My own.

I have a testimony of my Savior, of my Heavenly Father, and of the truthfulness of this gospel. Not my mom or dad’s testimony, not my leaders’ testimony, but my own. A testimony developed from experience. Heartbreak, trials, joy, and love, they’ve all shaped my testimony, shaped my faith in Christ. A testimony grown strong from loss, from sadness, a testimony strengthened by pleading with my Savior for strength. Mental, physical, spiritual strength. A testimony that blossomed within my soul as these earnest, contrite prayers yielded answers, comfort, and relief. My testimony is my own. Sometimes it’s sufficient, sometimes I find weak spots and opportunities to improve. It’s a knowledge that my Savior, Jesus Christ, lives within me. Most times, my testimony is quiet, unlike ninety-nine percent of the other things in my life. My testimony is one filled with love for my fellow children of God, love for this specifically crafted world that I lived in, love for the family unit and the joy brought forth through that bond. I have a testimony, which just means that I know. Not with my mind, but with my heart and very soul. I know that my Heavenly Mother and Father sent their son, Jesus Christ to atone for my sins so that one day I may return to live in their glory. I know that I have been prepared to serve a mission through the trials I have been given in my life. I know that Heavenly Father has taught me valuable lessons and helped me to develop understanding so that I may be an effective missionary. That I may relate to people, love them like their Savior does. I have a testimony, it’s not learned, it’s not copied, it’s mine. And it may not be eloquent or refined, but it is the most sacred possession I have and I am more than willing to give 18 months of my life so that others may one day also feel the joy of spirit.

Here are some pictures of my cute roommate & I during our Sunday walk to the Provo temple.