Chapter 30: The Real Story of the Gospel

Alma and his missionaries were gone a long time, and, as predicted, had very little success. Their few converts moved to Jershon and Alma seemed very tired when he returned with his sons. After meeting with Alma, Himni was distracted but said very little to Abish about it. He only said that Alma was taking some time to gather his sons to him and give them some counsel. Abish did not think this was so strange—hadn’t many prophets in the scriptures gathered their children for blessings and advice? Himni agreed saying, “You are right, it is not uncommon for a prophet to do so. But it is usually just before his death.” The thought sobered Abish immediately. Alma was not an old man, no more than a few years older than Ammon. It was true that Alma’s sons were grown up and Ammon’s were still young, but they were very nearly the same age. Himni added, “And he wishes to see you tomorrow.”

She clapped her hands outside the door to Alma’s small home. He called out for her to come in, and she stepped inside reverentially. She had never been there before. It seemed almost strange for a prophet to have a home. She had so often seen him preaching or traveling. His house was not unlike her own. Each simple thing had a place and there was nothing extra. Nothing unneeded. To the back of the house was a door covered with a cloth. He stood in this door and invited her back into the small space where he sat.

The room she entered then was entirely different. Furniture was sparse, but documents filled the room from floor to ceiling. There were two small stools and a tiny desk. Near the desk she could see thin sheets of metal the size and thickness of small sheet of parchment. There were also stacks of animal skins. Himni had told her of the hours Alma spent copying the sacred texts over and over again as well as making writings of his own. He and his brothers had spent much time doing the same, but she could never have imagined a room like this. She sat hard in the stool Alma offered her, still saying nothing, just marveling at the spiritual history in which she found herself immersed. Somewhere in these stacks were the original writings of Nephi and his brother Jacob. Undoubtedly there was the first copy of King Benjamin’s speech made in this very city just fifty years ago. Were there older writings too? She knew the plates of brass contained records written by Moses and Abraham. Were the plates of brass in this tiny, unprotected room? Himni had once said that few knew of this record so that it would be kept safe. She couldn’t imagine the loss to a nation if their record was erased.

Alma said nothing for several moments either, seeming pleased with her reaction. He cleared his throat, “Has Himni told you of the record I keep?”

Abish found her voice, “Yes . . . he has. . . somewhat. But I had no idea. . .”

“Few do. The record is safer that way. When I first learned of the records I imagined something that could be held in your hand. My reaction was like yours.”

“How is it moved?”

“Very carefully.” He smiled, always full of good-humor. His comment relaxed the moment and Abish smiled too. “But I did not ask you here to discuss the particulars of this record. I have asked you here because I would like to make your story a part of it.”

Her already wide eyes nearly popped from her head at his comment. “My story?”

“Yes, Abish. Your story.”

“I thought Omner kept a record of the mission to the Lamanites.”

“He did, a very good record. He talked about cities preached in and numbers of converts from the cities. He tells about the conversions of your two kings and the effect that had on the people. His record gives specific details about Lamoni’s covenant and its after-effects. When you put it together with the Ammon’s psalm, we have a very thorough and beautiful record.”

Abish knit her dark brows together, “So what more can I possibly add?”

Alma leaned forward, his intense gray eyes burrowing into hers. “Stories of kings being converted through miracles and signs and huge numbers of people following suit is very exciting. I am sure that for generations your people and my people will understand this short record as some of the most telling about the power of missionary work. That is why the record is very good. But it is missing something.”

“My story?” Her tone challenged the prophet to make her understand.

“You know my own redemptive journey had a very rocky start?” She nodded. “Indeed Himni or any of his brothers would have told you that part of our life. The visit from that angel was seen by many as a miracle. But to me, the real miracle is what took place in my soul in the days that followed. I know God can snatch a man from the very jaws of Hell and redeem him if he will but decide to follow. The real story of the gospel is not a record of how many thousand men uttered Lamoni’s covenant and buried their weapons; it is one man who loves God so much he would risk all he has in faith to never again disobey the commandments. Can you see what I say Abish?”

She nodded slowly, “I think so.”

“The mission of the sons of Mosiah is not just about a missionary with great charisma and a king with a way of influencing thousands, it is also about a slave girl who prayed in faith every night for years that God would somehow redeem her people so that the mission of her father might be fulfilled.”

She said quietly, “It is about one sincere heart being turned over to God and then remade slowly and painfully into his image.”

“Exactly!”

“Where should I start?”

“Begin with your father’s vision.”

The interview lasted through much of the afternoon. As she told details of her story, she realized just how much she had experienced. She thought of memories long buried. It felt good to share her trials of faith and overcoming with such a sympathetic listener. She wondered if judgment day would be like this. Instead of weighing your deeds on a balance, Christ would simply ask you to tell about your journey. If your journey showed that you learned from your mistakes instead of continually repeating them, your life would be acceptable to the Lord and his atonement would take care of all the mistakes you made while you were learning. It was a nice idea.

As they finished she felt a little sheepish as she saw the pages he scrawled through. “It is rather long; I am afraid you will not be able to include much.”

Alma shrugged. “It is a good story. And our record is sparse with the stories of women. It wasn’t this way in the ancient scriptures. I think your story can benefit many.”

