"Dedication"

Today was the dedication of the Gila Valley Temple here in Arizona. Regular Sunday meetings were cancelled throughout the state as members were encouraged to attend one of three dedicatory sessions broadcast to stake centers. Because those meetinghouses would become, for this event, an extension of the holy temple, special recommends for the dedicatory service were required.

Among the instructions on the back of the recommend was a request that those planning to attend be in their seats thirty minutes before the service. During that time many temple scenes were shown on the screen—interior and exterior. There was no narration—only soft music by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir playing in the background. It was a very reverent setting—no whispering or conversation.

We had arrived forty minutes before the service began, and after watching those beautiful scenes for about twenty minutes I found myself wondering why the Brethren would want us to be there so early. I wasn’t being critical of them or second-guessing. I just knew they wouldn’t have made such a request unless there was a purpose behind it, and it was then that I received some interesting impressions.

First, I realized that before this special event was to begin, the Lord desired that we not only feel of His Spirit but that we truly sense the sacredness of being in His holy temple. But this sense-of-the-sacred mindset doesn’t happen automatically. One doesn’t suddenly become “spiritual” just because he’s stepped from the parking lot into the meetinghouse. Just as one’s eyes need time to adjust from the bright daylight after entering a darkened movie theater, today our hearts and minds needed time to adjust in the other direction—from the “darkness” of the outside world to the heavenly light of a most spiritual setting. Arriving thirty minutes early allowed our eyes and ears to take in those heavenly sights and sounds, helping us put worldly cares and thoughts aside.

It is no coincidence that the Brethren teach us the same principle about arriving early for sacrament meetings. In numerous conference talks they have requested that we arrive early and reverently listen to the prelude music. Members of the bishopric are instructed to be in their places at least ten minutes before the meeting starts. Why? To help us make the transition from the outside world and to prepare our hearts and minds for the sacred ordinance of the sacrament. (In some wards this would mean that instead of showing up two or three minutes before the hour, the organist would actually arrive ten or fifteen minutes early, helping set a reverent tone through the prelude music.) Perhaps, just perhaps, if we better understood this concept we wouldn’t be rushing into the meetinghouse with a few minutes to spare or carrying on conversations with our neighbors right up to the moment a member of the bishopric takes the pulpit. Our minds need time to adjust to the sacredness of the setting and to consider the holy ordinance about to be administered.

During the dedication and at other moments during the day, the Spirit gave me additional impressions based on these words from the Apostle Paul: “Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you . . .?” (1 Cor. 6:19). In my mind I seemed to envision a sort of spiritual checklist, intended to see if I treat the temple of my body the way the Lord would have us treat His holy house. Questions such as these went through my mind:

- The temple being dedicated today will be a holy place with holy purposes. Here the Lord and His Spirit will literally abide. What about the temple of your body and mind? Have you dedicated them to the Lord’s holy purposes? And are they in a condition such that the Lord and His Spirit would feel not only welcome but comfortable there?

- This temple will be a refuge where no unclean thing may enter. What about the temple of your body and mind? Can you detect the approach of unclean “visitors” while they’re still at a distance? And even if they make it all the way to your door, do you instinctively turn them away, or do you invite them in for a little while—just to see what it is they're "selling"?

- The furnishings within the Lord’s House are of the highest quality. However, their purpose is not to impress or call attention to themselves. What about the “furnishings” in your life? Do they shout “Look at me!”? Or does your life confirm our declaration that we quietly seek after “anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report, or praiseworthy”? (See Articles of faith 1:13).

- The temple that is being dedicated today has been built upon a sure foundation, both spiritually and physically. It can physically withstand extreme forces of nature because the standards used in its construction far exceed the standards used by the world. What about your foundation? What standards have you used in building the foundation for your life? And will that foundation allow you to stand immovable when the storms of life come?

The dedication service was inspirational and memorable. And I appreciated the Spirit’s personal reminders about the many ways that the word “dedication” should be reflected in my life.

