My Faith

The story, to be told correctly, needs some family background. My father was born in Independence, Missouri and was baptized a member of the church at eight years old but was not active as an adult. My father joined the USAF and was stationed at Burtonwood, England during the Korea War. My mother was born in Macclesfield, Cheshire, England, and had three sons by my father before they were divorced. At age four I was raised in England with my mother and new stepfather. I knew nothing about my LDS heritage as I grew up and never came into contact with any members of the church.

My mother was Catholic and my stepfather never mentioned religion but was a hard worker and was a good influence. If I asked him to do something that he thought I could do for myself he would say, “Use your own initiative”. We never went to church as a family but when I was very young I recall my mother telling me that there was “God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost”. She said I can pray to God the Father and ask for what I needed. I could understand asking for what I wanted, a young child knows how to do that. She then said that you have to have faith. I didn’t understand that, what’s faith? Fast forward to age twelve and I am having a difficult time at school such that I felt I could not talk to anybody. I lay quietly in bed, tears in my eyes, no-one to turn to. I remembered my mother’s words from years ago and so I prayed as best I could to “God the Father”. In my mind’s eye I pictured Him as a grandfather, a real person. I started the prayer something like this: “God, I don’t know if you exist but please help me…”. I don’t think that was very good faith but I did have my prayer answered.

I was attending a Catholic school at the time though I wasn’t a member of any church. When I was taught about the Trinity I had difficulty with the concept, it did not seem to align with my experience of praying to Father.

Macclesfield Chapel undergoing renovation in 1984

At age twenty I wanted to meet my father as I had not seen him since I was four. I didn’t know where in America he was living. I was visiting my home town of Macclesfield, where I noticed a church with a strange name—“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints”. It wasn’t an English church that I knew of so I thought perhaps it was American. I went in and talked to a woman who was cleaning the floor. I told her I was looking for my American father and she took my name and address and told me that someone would contact me. Soon after, I received a letter from the Bishop of the Macclesfield Ward telling me that perhaps I should write to the Genealogical Society in Salt Lake City. My mother remembered that my grandmother lived in Utah and that she went by the name of Martha Harrison, after her second husband. I wrote the letter, mentioning my father’s mother’s name.

My grandmother was active LDS, my grandfather RLDS. Grandmother worked for the church at Zion’s Printing in Independence, Missouri. When Zion’s moved to Utah in 1946, she came with her work. When my letter reached the office girl at the Genealogical Society, the girl knew my grandmother and called her. My grandmother wrote to me saying that my father was in England on a 14 week TDY with the Air Force. Richard Sr. wrote to me, and I immediately traveled south to meet him, unannounced. He had married twice more and his third wife, my stepmother, greeted me at the door. I talked with my father and he explained how he had kept out of my “new” family so as to not disrupt it but now things were different. We saw each other a lot until he returned to the United States.

Newcastle-under-Lyme Stake Center where I was baptized

I corresponded with my father and my grandmother. After some months, I asked my grandmother about the church I went into in Macclesfield. She responded by mailing to me two pamphlets: “Which Church is Right?” by Mark E. Peterson and “Joseph Smith’s Testimony”. I did not attend any church but thought there was something to the Bible or else why do so many people have an interest in it? However, I did remember in my childhood when all was despair I had prayed to God the Father and my prayers were answered. I also owned a Bible I had purchased and read portions of it. I especially liked the book of Proverbs and enjoyed many of the wise sayings. I was curious about the Ten Commandments and found them in Exodus and read them several times.

These two pamphlets were my first exposure to the Church. I was not interested in them but I felt obligated to at least glance through the pages because my grandmother had taken the time to send them to me. While lying in bed in January 1974, I read through them very quickly to fulfill my obligation. I put them down and decided to sleep. However, I could not sleep and picked up “Which Church is Right?” and read it cover to cover. I also read “Joseph Smith’s Testimony” in its entirety.

“Which Church Is Right?“ quoted Bible verses and was methodical and logical in its presentation. It was the first time that I’d thought of a church that way, though I didn’t have any real feeling about it. The prophet’s testimony was different. A paragraph that stood out was:

It caused me serious reflection then, and often has since, how very strange it was that an obscure boy, of a little over fourteen years of age, and one, too, who was doomed to the necessity of obtaining a scanty maintenance by his daily labor, should be thought a character of sufficient importance to attract the attention of the great ones of the most popular sects of the day, and in a manner to create in them a spirit of the most bitter persecution and reviling. But strange or not, so it was, and it was often the cause of great sorrow to myself. (Joseph Smith—History 23)

I thought it strange too, and identified with Joseph.