“Do you really think that this record will be read for generations?”

“Actually, I think it will be read very little in our time, or even the time of our great grandchildren. God has revealed to me a little bit about the history of our people. I cannot share all that I know, but I will tell you the record will not survive like this.” He gestured around the room. “It will continue to be passed through prophet to prophet until there are no more righteous Nephites to give these sacred things to. At that time, the record will be abridged, to keep the most essential parts. The abridgement will resurface many, many generations from now in a land far distant. It is that people who will then learn of us and our struggles.”

She was silent for a moment as she thought of what terrible thing could happen for there to be no more righteous Nephites. For a moment, she caught the vaguest glimpse of the end of a great nation—a nation she had adopted as her own and its blood that now flowed in the veins of her children. She then thought of the best way to formulate her question. She could see that he was waiting patiently for it, so she decided to go ahead, “Does it get discouraging sometimes—keeping such a faithful and careful record when you know that much will be taken out?”

Alma shrugged, “Yes. It does. I would not be human if I said otherwise. But I have also been blessed to see much of how this story ends and I know that the record is the most important thing I can do. The preservation, of even a portion of it, is vital. If the world is to be prepared for a time when Christ will come to reign personally over the earth, then the world must have this record.”

“With my story in it.” She said very quietly and with no small measure of awe.

“Yes, sister, with your story in it.” It was Alma who hesitated this time, but Abish knew that he wasn’t finished, so she waited. “I feel impressed to tell you that your story is not at an end. There will yet be many experiences to try your faith. These few years have been a season of joy, and a time of rest for the faithful. Even now the Lamanite hatred builds toward our blessedness and the resentment will again boil over. In the meantime, the Nephite army is preparing and watching. We will not be caught unawares, but the mourning of our women during the last Lamanite war is nothing compared to the wails that will rise to the heavens in the coming years. I do not know the outcome, but I know the Ammonites will play a critical role in that result. Carry these experiences in your heart so that you are strong enough to face the darkness that will most surely come.”

Abish’s eyes teared and she nodded. A dark pall was suddenly cast over the afternoon, and she was unsure if she was thankful for the warning or not. With the mood still over them, he stood and showed her to the front door. She turned very suddenly, realizing that for years she had hoped to find a private opportunity to tell the prophet something, but had never found the chance. In that moment it became very urgent that she not leave it unsaid, “I never thanked you for calling my spirit back to my body.”

“When Armac was born.”

She nodded, “I was dead, you know. I was headed far from this life without a backward thought. I then heard your voice, calling me back. Himni later told me you happened to be in town that terrible day and came to see how we were, only to find a mourning husband, a wailing baby and a dead wife. But even before he told me that it was your voice in the blessing, I knew.”

“Himni did not ask for a miracle that day. He only asked that I give him and the newborn a blessing of comfort. But the Lord told me otherwise.”

“He told me otherwise too when I tried to ignore the prophet and go to Him.”

“What was it like?”

“Heaven?” Alma nodded and Abish was silent for a moment. Trying, as she allowed herself to do very occasionally, to capture any memory from those few brief moments in the presence of the Savior. She shook her head after a moment. “When my father told me of the gospel, I was so happy that it took me some time to give a word to how I felt.”

“Peace.”

“Yes. That is the very word I found. Being in the presence of God was the same feeling, only greater, more intense. I think those spiritual experiences we have here are just tastes of the feast waiting for us. Even after I came back to my body, I didn’t fully come back for a long time. Himni had to remind me that my mission was unfinished here before I could accept the will of the Lord. I so wanted to go with him that day.” Her voice cracked slightly.

“I can understand that.”

Abish looked at him closely as he said these simple words. He did not appear to be sick or have lost any of the vigor he possessed when she first met him, but she said, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

Alma smiled gently and shook his head, “I don’t think so. May you be likewise blessed at the end of your mortal probation to see so clearly when it is time to tie up loose ends and make your final preparation.”

She leaned up and kissed both his cheeks after the manner of Lamanite women, “Then go with God, dear prophet. May he take you to his bosom where you will rest in the peace he has promised to the righteous.”

“And one day I will see you there too.”


She turned without a goodbye and left his house. The bright sunlight on the street was garish and almost cold after the gentle warmth of Alma’s house. She murmured a few greetings to neighbors and acquaintances as she made her way through the crowds back to her own home. As she pulled back the heavy rug into her home, she saw Himni cheering the baby as he took some eager steps forward. At the same time, her little daughter was preparing some lumpy corn cakes. Armac was sitting at the small writing desk practicing his uneven characters while his father congratulated him for his excellent work. The spirit leaped in her heart and she felt a measure of that joyful peace she had just spoken to Alma about. The baby saw her first and he toddled rapidly toward her babbling with joy, his arms outstretched.

She picked up her little son, buried her head in his neck and kissed him while he giggled. She would have her season of joy now, and she would look for joyful moments later. She would prepare her family so one day they would be part of that wonderful mass of Saints pushing toward the light that was the Lord over the Earth. A single redeemed soul could indeed affect the lives of untold generations, and she would work every day of her life to praise the Lord for His wisdom for once sending a remarkable vision to a man whose only convert would be his daughter.