By Gideon, Witness of Deliverance and Devoted Brother in Christ
There are some sights a man never forgets.
The face of a prophet in flames, unflinching in truth. The glint of steel raised in defense of the innocent. The burdened march of a people escaping bondage under the cover of night.
But few sights have filled my soul like this one: The waters of Mormon, reborn in the city of Zarahemla.
After all the wars and wanderings, after watching our people stumble through sin, sorrow, and subjugation, I stood among them again—but this time, not as their captain or deliverer, but as their fellow disciple.
Alma. That same Alma who once stood in King Noah’s court, secretly believing the words of Abinadi—he who fled to the wilderness to preach repentance, he who baptized in hidden covenants—now stood openly in the judgment seat and in the pulpit.
He had organized the church. Not by title or pride, but by the Spirit. Priests and teachers labored with humility. The people began to fast, to pray, to care for the poor, and to teach their children the name of Christ. And I wept. For I had seen what wickedness could do to a people. Now I beheld what righteousness could build.
No more guards at the gates. No more Lamanite tribute. No more drunken kings or secret chambers of sin.
Just saints—imperfect, yes, but striving. Gathering. Growing.
I helped them when I could—teaching, counseling, lifting. But mostly I watched. I marveled. I gave thanks that in my lifetime, I had seen ruin turned to restoration. The word of God had not perished in our land. It had taken root. And I, Gideon, now aged and scarred, had lived to walk among the faithful.
It is one thing to fight for a people’s freedom. It is another to see them choose it.