Another paragraph:

During the space of time which intervened between the time I had the vision and the year eighteen hundred and twenty-three—having been forbidden to join any of the religious sects of the day, and being of very tender years, and persecuted by those who ought to have been my friends and to have treated me kindly, and if they supposed me to be deluded to have endeavored in a proper and affectionate manner to have reclaimed me—I was left to all kinds of temptations; and, mingling with all kinds of society, I frequently fell into many foolish errors, and displayed the weakness of youth, and the foibles of human nature; which, I am sorry to say, led me into divers temptations, offensive in the sight of God. In making this confession, no one need suppose me guilty of any great or malignant sins. A disposition to commit such was never in my nature. But I was guilty of levity, and sometimes associated with jovial company, etc., not consistent with that character which ought to be maintained by one who was called of God as I had been. But this will not seem very strange to any one who recollects my youth, and is acquainted with my native cheery temperament. (Joseph Smith—History 28)

I was impressed that Joseph would admit to “foolish errors”. To me, someone telling a lie would not say this so openly.

I now know that being impressed by these two paragraphs was the Spirit acting upon me. After over thirty years the deep convincing that I felt is still with me.

Elder Vance Burton (left) and Elder David R. Wilson (right) at my baptism

I wrote to the Bishop of the Macclesfield Ward and asked him about the Church and that I wanted to know more. He replied to my letter, inviting me to travel to Macclesfield and meet with the missionaries. I did so, and recall one memory from our first meeting. I was being taught the first discussion and my mind wandered. When I was a child my mother used to say in a kindly way that “I was off wool gathering” when I didn’t pay attention. The missionaries asked me a question about what was being taught and from then on I was attentive. After the first discussion the missionaries told me that there were missionaries in Crewe and that I would be taught by them.

I was shown the Book of Mormon and started to read it, finished the rest of the discussions, was introduced to the Crewe Branch, and was baptized by Reginald Marshall Amos, a member of the Crewe Branch, at Newcastle-under-Lyme February 1974 a few days before age twenty-two. I didn’t finish reading the Book of Mormon before baptism. I didn’t need to. A witness of the truth of the prophet’s story meant that all else flowed easily. The Prophet saw Jesus Christ and the Father, therefore there is a God (Heavenly Father) and the Son. Joseph translated the Book of Mormon; therefore it is the word of God. Joseph organized a church; therefore it is the church I should be a member of.

Soon after baptism I fell ill and could not attend and then fell into inactivity. I was sickly for two years, being unemployed the whole time. I prayed that God would help me and if He did I would have the strength to return to Church. I received the help and I honored my commitment. To this day, even when I am in the midst of the most difficult struggles I attend my meetings so that I will never again fall away from being with the saints.

Crewe Chapel under construction in 1984

When I returned to church I now had to be taught about and learn the gospel. I had to be taught the doctrines that are the foundation on which to build faith and understanding. I had decided to align with truth. Truth wasn’t coming to make itself fit and conform to my view of the universe. I had to move to truth and change me. It is not an easy process and that process continues today.

Some things were easy though. The admonition to store food and water I agreed readily with. I thought it just common sense to have some reserves, especially as a youth sometimes money was tight and I felt the insecurity of my family living from paycheck to paycheck. Having someone in authority too was just plain common sense. Though I wouldn’t always obey priesthood authority, I would still acknowledge it. I would shape up eventually, usually “using my own initiative”.

When I was seventeen I had seen the suffering in Biafra on the news and felt that I wanted to do something to help. I didn’t know what to do. I recall resolving that some day I would do something. When I returned to church the realization came upon me that there was something I could do that was beyond anything that I had ever hoped I could do. I could be part of building a kingdom—the Kingdom. I set to work with all the zealousness of a convert—at times over zealous—in my pursuit of making the world a better place. A better place built upon the correct principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ as taught by the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Prophet today. A better place because of mothers that teach that there is a Father that answers prayers, even though in my case I only had a particle of faith. A better place because a grandmother knew when and what to send to a grandson she had yet to meet.

