Alma closed the door to the room with all caution since his wife was sleeping already. The labor of the day had kept him up for too long. Again. By the light of a tiny candle, he walked towards the bed. He did not dare sit down, for he felt his strength fading already. The weight he felt on his shoulders pressed him to his knees. Calluses had built there, witnessing to the many hours of wrestling in prayer. This night seemed to be one of those again.
Alma tried to pronounce the fighting feelings in his mind and heart, but no tongue was able to give them words. He thought of his calling, the apostasy of the church, his fading health, and foremost his family – his beloved son.
When he finally managed to focus on this major wound in his soul, the agony seemed to press against him from all sides, trapping him in a prison. “Father, who art in heaven,” he whispered, soundless. “I know I should not feel hopeless. I know that thou lovest all mankind. I know that thou hast a plan for my son also. I just …” He paused, unable to piece the feelings of despair in syllables. “I just – can’t – see – it.” Alma’s voice was like dry wind blowing through a hollow tree.
Again his mind was cast to the crimes his son had committed. He saw Alma, a face like unto his own over 30 years ago, standing tall and strong in his youth. A man with ambitions, talents and influence. A man with a vision. He saw him destroying the church.
The pictures in front of Alma’s eyes started to blur with tears and memories of his own youth. He had been there. A man with aims, following the drives of his God, Mammon, and the desires of his weak, now decaying flesh.
“Why, God? Why must my son fall into the same trap?” Words unspoken, rooted deep in the foundations of his soul burst from his aged lips. “And I have no way of saving him!”
The candle had burned to the metal.
Alma pondered, once more,the way he had been delivered. There was no praise to himself. He had been bound firmly with the chains of hell and there was only one power in position to break those bonds. Without the words of the prophet Abinadi, cutting like a sword through the deceptions in his mind, he would still be a puppet of the evil King Noah.
“God, thou hast delivered me. I can’t deliver my son. I have raised him to be a man of integrity. I have corrected him when he would leave the path of righteousness. As the years went on and he wandered farther, I stood up for truth in all love I was able to muster.
“Father, I have come to the end of all my influence. My son has left thy path. He no longer walks towards thy kingdom. I have given him as much of an example as I was able to. I can go no further.
“Is this the punishment for the sins of my youth?” He knew how foolish this thought was, but he couldn’t contain his pain. As he had learned ever since his own conversion, he tried to use this pain to come closer to the Savior. “If it be possible, Father, pour his sins upon my head.”
Alma also knew this to be impossible and unnecessary. Christ had suffered all. Accepting that his son had slipped from beneath his stewardship was his last trial.
“Father, with all the faculty of faith in mind and spirit and all strength still remaining in my dying body, I plead with thee, bring my son Alma to the knowledge of the truth!”
Alma felt tears drop from off his chin onto his folded hands, filling the wrinkles of skin marked by years of labor. “Father, if there is anything else I can do, I beg thee, tell me!”
Then he waited. Unable to sleep and unable to further wrestle with the Lord, he simply waited.
It was in that moment when the candle went out. The room fell in darkness. Alma could see the thin line of smoke fill the room with the characteristic scent.
The last spark faded. There was no answer, no feeling, no light. Nothing.
Alma closed his eyes, waiting. Going through sour repentance himself, fleeing from the wrath of a king, being persecuted for his faith – all those trials he had survived. God had found one superior to them. His wayward son was a pain more severe than any of them.
One thing Alma had learned through all these afflictions: God’s timetable was a different from his. So he waited, unable to sleep, unable to get out of the kneeling position, unable to stop pleading for his son. Patience was the last thing he was able to give. Suddenly he saw God. There he stood, the Father of all. A strong, tall man. A face full of love and compassion. Alma saw God – and then himself. Two fathers pleading for a son.
The moment he understood, a peace flooded into him like water from a broken dam. God was in the same position as he was. He was pleading for Alma, the son, too. He knew every step of this young man, observed every sin, saw every thought. And He, the Greatest of all, was powerless as well in face of his son’s agency.
God loved His son so much, he would accept him going down to hell. He should respect his son’s freedom in same manner.
As this light began to fill Alma from within, illuminating all the spiritual world around, silent words flowed with them. Love him, Alma. Love him unconditionally.
Alma understood. It was all he could do. Changing others had never been his duty. The spirit working through his testimony had always been the soul-grinding tool for change. Change in himself and the ones he had taught. Peace radiated from a place deep within Alma’s chest.
Words from heaven fell. Your son is in my hands. Stand still and see my work unfurl.