My papa (grandpa) wasn’t a member of the Church, but my
grandma had been a seminary teacher for decades. This created an interesting combination
in which my papa would often take me aside to teach me in private things like
how to gamble on horse races. My grandma, on the other hand, would pull me
aside for gospel discussions. She loved to talk about the scriptures. I could
see it in her eyes. Most of our conversations were probably during my Senior
year of High School, because I remember studying the New Testament. My
grandma loved to help me learn new things from each scripture.
In the middle of one such discussion, she beckoned for me to
follow her into the study. The entire side wall was lined from
roof to floor with books of all kinds. She pulled a thick, red book off the middle
shelf and extended it toward me. The cover read Jesus the Christ.
“I have a friend who I have been talking with about the
Gospel,” she explained. “I’ve been meaning to give her this book, but…I think
it might be better given to someone who will actually read it.”
I felt the weight of that responsibility as she handed me
the book.
Someone once warned me that the first five chapters of Jesus
the Christ are hard to get through, and they aren’t wrong. Over the next
four years or so, I had barely made a dent in my reading. I seem to remember being
stuck on page 70 (out of around 700 in the copy I had).
This all changed one critical day of my mission.
It had been a challenging first 5 months. About a year
before I had left on my mission, my grandma had a stroke that left her mostly
bed-ridden and unable to function. We had visited that Christmas, and I sort of
knew in my heart it was the last time I was going to see her. I remember
telling her, not sure how cognizant she was, that I had been called to be my
Ward’s Relief Society President. I knew she would want to know that. If I remember
right, she nodded and smiled knowingly and then gave me one small piece of
advice.
“Delegate or die.”
I nodded and decided to try and take that to heart. Fast
forward to November of 2013, almost an entire year later and a few months into
my mission, I received word that my grandma had passed away. It came at a difficult
time. My current companion had been struggling with various illnesses we were
still in the process of diagnosing. We had both been bed-ridden for about a
week, and I often had to handle episodes in which she passed out completely. There
were moments when I feared for her life, but it took some time before we were
able to find the right contacts to get the attention and help that we needed.
For about a week, I felt alone in my attempts to try and keep my companion alive.
The news of my grandma’s passing came about the same time
that my companion was informed, just after leaving the emergency room, that she
was going to have to go home. There was so much going on emotionally for me,
that I wasn’t sure what to do with the information. The next 48 hours were a whirlwind
that included tests, dropping my companion off at the airport, and a quarantine
period where I stayed with the mission nurse in a private back room.
When I finally ended up being assigned to join a separate
companionship and stay in their small one-bedroom basement apartment, I was blessed
to get the living room couch to myself. In the privacy of that first evening, I
finally let myself reflect on the news about my grandma. I had a spiritually
comforting experience while praying and continued to move forward.
Within a week, I was assigned a new companion and put back
in my area. The next two months were a struggle that combined my undiagnosed PTSD
mixed with the lingering suicidal depression of my new companion. I met often
with my Mission President and my companion was able to get depression
medication and a once-a-week therapy phone session. But the weight of my
personal trauma I held inside. No one knew about my Grandma, let alone what
taking care of my companion had been like. I didn’t know how to talk about it.
As the weight of my situation weighed on me more and more
each day, I felt not only inadequate for my companion but more than a little
depressed. I increasingly felt uncertain how to function and I let my thoughts
spiral downward on a daily basis. Finally scared by one very distinct contemplation
of suicide, I decided to reach out and ask for a Priesthood Blessing.
I was shocked, and admittedly angry, that the blessing
sounded mostly like directive to stay the course and move forward. I didn’t feel
comforted or helped. When we got back to our apartment, I immediately left my companion
and went to the bathroom, where I broke down completely. Through my tears, as I
sobbed helplessly on the floor, I remember praying and telling God that I had
given everything that I had, my strength was expended, and I had nothing left
inside of me to give. I asked him to just take it. I didn’t know what else to
do.
In the quiet moment that followed, I heard the whispered
words, directly from the blessing I had received earlier in the day.
Study the doctrines of the Atonement.
I stood up. Wiped at my eyes. And walked out of my bathroom.
