Day 39: Riding back from Argentina’s Sea World

The background noise was a blend of English, Spanish, and bus suspension. In my hands was a Book of Mormon — the same one my dad would lament losing only months later.

I was in it.

In Lamanites, voices from the dust, and latter-day gatherings. Prophecies that a book, this book, would go forth, its words ringing in the ears of a fallen people, calling them back — to Israel’s house and Christ’s fold.

In dirt-packed streets and the homes of people brown as Lamanites, this book in my hands. My agency and my role in a plan one and the same. My donning white shirt and tie, my speaking this language not my own — these things I’d chosen but somehow they’d known.

A tapestry weaved from the beginning.

And there, on that bus, an ancient prophet and I, pulling, tugging on the same thread, staring each other in the eye.

(This is Day 39 of a 100-day project. For more about When I Was Mormon, read the introductory post. To access older posts, visit the archive.)