No-one need ever be alone, that is my faith.

She was a natural entrepreneur and inculcated in me a spirit of sacrifice, honesty and self sufficiency that is still with me to this day. She was also instrumental in exposing me to the Gospel, which in itself is all together a miracle. Cuba has a Roman Catholic religious tradition with very strong African religious rituals and practices. She rejected those traditions all her life. She discovered “her God” in the pages of an old battered bible left behind in the 19th century by a plantation owner. There she found Isaiah and the promise of the Temple to ALL people. There she found and understood the coming forth of Christ and the Atonement, the true nature of the Trinity and the absolute need for baptism. For more than 40 years in Cuba we have been enslaved by Communism and cut off from the world. We had no idea about the Restoration.

She spoke and read to me of “her God” as if she had a relationship with Him like none I knew. The same God gave her dreams about impending floods, hurricane and insect infestations that threatened our town. The same God showed her that “there are men on the earth that walk with God and He hears their prayers like onto Moses.” She was convinced that we were born in the wrong country but with faith one day I would find them.

I joined the Cuban army at age 17. I wandered the jungles of Central and South America, the Savannas in Central Africa and the barren deserts of Ethiopia as a military intelligence officer. I witnessed unimaginable brutality and carnage in the name of country and a doctrine based on repression and fear. Many of my friends died. But the hand of the God of my grandmother shielded me, protected me and comforted me through those years of nightmares and despair. I made my way to America in 1990 and my grandmother died in 1995 just two years before I found the church and the truth that I sought for so many years.
In 1988, while on a mission in the highlands of Honduras I was shot in the head by a sniper. What follow is a true account and my testimony of what transpired:
The next moment, as if in a dream, my head exploded, jerking my cervical spine upwards, in a counter clock motion. And then there was silence. Nothing but the dark, bottomless, and insipid silence that accompanied the fall of my body to the muddy ground two feet below. It seemed like two miles.

The report of the weapon fired across the gorge registered in my traumatized brain a full two seconds later. It sounded far, like a distant echo of thunder. I laid face down, my mouth quickly filling with the unsavory mix of my own blood and the clay and grass of the flooded valley floor. I laid there, my brain in shock and unable to process any of the higher motor functions.

I could hear my own breathing, fast, labored, insufficient with blood gurgling in my throat. After a few seconds, or minutes, the realization of my impending death sparked through my consciousness like lightning. I was dying. I lay there broken, unable to move for what seem like a lifetime. I sobbed quietly, helplessly.

I lost all sense of time as I waited for the sniper to return. Occasionally they do. They come close to “confirm the kill,” they come for a souvenir. After all, he’d been hunting me for a few days. He never came, fearful perhaps of being caught in the open and alone by a larger enemy group. If he felt safe, he’d have watched the fallen prey for half an hour or so, observing for signs of life. He was convinced I was dead and I believed it myself. Most people have never truly and intentionally considered what happens to human beings when they know that their lives are certainly about to be over—especially if there’s no prolonged illness or chronic condition. Popular media has attempted some romanticized interpretation of the pre-death experience. I haven’t seen a convincing one.

Fear. Overwhelming and undiluted terror seizes you. The realization that, conclusively, in just seconds you’ll stand face-to-face, eye-to-eye with the God of the universe is a frightening experience without equal. For me, the thought of being under the all-searching eye of God wasn’t appealing. Not on account of my life.

The fear and apprehension that gripped my entrails, the physical pain that accompanied that moment of despair had no parallel in my life’s existence. I had no words, no explanations, and no excuses. I wasn’t ready to die but I couldn’t escape what seemed the unavoidable outcome of my injuries.

I sobbed, quietly at first, the pain and fear intensifying every minute with the decrease of my physical strength due to the loss of blood. I cried bitterly like never before or since.

I thought of my grandmother. What would she have me say? What could I say to her God? Life, mine at least, seemed distant, disconnected, and almost like a dream. It occurred to me then that I’d wasted my life. For all my accomplishments, scholastic and military, the painful fact remained that nothing, absolutely nothing I’d done at that point was of any real relevance. There was nothing in my life that had been noteworthy. There was nothing that could transcend time and impact others. In fact, away from a few trinkets stored at home and a few black and white photographs in serious peril of extinction, there was no evidence of my existence.

