I had dreamed of serving a mission my whole life. When I opened my call to the Colombia Medellín Mission, I felt like the Lord had handpicked that place just for me. My journey began in the MTC in Lima, Peru, and after arriving in Colombia, I gave everything I had to the Lord. Every lesson, every street contact, every prayer—I did it all with full purpose of heart.
But something was wrong.
At first, I thought it was just exhaustion. I pushed through the fatigue, the weakness, and the pain. I told myself: “This is normal. I’m just tired.” But then things got worse. Much worse.
I couldn’t breathe properly. I lost weight rapidly. Pain consumed my body day and night. I could barely sleep or walk. Still, I refused to slow down. I believed someone out there needed to feel God’s love—and I couldn’t rest until they did.
Eventually, my body collapsed.
I was in Pereira when my mission president sent me urgently to Medellín. The trip was supposed to be five hours. It took nineteen. There were roadblocks. No AC. No restroom. Just plastic seats and agony. I remember almost nothing from that ride, except the feeling that I might not survive it.
When I arrived in Medellín, they rushed me to Clínica Las Vegas.
The diagnosis: type 1 diabetes. I had lost 14 kilograms in a week. My blood was full of acid. The doctors told me I was hours away from a diabetic coma or a heart attack. That night, I was kept alive by my body sending electric shocks to my heart. Every hour I woke up gasping. Every hour, I lived by a miracle.
I thought my mission was over. I felt broken, useless, and defeated.
But God had one more soul for me to reach.
In the hospital bed next to mine was a girl named Daniela. She had tried to take her own life. And in my weakest, most vulnerable state, God gave me the strength to speak. I shared my testimony. I gave her a Book of Mormon. I told her that even in this broken body, I knew God loved me—and that He loved her too.
For days, I taught her and her sister. I bore witness of Jesus Christ through IVs and monitors. Before she was discharged, she hugged me, crying, and promised she wouldn’t give up again.
It was the last time I taught the gospel with a missionary badge on my chest.
After leaving the hospital, I spent time recovering at my mission president’s home. Then I returned to Argentina. Learning to live with diabetes has not been easy. But my testimony has never been stronger.
And my mission isn’t over.
After months of adjusting, I was reassigned to the Argentina Buenos Aires South Mission. I am back—stronger, more determined, and filled with a deeper love for the Savior who walked beside me in the valley of death.
I’m Elder Gabriel Hernán Ose. And I will finish what I started.