Your Message to the World

My Story to the World

The blessing that told me I would one day share my message — and the little class in New Zealand where it finally began.

Many years ago — probably around 1998 — I was at BYU. Well, not exactly. I was living near BYU. It was my second attempt to finish my degree, and I was almost a senior. But because of my strange, on-again, off-again health issues, I had to dis-enroll myself AGAIN.

I remember spending several weeks confined to my bed that stretch. It was discouraging that I didn't even have the strength to hold up a book. I refused to waste my life away in front of the TV, so when I had enough strength, I would read.

When it was time to eat, I would crawl, walk slowly, or scoot down the stairs on my behind to make it to the kitchen. I'd fix something quick, crawl back up the stairs, and then suffer for the next several hours while the food made its way through my intestines. I had been sick for SO long.

My roommates at the time were absolutely amazing. Not once did I feel judged by any of them. They were always trying to cheer me up — with jokes, with laughter, and sometimes they'd even come read to me. One day my roommate Audrey walked into my room carrying a pile of children's books. "What are you doing?" I scolded her. "I'm reading YOU some stories," she said. She set the pile on the floor, sat down beside it, and began reading to me as though I were the child and she were the mother. It was a little silly. But that loving act of charity brought tears to my eyes, and I cried as I listened. It had been SO VERY long since I'd been well.

Looking back — even now, as I try to recreate it for you — it feels like I was living in a dream. I was there, but I wasn't really there. I was sick, but I wasn't fully experiencing it. I was being led. I was being sustained. It almost feels like it didn't really happen. It seems like such a short season when I remember it, and yet it was several years of health struggles.

The blessing

While I was living in that condo just east of Liberty Square, my friends would occasionally head off on group activities. One of them was especially hard for me. The group was going hiking and rappelling down in Moab — several hours away, gone a couple of days. I wanted to go so badly. My heart ached that I didn't have the strength to walk, let alone hike.

Out of concern for me, my bishop at the time (I'm sorry to say I can't recall his name) came over to the apartment to give me a priesthood blessing.

For those of you who aren't members of my faith, let me explain. We believe the priesthood — the authority to act in God's name — was restored to the earth and has been passed from one worthy man to the next down to the leaders of the Church today. A bishop is a man called to serve over a congregation we call a "ward." Because BYU is a church school, a single block of apartment buildings like Liberty Square might contain three different wards. The bishop's job is to watch over the members of his ward and look after them. He sacrifices a great deal of his time, and he isn't paid for any of it.

So the bishop came to give me a blessing. A blessing is offered by placing both hands on the person's head; the one giving it prays and listens for the guidance of the Holy Spirit — the message God the Father wants to give to His child. I remember being very apathetic that day. I wanted to be well, but it had been so long. The prayer I whispered in my own heart, just before he began, was simply: "Please, God — help me begin to have the DESIRE to be well." That was all I could reach for. I closed my eyes and listened as my bishop cared for one of his flock.

I don't remember everything he said. But I remember two things clearly:

1) He told me to study the Word of Wisdom.

2) He told me that the things I learned, I would one day share as my message to the world.

The things I learned... I would one day share... to the world.

You'd think I would have been thrilled, right? Wrong. I was irritated and apathetic. I reluctantly shook the bishop's hand, hardly able to look him in the eye, and politely thanked him. My heart was swelling with pain and my eyes were nearly filling with tears as my friends filed out for their trip, the bishop went with them, and the door closed.

My life felt worthless and empty. I slowly crawled back up the stairs. I didn't even want music — I just wanted stillness. "Study the Word of Wisdom," I thought. "Yeah, right." I don't smoke. I don't drink. I don't drink tea or coffee. What more was there? (Oh, how little I understood then of what I understand now.)

"And all saints who remember to keep and do these sayings … shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones; and shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures; and shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint." — Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–20

Without movement, without sound, without much light in the room, I was left alone with the pain. My intestinal lining was beginning to shed — it came away in what looked like long strips of chicken skin. My mom had told me about a relative of mine (who I now know has celiac disease) who'd had most of her intestines removed. Was I headed down the same road? I hadn't yet gone gluten-free. I didn't yet know that the answer had already been placed in my hands.

New Zealand

Now fast-forward with me to just a couple of weeks ago. I sat in a small room with a group of Maori women in New Zealand. I had originally traveled there with the intent of sharing essential oils — and yet here I was, teaching a class on "The Nourishing Traditions of the Maori," weaving my own story right into it.

Before class, I was introduced to a woman named Rosita. It sounds like a Hispanic name, but she was Maori. She and the woman who had invited me were laughing together, and intuitively I knew it had something to do with me. Because I knew the host well, I asked what was so funny. Rosita, still laughing — almost to tears — said, "We just think it's absolutely hilarious that a white girl is coming to teach us Maori about our culture." They joked back and forth while I watched in amusement. And it is funny, when you think about it — and I know how proud the Maori are of their heritage.

When the laughter finally settled, I answered them. "Think of it," I said, "as my coming to tell you thank you." That got their attention. I explained the health struggles I'd walked through — and how learning about traditional Maori life, especially from the early 1900s, had helped me turn my own health around. That was all they needed to hear. The laughing stopped, and the curiosity and learning began.

At the end of class, one of the women said, "We need to share your story with everyone." They wished they'd had more time to gather a bigger group. I smiled inside at that. The Maori reminded me that two months' notice simply isn't enough — next time I'll need to give everyone six to twelve months. :)

When I closed the presentation, the woman who had introduced me gave me a wink and a slight nod. I could see the pride in her eyes. I felt like a child standing before a room of grown-ups, giving her first oral report. I'm such a baby when it comes to being an "international speaker."

I thanked my dear little audience, kissed my hand, and gestured it toward them. They returned the gesture of appreciation. The room felt full of light. It's hard to describe, but I knew it was the tiny beginning of something wonderful.

We had a bit of a Q&A before we left, and it felt so good. I was beginning "My Story to the World" in the very place Dr. Weston Price — traveling and studying traditional peoples in the 1930s — documented as one of the healthiest he had ever seen. He wrote of the Maori's strong teeth and sturdy bodies on their traditional diet, and of how quickly that vitality faded once modern, processed foods arrived. Reading his work years earlier had helped me understand what my own body had been asking for all along.

The Maori were once so strong and so beautiful. Much of that has faded now. But perhaps — just maybe — my story can help slow that decline. And maybe one day the Maori will walk again in the fullness they once knew: whole in body, mind, and spirit.

I pray that one day a chief in New Zealand will call out to his people and dance the way his fathers danced anciently. I pray that his people will follow that movement, that song, that dance, and begin their days the way they once did, so very long ago.

And I pray that I can begin my days the same way they did — with health, with vitality, and with joy.

With much love,

Steffanie

A gentle note: the symptoms I describe here were, for me, part of undiagnosed celiac disease. If any of this sounds like your own body, please don't try to sort it out alone — celiac truly needs a proper diagnosis (and testing must be done before going gluten-free to be accurate). What I share on Celiac Shack is my own testimony and experience; it isn't medical advice, and it hasn't been evaluated by the FDA. It's meant to walk alongside good medical care, never in place of it.