I’d spent my life and time on the earth in a useless and futile struggle. I’d exhausted every opportunity and hour “in the endless game of nothingness,” like Grandma used to say.

I’d seen it before. A “political officer” went to the home of the fallen soldier early in the morning, then read or rehearsed a script about “patriotic duty, heroism, and invaluable service to the country” and so on. It was some meaningless rhetoric designed by someone who had no children, at least none that were in harm’s way, none that had died in a dark and lonely jungle.

“What do I do, Abuela?” I asked myself, my voice barely audible.

I knew what I needed to do. The “how” was the dilemma. Speaking to God has always been a serious, quite involved process. First, there was the issue of, what do you say to God that He already doesn’t know? For me, there was always a certain amount of trepidation in approaching the God of the whole creation.

“Son, we don’t deserve to be heard, but He does,” Grandma used to say. “Humility is the key. Be aware that we’re unworthy of His attention and His care but He offers it to us nonetheless.”

I remembered. Amidst my tears, my fear and sorrow, I remembered.

I spat the blood and mud from my mouth and twisted my body painfully, slowly to face heaven. I cried some more.

“God of my grandmother. I know You can hear for my grandma says You can hear even the creatures that creep in the grass. I’m about to die and maybe I deserve to die; only You know that. I won’t tell You of the things I’ve done wrong for You know them all, God. I pray to You today so that You may be merciful to me. I pray that You may forgive me of all my sins, that You may not look at them anymore, God.”

The wind and the rain abated for a few minutes. The treetops danced softly in the warm breeze as if unwilling to interrupt my prayer. Now and again I could see the stars in the sky in between the dark clouds that rushed across.

“God of my grandmother, I know about and I believe in You because I’ve seen the things that You have done for my grandma. Even if You won’t do anything for me, I believe in You and everything Grandma has taught me about You. She says You’re a God of miracles and I believe. I know that You sent Your Son Jesus Christ to be killed for our sins. I pray today, God, that You will forgive me because of Your Son, for then He also died for my sins. Yours is my spirit and You will be my God. I pray to You today that though I have nothing left and am about to die, the sound of my voice remains here on the earth even though my sprit leaves. But I say this before I die so that You know that I believed in You before I saw You in Heaven, God.

“Take me then, God, and don’t let me suffer any longer. Comfort my grandmother, God, for she is old and she loves me. Help her, God, that she may be able to bear my death and live until You take her to heaven that I may see her again. Forgive me, God. Forgive me, God.”

I wept again, now however, with a tingling in the pit of my stomach. I felt almost happy. I’d said my peace and acknowledged before God the insignificance of my existence. I felt complete. I was now willing to surrender to His will and die.

The rain returned but not the wind. It fell thin and soft, warm and quiet over the already saturated valley floor. I listened and lost myself in memories of distant laughter and children’s play. I remembered Grandma’s warm and aromatic kitchen, the rumor of the seashore, and the wind chime made out of seashells hanging in the patio window.

Inconsequential memories, perhaps, but those were the only meaningful things in my life, I realized. The long talks over the dinner table, the silent moments of quiet reflection while digging about in the small vegetable garden, those were my treasures. Absorbed into those and many other scattered memories, I slipped into unconsciousness.

“Not yet,” I heard inside my rattled brain with astonishing clarity. No cymbal, no trump, no earth-shattering tremor. The quiet and simple phrase startled and surprised me at the same time.

I was in shock due to the loss of blood and my rattled brain had but a spark or electrical impulse barely enough to keep my body alive. The magnitude of the event, the realization that I had been a witness and a recipient of a true miracle and how this event would transform my life would come days later.

I wiggled my soggy toes inside my boots and wiped the blood from my face. The pain on the side of my face was gone, replaced now by a strong pressure over my right eye. I touched my head and the tactile experience was horrific. I could feel the mangled mass of bone and tissue “loose” on the side of my face.

It has taken me many years to find the courage to share glimpses of the life story of my grandmother and an account of my search for truth, spiritual nourishment, and ultimately God. My life, both here and in my native land, has been fraught with struggles, disappointments, and bittersweet experiences. I’ve embraced this country as my own since in the land of my ancestors I have nothing but memories. Therefore, with immense gratitude I call this land my country.

