CROSSING THE RIVER

In the last two weeks, six people whom I love have died.  I write this not for sympathy, but just for perspective.  I know that at my age I should begin to expect death to visit my circle, but the cumulative effect of six deaths in so short a time has made me much more distracted from my duties than I wanted to be.

Let me say here that I do not despair for those who died.  I have a strong conviction that we are eternal beings, that death is the crossing of a river into a new life in a better place.  And I am convinced that one day I will see these friends again, and we will experience a joy that I cannot yet express.  But that doesn’t mean it’s easy when you’re the one left behind, and my heart breaks for the families of my dead friends.  

Three of these recent deaths were not totally unexpected; these friends had been battling diseases, one for years, the others for only a short time, but in those cases death was acceptable, since it was seen as a relief from the pain that a terminal illness brings, and release from suffering.  In fact, one friend’s last few months were absolutely inspirational:  he purchased for a smaller home for his wife, one she could keep up without him, he got her a new puppy, since they were both dog lovers, he spent Christmas with all of his children and grandchildren, spending time with each one individually, and he expended what energy he had in service to others – helping a friend paint his shutters, or doing some home repairs for another friend.   He truly set his house in order before he left.

The other three deaths have been shocking, mostly because those who died were relatively young – anywhere from 27 to 53.  Two of these deaths have been here in Tonga – a young father collapsed in his front yard, and died en route to the hospital, and the brother of one of our teachers lost his battle with an infection at the hospital.  I attended both funerals, and found comfort in the feelings communicated there, both in word and music.  And as the days go by, I try to find little moments to succor the family members, when they will allow me to do so.  These Tongans are saints in every sense of the word – they bear tragedy with such dignity and faith that I feel selfish expressing my next point.

The hardest part about being so far away from my other friends is that I can’t be there to throw my arms around them.  I am sad because at this distance, I am really of no help.  I can’t be there to walk into a kitchen and just do the dishes.  I can’t be there to take the kids for an afternoon.  I can’t be there to bring them a warm loaf of bread and a shoulder to cry on.  I can’t be there to spend time telling “remember when” stories.  I can’t be there to share a moment with them, to lend them what strength I may have, to offer my love through my actions.  When I came to serve this mission, I thought I knew what sacrifices I would be making.  Surprise.  Now the sacrifice comes in not being able to serve those I’d want to serve in their time of need.

But since I am here serving, I will ask the Lord to give my blessings to those I can’t reach right now.  So Mele, Ana Tema, Sally, Mel, Jody, Robert, please know that you will get the blessings you need to help you adjust to the holes in your hearts.  The holes will not heal in this life, but I am familiar enough with death to say that you get used to the holes being there.  

I know from my own experience that prayer – heartfelt, fervent prayer – is effective.  So I assure you that you are all in my prayers.   I am absolutely sure that we will met Tevita, Simi, Harold, Jim, Richard and Kathleen again; I know with every fiber of my being that we continue on after this life, that our Father in Heaven will bring us home again.  My prayers will be that all of us who lose loved ones will have the patience, the endurance, the acceptance, and the determination to live the rest of our lives so that we are worthy to greet our family members when we finally cross that grand river.

LEARNING IN ADVERSITY

Imagine yourself for a moment as an 18-year old boy, named Pahulu.  You have experienced debilitating pain in every step for months, yet the doctors have no idea what is causing the pain.  You have managed to get a pair of crutches, even though they are few and far between in this country.  That helps you get around the house, but you don’t have the endurance for much more than that.

Oh, and you’re not living with your own family.  Your parents have thrown you out of your family home, because you joined the Mormon Church.  You have been taken in by Lopeti and Luseane, a generous young couple who have no children of their own, but who share their home with you and six other young adult men whose circumstances are not so different from your own.  You get wonderful love and support from everyone around your, yet your heart longs for your own family.

You long for them, but your own family feels only animosity towards you.  When Lopeti informs your parents of your undiagnosed, painful condition, their reaction is to go to the family cemetery and dig your grave.  Then when you do not die in a short time, the family turns to prayer – praying that you will suffer greatly, because of your choice of religion.  Lopeti chides your parents:  “Where is your faith?  Why do you not hope for your son to be healed?”  Your parents have no answer.  But you hang on to Lopeti’s promise to your parents: “I will stand by him and support him with all my heart no matter what happens.”

This house is typical of most Tongan homes. 

Lopeti and Luseane both work long hours for meager pay, and you try to be as independent as you can, though you know you take a lot of their time.  You watch the other young men in Lopeti’s and Luseane’s home.  Joseph rises before dawn each morning to cook food to sell, so he can finance a full-time mission for the Church.  The others, David, Jeffry, Liva, Maikolo and Ensini, do what they can to bring in some money to help defray the cost of their meals.  Lopeti and Luseane do not expect rent; this home is for all nine people, as long as it is needed.  Lopeti says, “It’s hard to be a father,” and your mind completes the sentence:  “especially trying to be a father to sons who have already been raised by someone else.”  Yes, when something gets broken in the house, all of you still stiffen in expectations of being beaten, but Luseane simply says, “Let’s get a broom and clean it up.”  You hear Lopeti say frequently that “hands are for blessing, not beating,” but it’s going to take a while longer to stop being fearful when accidents happen.  Not being beaten, not being blamed when things go wrong, is still a new experience for all of you.

The Mormon chapels in Tonga are modest, but sturdy. 

Because you don’t want to be discouraged by the malice of your birth family, you have turned off your cell phone and given it to Lopeti.  Better to have no contact than negative contact, at least for now.  Perhaps their hearts will soften in time.  And Lopeti strengthens you many times a day, reminding you to seek solace in prayer, to remain faithful and strong in the face of this adversity, to forgive your family for their ill will towards you and try to feel only love for them.  You receive a priesthood blessing at the hands of a senior missionary, which provides comfort and strength, if not healing.  Now you can find peace even in pain, because you know in your heart that you are safe here, you are protected and loved, and you will be the better for this experience.  So you smile, and your face is an expression of calm assurance, your demeanor one of acceptance and endurance.

You know that Lopeti is a man of God, for he has shared with you a dream he had some years ago.  His father also opposed Lopeti’s choice to join the Mormon Church, and died a few years before Lopeti served a mission.  In the missionary training center in Provo, Utah, Lopeti dreamed he saw his father dressed in rags and in prison. His father pleaded with him to free him:  “Only you have the power and authority to free me.”  After a long conversation with the President of the missionary training center, Lopeti went to the Provo temple and did vicarious work for his deceased father, to provide him the opportunity to choose, in the next life, which path to take.  A few nights later Lopeti dreamed of his father again, but this time his father was dressed all in white, and had tears of joy in his eyes as he held his arms out to his son, saying “thank you, thank you.”  That experience helped Lopeti build his life around serving others.  Not for the first time, you close your eyes in gratitude for Lopeti and Luseane, realizing how blessed you are to be the object of their service.  You echo the words of Lopeti’s father:  “Thank you, thank you.”

Lopeti, Luseane, with Pahulu (seated) and two of the other young men in their home. 

You smile as you think of the way Lopeti and Luseane have applied one particular scripture in their lives:  “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”  (See Matthew 25:40.) And you hope you will be healed, so that you can serve in the same way that these two wonderful people do.  You hear Lopeti’s words echo in your ears: “When you see someone in need, you’ll feel the Spirit prompt you.  That may be Christ right there, waiting for you to serve Him.”  And you understand more fully how to be Christlike, because you see it around you every day.