Ep 5. Elder Kearon's Conversion

Hello! And welcome to the Faith Promoting Stories Podcast. I’m your host, Caden Beardall. Let’s dive right in.

Introduction

Story 13 - Elder Kearon’s Conversion

In 1987, Patrick Kearon was meandering a street in London when two sister missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints approached him.

He described these missionaries as “shining beacons”, an apt descriptor for against the typical London doldrums, with countenances as memorable as their message.

Despite their remarkable demeanor, Elder Kearon told them, “I admire you greatly, but don’t try to convert me.”

That skepticism would prove to be staple, as what then ensued was a six-month spiritual stalemate.

As missionaries came and went, Elder Kearon began to collect “feelings he could not explain”, but his skepticism, often bordering on cynicism, remained fixed. 

Much like his environment, his perspective was foggy, but an undeniable light was emerging.

After 15 rejected baptism invitations, a sister missionary was through with his complacency. She told him that he wasn’t moving forward, to which he agreed.

Then, after a half-year of a stoic heart softening, the time for its breaking had come.

This missionary invited Elder Kearon to receive a priesthood blessing. He consented, and a senior missionary obliged.

On that gloomy London day, the clouds were parted in the heart of Elder Kearon, and a glorious, radiant, irresistible light filled him.

He was baptized on Christmas Eve, a fitting homage, as a man welcomed the babe of Bethlehem into his life.

An overcast day can be comforting, its monotony blurring time with muffled sunshine.

Eventually, the clouds break, and new light reveals a gorgeous planet, more vibrant, verdant, and vivacious than a monochrome world could provide.

And that life is afforded only by the Son.

Story 14 - Because She Is A Mother

Two soldiers watched as a mother tightly held to a small loaf bread, her two children patiently waiting at her feet.

As the mother’s hands quivered with effort, her wiry frame shook violently. The bread slowly came apart.

Then, with gentle poise, she handed the entirety of the loaf to her children. Her hands empty, she smiled, evidently being filled enough by the sight.

One soldier turned to the other, remarking that she must not be hungry.

The other soldier, who was a bit wiser, shook his head and somberly said, “No, because she is a mother.”

Though the scene I’ve described is certainly poignant, it’s hardly remarkable.

In the history of the human family, the brunt of its courage and sacrifice and goodness has been upheld, rather handily, by mothers.

Too often unsung, motherhood is some of the most selfless, arduous labor given to mortals, requiring countless sleepless nights, fatigue, and no breaks, except, occasionally, heartbreak.

And yet, when its sanctity is considered, only one other equivalent comes to mind.

Only two kinds of people have their body torn that others may live.

Only two kinds of people have concerted their existence to giving and giving and giving, never stopping even when the grave finally calls.

Only two kinds of people would bear such a great love that they would do anything for those serve.

Those two kinds of people are those of the Messianic and maternal variety.

If there was ever a prototype of Jesus to be had under heaven, it’s to be found in the livings rooms and next to the cradles and on the other side of the phone precisely where mother lays.

Where sincere motherhood is found, therein the Spirit of Christ can be observed, both in pattern and in feeling.

As a recipient of both maternal and Messianic love, I can attest that both are transformative, eternal, and perfect.

To my own mother, my wife Jess and Jesus, I thank you for making me and saving me.

Story 15 - Story of the Garden

Once, a God knelt in a Garden,

and He felt the thrill of holding a child you had prayed decades for,

and the explosion in your chest when you realized that the crib was still, and the child motionless.

He felt the comfort of watching your mother cook over a small, wooden stove,

and then the horror of watching her being carried off by a group of deranged men.

He felt the pride you felt for your daughter as she was deployed to defend a country you loved,

and then your knees drop at the slow cadence of the officer informing you that she had paid the ultimate price.

He felt the exhilaration of your favorite passenger telling you she loved you for the first time, 

and then the sinking of your stomach as the vehicle veered into oncoming traffic.

He felt the jubilation you experienced while raising the 4th grade spelling bee trophy high overhead to an uproarious crowd,

and then the solitude of returning to an empty home feeling totally, completely alone.

He felt the delight of listening to the jovial ambience of an extended family gathering just outside your door,

and then the desperate desire to be free of your perennial bedrest.

He felt the fire of courage as you spoke words of liberty to the oppressed,

and searing rancor as they made your brother a public example.

He felt the warmth of your husband’s embrace that made you feel so safe,

and then the terror when he confessed that they he had been unfaithful.

He felt tranquility of a cool river tracing the outline of your feet,

and then the sting of a needle signifying another course of chemotherapy.

He felt the relief of brittle bread filling your long-empty stomach,

and then the nails piercing your hands and feet as they raise the rumored Messiah to your left.

He felt the ecstasy of rising above the tumultuous waves,

and then the crushing horror when the cock crowed for the third time.

He felt what it was like to be mocked, berated, disregarded, betrayed and destroyed.

When you felt everything, He was there.

When you felt nothing, He was there.

And with every ounce of blood spilt, you were remembered.