Gone Too Soon

I first became aware of Toni when she sang and danced at a Christmas party at the old Portland 8th Ward. I was ten years old. Toni was nine and had a remarkably strong and mature singing voice for one so young.

We lived in that ward for less than a year, but even after moving we remained in that stake, so I saw Toni occasionally. When I was a senior in high school our family moved back to Toni’s ward. The two of us would have attended the same high school if it hadn’t been for the fact that I wanted to finish my senior year at my old high school in the neighborhood from which we’d moved. So about the only time I ever saw Toni was at seminary and occasionally on Sundays.

That same year I became aware that Toni had two significant friends in her life: Sherri and Brian. Sherri lived just down the street from Toni, had decided to receive the missionary lessons, and she was soon baptized. The two of them hung out a lot together and were active in musical activities at Parkrose High School.

Brian was a good-looking boy whose family moved into our ward from Moses Lake, Washington. After being in the ward for about a year, the parents moved back to Moses Lake. But Brian wanted to finish high school at Parkrose, so arrangements were made for him to live with Toni’s family. I liked Brian. He and I became good friends, and he got a job working at the Dairy Queen with me.

One Saturday night in the spring of 1965, Toni and Sherri were returning home late in Sherri’s small pickup truck. A few blocks from the street where they lived they were approaching an intersection that had a flashing light hanging over the center. For those heading north or south it flashed red, and there was a stop sign. Drivers coming from the east and west had a flashing yellow light.

Because of a thick stand of tall trees it would have been difficult for the girls to see cars coming from their right. I don’t know all the details, but according to information I found on the Internet, Toni’s mother said that the other driver was drunk. When Sherri’s little truck was in the middle of the intersection the other vehicle slammed into them, and the point of impact was right where Toni was seated.

In those days there wasn’t as much emphasis on using seat belts as there is now. In fact, many cars didn’t have seat belts at all. I was told that the force of the impact was so strong that Toni was thrown out of Sherri's door even before Sherri was. Sherri’s injuries, while bad, were not life-threatening. Toni, however, was in very critical condition.

Members of the ward learned of the accident at our church meetings the following morning. By that time Toni was barely clinging to life. The bishop asked that ward members fast and pray for her. By sheer coincidence I was on the program that day as a youth speaker, and I’d been assigned to speak about fasting. I did not have an easy time. When I got to the part of my prepared remarks where I explained how we can fast for those who are sick, I had a hard time controlling my emotions.

That afternoon I drove alone to Woodland Park Hospital, knowing deep inside that there was no way I’d be allowed to see Toni, but I wanted to try. As I expected, the person at the desk said they weren’t allowing any visitors. I tried to find out how she was doing, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. As I said earlier, Toni and I weren’t very close, but I just felt so sad and concerned about her. All I could do was fast and pray.

Two days later Toni passed away. I heard that she’d suffered such massive head trauma that even if she had lived, she would have been in a vegetative state. It was such a shock to all of us. I felt so sorry for her family and for Brian.

My recollection of Toni’s funeral is very vague. I don’t remember who spoke, but I recall that the high school choir that meant so much to her performed there. My family attended the funeral but chose not to go to the cemetery, so I drove there alone. Brian was there. He was one of the pallbearers. He wore a small white flower in the lapel of his suit coat, and after the dedication of the grave, he approached the casket, removed the flower from his coat and kissed it. Then he gently placed it on top of the casket.

I had to go to work that evening at the Dairy Queen. With the cemetery scene fresh in my mind, I had trouble controlling my emotions. I made frequent trips to the restroom to wipe my eyes. It was very hard.

For the balance of that school year Brian continued to live with Toni’s parents, and one of her two older sisters. I always feel a deep sadness whenever I think about those events, and I get emotional just writing about it. Toni was only sixteen. That’s too young for anyone to die. I say that with the full understanding that we came to this earth knowing that accidents and physical and mental impairments were possible. In spite of that knowledge, it’s still hard to say goodbye to someone so young and who had so much to live for.

