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.