At two a.m. my companion and I knocked on the mission nurse’s door. “You made it!”she said. She hugged us both as we stumbled in, lugging our baggage. Inside her apartment mattresses lined the floor, with suitcases squeezed in between: all thirty sister missionaries in our mission would be crammed inside this one apartment, the only sister apartment in Guayaquil. We had gathered here from Cuenca, Loja, Milagro, Naranjito, and Machala, to listen to President Hinckley speak the next day.
“Is everyone here?” I asked. “Did the missionaries from Loja make it?”
She shook her head. “President got a phone call from the ZL before they left, so we know they’re on the road. But they’re not here yet. The sisters from Machala made it, though, and Milagro.”
My companion and I, along with the rest of our zone, had traveled seven hours to reach Guayaquil. We’d left just in time to avoid the paro, the strike: every so often the indigenous Ecuadoreans became angry over issues I knew nothing about, and to protest, they burned tires and dug holes in the roads connecting Ecuador’s cities, making travel between them impossible. Our zone had fasted and prayed that we would be able to find a bus to take us out of Cuenca”“every bus leaving before the paro’s scheduled start was full. Finally our ZL was able to miraculously charter a bus by paying the driver triple what he usually charged, all so that we could hear President Hinckley speak.
My companion and I piled our stuff near the front of the apartment and stood in line for the bathroom, then tried to find a mattress and rest before we had to get ready for the missionary meeting. At eight o’clock, just before we needed to leave, the missionaries from Loja straggled in. They had been on the road all night long: their bus reached a hole, or a stack of burning tires, and they all piled out and helped the bus get past somehow, and then got back in until the next barricade. The ride from Loja to Guayaquil was normally ten to twelve hours; they’d been traveling for twenty-four.
As much as we missionaries sacrificed to hear the prophet that day, the saints in Ecuador sacrificed more. Most of the missionaries had funds in reserve, money to pay for the extra bus fare, to buy food once we were stranded in Guayaquil waiting the end of the paro. The members who came to hear the prophet struggled to get there, and then had to find some way to pay for their stay in Guayaquil until the paro settled down and buses started running again.
Do I remember what President Hinckley said that day? Yes. He made all of the missionaries raise our hands and promise to keep in touch with the people we taught and baptized. He preached about convert retention. To the members, he spoke on the scripture “All thy children shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace of thy children.”
More than what he said, though, I remember what I felt: I had struggled to be present at that meeting. For the first time in my life, I really worked to be able to hear the prophet’s voice. Instead of turning on the television or hopping on over to the Marriott Center, I fasted and prayed and paid money and rode in a smelly cramped bus, all so that I could hear President Hinckley talk.
I felt two opposing forces that day: one was the angry strength of the adversary, who, I am certain, inspired that paro so that it timed perfectly with the prophet’s visit. And I also felt the divine strength of a prophet of the Lord, who loved the people of Ecuador enough to fly thousands of miles and visit them.
It’s President Hinckley’s birthday tomorrow”“he will be 97! What is your favorite experience with him or with one of his talks? What kind of opposition have you encountered as you’ve tried to listen to and follow a prophet’s voice?
When I was in BYUSA (BYU’s student government), we had a special luncheon and an award honoring Sister Hinckley. President had a conflict so could no make it.
Or so we thought. Just moments prior to the announcement, he quickly shuffled in the door, dismissing any commotion over his presence with a wave and making it perfectly clear HE was not the focus, as he humorously announced, “Just here to watch my Mrs. win this well-deserved award!”
Great story and reminder of how much love we have for our Prophet and he has for us. I’ve not experienced anything so challenging as your or the Ecuadorian Saint’s journey to hear the prophet. But a simple experience during the first session of conference in April sticks with me. I was looking at the apostles, putting them in order and seeing if I could name them each when the First Presidency walked in. Everyone stood. I cried. To feel the presence of sweet President Hinckley, and the power that Heavenly Father has given to these wonderful men, overwhelmed me with testimony that he is a prophet. it was lovely
This story made me remember a story of my own, but not about President Hinkley. As a child, we lived in the very northern most reaches of the upper pennisula in Michigan. We weren’t even in a stake, rather part of the Chicago mission. President Kimball was going to be speaking at a regional conference in Chicago, and my parents piled all us children into our van and we drove for 20-something hours to get to Chicago in order to hear the prophet speak. It was the middle of winter, roads were awful, there was a tremendous blizzard for part of the way, but we made it. From our seats in some enormous arena, I couldn’t really even see the front podium without binoculars, but I remember when the prophet entered the room. It was a pretty amazing experience to feel him enter that room — that cavernous room — that suddenly felt as intimate as my living room.
Thanks for the reminder of that great day.
While visiting some friends in Utah with my boyfriend we visited the Prophet’s home ward. It was a joy to see him and be near him. I of course bought my boyfriend a special tie for the occasion and now each time I see my husband wear his Prophet tie, it takes me back to when the congregation stood as he entered the chapel.
Justine, I had a very similar experience when I was in college. Pres. Hinckley entered the Marriott Center and I was at the VERY top (literally no seats behind us, just a wall.) I was rumaging through my bag with my back turned towards the front and I felt this energy run through my body from head to toe and I knew that the prophet had entered the room waaaaaay down below. I turned around and there he was.
Thanks everyone for your comments! What great stories.
I have also experienced that hush that comes when the prophet enters the room. I don’t think you need to travel long distances or sacrifice a lot to know that President Hinckley is a prophet… but it makes for a memorable experience. But I think that testimonies of prophets can come through the television, internet, radio, you name it. We are blessed to be able to access the prophet’s voice anytime.
In the Summer of 2000 the President Hinckley presided over my Grandfather’s funeral. Very few of us were allowed to know due to security purposes. It was a wonderful moment to ask other cousins to open their program and look at who was presiding. Their eyes would get big and then well up with tears. It was an honor and tribute to my Grandfather’s life. The Prophet shared experiences of he and my grandfather while they served together as High Councilmen and Area Presidents–hilarious stories about men who had served years and years in so many capacities!