects—a grandmother’s photograph or a mother’s wedding ring. I also have a small collection of items that mean nothing to anyone else but a great deal to me. One treasure I keep is a single earring—a gold crucifix given to me by a boy named Jack.

Why does he believe in Christ? I can’t imagine that Jack could recite the Joseph Smith story and he probably had never undertaken a serious study of the Book of Mormon. He would have to mature some before he would appreciate the testimonies borne at General Conference by living apostles and prophets. Why did Jack believe? Because the Spirit touched his spirit. Those whose hearts have been turned to Christ by the Spirit are never the same. Anyone who has felt the Spirit for even half a minute knows this is true.