Some time afterward, I was with a group of youth on a temple trip. I’m not certain which temple it was, but I remember hearing someone in our group remark that when they were in the temple they thought they heard music – like someone singing – and that it sounded like Toni’s voice.

"Hailstorm" Article

The following article describes an incident that occurred in the mid-1970's when we lived on a 145-acre farm in Joseph, Oregon. It was published in the March 2007 issue of the Ensign. Note: To see the view from our front porch, click here. We looked directly across the rolling hills into the mountain gap to the left of the barn and had this identical panoramic view. 

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In 1974 my wife and I made a decision that dramatically altered our lifestyle. Although neither of us had ever lived on a farm, circumstances offered us the opportunity to move from our comfortable city life in Portland, Oregon, to a small farm 350 miles away.

In October of the following year, I found myself standing, for the very first time, on the platform of a combine, harvesting 140 acres of barley. To the occasional passerby on the nearby highway, there was nothing remarkable about that scene. I was simply one of dozens of farmers in that valley who was busily engaged in the annual harvest. Unknown to those passersby was the unique and sacred significance of our harvest and the divine intervention that had made it so plentiful.

It happened on a day in midsummer. The barley crop was thick and fully grown but still green. The heads of grain were full and fat. We had recently finished the final irrigation, and now all that remained before harvest was the ripening that would turn the fields from green to gold. The skies were cloudy that morning, but not unusually threatening—at least not until early afternoon, when the local radio station issued a warning that a severe hailstorm was headed our way.

Stepping outside, I looked in the direction of the storm. The extremely dark and massive nature of the clouds told me this storm would be a serious threat to our crop. Within an hour it would be directly over our farm.

Because I had always lived in the city, I had never looked at a hailstorm as anything more than a novelty of nature. As a child I had enjoyed watching as hailstones bounced on the ground and settled in the grass, and I remember occasionally running outside to scoop them up in my hands. The hailstones of my childhood seemed so harmless, but I realized that this day I would not be enjoying them at all.

I wasn’t experienced as a farmer. As evidence of this, it wasn’t until that day that I learned I could have purchased crop insurance for protection against such a storm. But now it was too late, and I realized that if this fierce hailstorm struck our barley, it could shatter many heads of grain and scatter our family’s only source of income onto the ground.

Our farm was a square of land that measured slightly less than one-half mile (about 800 meters) on each side. There is no physical way to protect such a large expanse. After discussing the situation, my wife and I concluded that we were facing a major threat to our crop and that there was nothing we could physically do about it. Prayer was our only hope. Gathering our little family around us—two sons, ages two and four, and our five-year-old daughter—we followed the counsel Amulek gave to the Zoramites: “Cry unto him over the crops of your fields, that ye may prosper in them” (Alma 34:24).

I’m sure there had been times in our lives when we had offered heartfelt prayers—asking Heavenly Father to help us remember what we had studied so we would do well on exams or asking to be led by the Spirit in preparing an especially challenging Sunday School lesson. However, on those occasions we were asking for His aid in addition to our own preparation.

This situation was totally different. Here we were utterly helpless. Ours was a desperate plea for His mercy and protection. We told Him that this was our first season trying to make a living on this farm; much effort had gone into preparing the soil, planting the seed, fertilizing and irrigating; and now it appeared that a significant portion of our annual income could be lost.

It was a solemn moment when we concluded our prayer and stepped out into the calm that preceded the storm, which by then was only minutes away.

The dark wall of hail in the distance was frightening enough, but then came the noise. We could almost feel its violence, a frightful combination of rattling, rushing, and beating. When it reached our property line, the intimidating noise was everywhere.

We kept waiting for the hail, but there was none. Although we could hear the sounds of violent hail all around us, there was none to be seen—no hail, no rain, only noise.