And there, resting on our study table, was the thick red copy of Jesus the
Christ given to me by my Grandma. I’m not sure if that’s when it clicked
exactly, but from that moment on, everything changed.
I began reading the book every chance that I got. My companion
was often too depressed to move, and it provided me ample opportunities to
read. As I read page after page about the life and teachings of the Savior, Jesus
Christ, something inside of me started shifting. It stopped sounding like an inspirational
message and more like an actual power. I remember reflecting on a letter that
my Dad had sent to me which mentioned the idea of pondering on the Savior in
Gethsemane while calling for the power of Christ to help heal us. I began to
put that into practice. One day in particular, I experienced something that
wasn’t just the embrace of an idea, but the actualization of an external,
tangible, power.
For just a moment, I could feel that it was real. I could
feel the healing power of Christ.
With each day, as my testimony of the Savior grew, I watched
my compassion, empathy, and capacity likewise increase. I stopped blaming my companion
for exacerbating my circumstances. I stopped thinking about the debilitating, horrifying
nature of my past experiences. I started writing out what I had been through, but
the focus was more on building rather than self-loathing. Love seemed to matter
more than anything else. Ultimately, I watched as something in my heart
changed.
I don’t mean that as a statement of finality, but rather I
watched myself grow little by little. I realized that there was power in the
Atonement of Jesus Christ that I was never going to be able to conjure up
within myself. It was not weak, in effect, to be weak. The necessary unity with
Christ was developmental, healing, unifying, and perfecting.
About a year later, I was assigned a companion in my third
area in Brazil who had also been through a long list of trials and hard times.
Prior to her mission, her sister had passed away. The experience had left a deep
mark on her, including a reasonable lack of trust in forming relationships with
people. But she was still an excellent, faith-filled missionary. We connected,
almost unexpectedly, over discussions each morning about the Atonement of
Christ. Our lesson plans for investigators were so vigorous and energizing,
that I remember us both jumping to our feet and practically shouting our ideas
at each other.
Naturally, I talked a lot about things I had learned reading
Jesus the Christ. She shared her insights back. Sometimes I think we were
teaching ourselves more than planning for actual lessons. The two transfers I spent
with her seemed to continue a process I had left off in South Dakota. I
continued to be impressed daily with the reality and power of the Atonement of
Christ. I began to see a loving Heavenly Father who was different than I had imagined.
The discussions we had were uplifting and beautiful. I constantly attribute much
of my own healing to this companion.
When the day came for me to fly home months later, she
decided to travel all the way from her area to meet me at the mission office.
When she showed up, I reached into my bag and pulled out the gift I had prepared.
It was the large, thick red copy of Jesus the Christ,
complete with my markings. She knew of my past experiences, and so after I made
some comment about knowing that she was trying to learn English, I said simply,
“I just want to give it to someone who I know will read it.”
The book was the
only gift I felt could adequately sum up my feelings for her and my mission
experiences. She accepted it with tears in her eyes and made a personal promise
to learn English and read it. I told her I just wanted her to have it regardless. It was a spiritual experience for me.
That’s how a copy of Jesus the Christ moved from
Alabama to Utah to South Dakota to Brazil, and finally landed in Bolivia. Perhaps
that would have intrigued my grandma, but of course the real impact of the
story is the ripple-like effect of testimonies and the power of Christ’s
Atonement.
In my scripture reading about Easter today, I was reminded of
the universal, but personal nature of the Atonement of Christ. It strikes me as
miraculous that one who lived thousands of years ago and carried out a propitiating
sacrifice for an innumerable number of children could also be so very present
in the life of one young woman who was struggling and in need.
I have realized that the only way to not only survive but
find joy in the journey of mortality is to rely on the redemptive, enabling,
forgiving, and healing power of Christ. It is a matchless, real, and tangible
power that actually transforms lives and strengthens souls. At the end of my
mission, the only word that seemed even partially representative of how I felt
was gratitude. A humbling, ennobling, love-inspiring gratitude that has fundamentally
changed my vision for myself and this mortal life.
I’m still so very far from perfect, but at least, “I know in
whom I have trusted. My God hath been my support.”
“Behold, my God is my salvation; I will trust, and not be
afraid, for the Lord Jehovah is my strength and my song; he has also become my
salvation.”
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