As a keen and honest observer of the world around me, I can thus attest that our country has problems, some actual, some imagined. I’ve traveled beyond these borders and into other lands, thus I believe I speak with some authority on the issue. I can sincerely attest to the uniqueness and special character of this land. Failure to recognize how exceptional this country is, in my at times not-so-humble opinion, conveys an affront to God. This country, as some contend, may not be the best country in the world. But for those that will read these lines and as one that gives witness to this truth, I can sincerely declare that there is no better one.

The founding and development of this nation wasn’t an act of fortuity. It wasn’t luck or chance. The existence and emergence of this land was the result of careful planning and care on the side of the Lord. The coming forth of The Book of Mormon and the restoration of the gospel and all the miracles that accompanied those events had been foretold for millennia.

It’s my testimony that the earth and all that is in it is the Lord’s. We’re His offspring and thus equipped to attain, in time, a level of light, knowledge, and intelligence that will surpass in order of magnitude our current state. All knowledge belongs to Him and nothing is lost to Him. Although He had scattered the nations to and fro across the face of the earth and the oceans, He knows precisely where He has driven them.

I’m convinced that He pours a measure of His spirit of revelation to all those who seek Him with real intent and a pure heart. And it’s that revelation that constitutes the seed of His word and the desire to come to know Him, the Eternal Father. There are men and women all over the earth in distant lands and on the isles of the sea that cry His name and He hears them. It’s therefore our responsibility to seize on the wind of faith and go to on His errand to every corner of the world where His children call on His name for mercy and salvation. Such responsibility can’t be abdicated and in virtue of the abundant blessings that have been poured upon us in this land, we must obey.

I’m indeed grateful beyond measure that the Lord has led my steps unto this land—that I’ve found peace, the truth, and the knowledge that my grandmother desired for me. I’m grateful that the mercies of the Lord extend to those who have crossed the veil without the opportunity to receive the ordinances of salvation. The Lord has inspired His prophets to build many temples in the high places where we may worship and perform under His watchful eye inside His holy mountain.

It’s my witness that as before, the God of the universe has answered the prayer of the simple, the humble but faithful, and has spoken by the mouth of his prophets. I also testify that Joseph Smith was the one chosen to open the doors of the kingdom of heaven and allow the light and truth lost to memory to return. I have an unbending testimony of the restoration of the priesthood of God to the earth, and that such will be the foundation of His kingdom until Christ declares that the work is done. I express infinite gratitude to my Heavenly Father for allowing me to bear the priesthood in order to perform the ordinances of salvation here on the earth. I’m grateful for this endowment that allows me, for the first time in more than 2000 years, to restore to my ancestral line that which may have been lost to my kindred dead.

I’m thus willing to declare with humility but with full intent that I’ve placed my eternal salvation and that of my family on the fact that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is indeed the church of the Savior. I’ve received, in faith and on account of my own life being in mortal danger, a personal testimony that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Eternal Father, and that He lives. It is of Him whom we testify, it is Him of whom we speak and say Master, Savior, and Redeemer. I declare that Jesus Christ is the instrument of salvation for the dying world and I’ve pledged to dedicate my life to the work of spreading His gospel. He is the same that was crucified for the sins of mankind, past, present, and future, and none will be saved except one confesses faith and belief in Him. We worship Him because He lives and guides the affairs of the kingdom through His prophets, seers, and revelators, Gordon B. Hinckley being the keeper of the keys of the priesthood and of the gathering in this day.

I know that through Jesus Christ we’re partakers of the covenant of the patriarchs. That in one measure or other, the blood of Israel runs through our veins and the blessings promised to them is also our promise. Thus we must remain faithful to the covenants, old and new, in order to receive the everlasting blessings of the gathering onto Zion.

I’ve prayed that we may have the faith and strength to endure the trials that will surely come. I’ve prayed that we may not fear or heed to the rumors of war and the power of tyrants and those that oppress. I’ve prayed that we may be sharp tools in the hands of the Lord to carve His word in the hearts of those who are looking for His truth. There are millions of men and women pleading in the dark for the light of the gospel and to them we most go or account for our lack of diligence at the last day.

It is my testimony that if we are faithful and true to the stewardship that we’ve been given, we’ll be counted among those present under the bright morning light when the trump will sound from the edge of the universe announcing the coming of the Lord Almighty and the resurrection of those who crossed the veil professing faith in Christ.