Immediately after the dark clouds and noise had moved on, I drove to the opposite boundary of our property. The first thing I noticed was my neighbor’s ground, thick with hailstones. Parking my truck, I walked from the neighbor’s property into our barley, and after taking but a few steps I saw no hail at all. Further inspection confirmed that. With the exception of the extreme fringes of our land, it had not hailed on our crop. It was as if a giant protective canopy had been spread above our farm. We were witnesses to the reality of the Lord’s blessings to us and of His hearing and answering our prayer.

Thirty years have passed, but the memory is as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. I can never speak of that miraculous event without a feeling of great reverence. On that day we were standing on holy ground. In moments of quiet pondering, I have come to realize that not only was our grain saved, but new, sacred seeds were planted in our hearts, especially in the hearts of our young children. These were seeds of testimony, producing the conviction that when we must face the dark storms of life, there is refuge in our God, the Father of us all, who does hear and answer prayers.

In the years since that marvelous day, our family has learned that our faith increases as we strive to keep the commandments, and with that faith we can confidently proclaim to God, “I will trust in thee forever” (2 Nephi 4:34).

"The Key" Article

In 1976 I was thumbing through The Friend, the Church's magazine for children, and began reading this article, a true story. It wasn't until I came to the very end of it that I discovered the main character was my great-grandfather! It was the first time I'd ever heard the story of his conversion. Hope you enjoy it.

“The Key” -- Published in The Friend, June 1976.

Christian fingered the key in his pocket as he walked toward the jail. It had taken months of study and prayer before he had finally decided to use that key for something more important than just opening the jail door so he could carry meals to those who were held there as prisoners.

Almost all the men in the jailhouse were Mormon missionaries. Many of them had sailed into the Port of Frederikstad in a pilot boat they had fitted up and named Sions Löve (Zion’s Lion) so that they could easily travel to coastal areas of the Scandinavian Mission, then including all of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.

At first Christian hadn’t paid much attention to the missionaries, for he was busy learning the catechism so he could correctly answer any questions he might be asked by the priest at the confirmation service that was soon to be held for prospective young members of the Lutheran Church. He was not concerned about the fact that almost as soon as any Mormon missionaries arrived in Frederikstad they were arrested.

Lutheranism was the national religion of Norway and missionaries who taught other doctrines were promptly jailed, some for only a few weeks, others for many months. During this time they frequently were taken to court and almost forced to renounce their religion and declare allegiance to the national church of Norway. Refusing to do so, they were then returned to their quarters.

Christian worked for the warden of the jail who instructed him to heckle and be as unpleasant as possible to the prisoners when he carried meals to them. This seemed like fun until one day a young missionary said, “Why do you talk and act as you do? Remember that so persecuted they the Christ and His followers in Bible times.”

The startled boy asked him to explain what he meant, so two of the elders began talking about the gospel and gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon.

Every night as Christian studied for his confirmation examination, he also studied the Book of Mormon, comparing it with his Bible and the Lutheran catechism. As the truthfulness of the restored gospel became more and more apparent to him, Christian prayed to know what he should do. Since no answer came before the confirmation date, he purposely failed the examination and then made application to take it again in six months.

Thinking back over his months of prayer and study, Christian knew what he must do. He finally decided to use his key to the prison to let the two missionaries out of jail long enough to go with him to a nearby fjord so he could be baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Afterward the three walked back to the jailhouse where the elders returned to their room and Christian turned the key in the lock to their cell.

Because of the persecution toward members of the Church throughout Norway, and also because he knew how angry his father would be, Christian did not tell anyone of the thrilling event that had taken place on that cold winter night of 1852. He knew he would not be able to make his stern father understand what he had done. He tried to talk with his mother but she would not listen. When the next confirmation service was held, Christian honored his application and appeared for his examination with the other prospective young Lutherans.

“Do you believe in God?” was the first question asked by the priest.

“Oh, yes,” Christian answered quickly.

“Can you describe Him?” was the next question.

“I know He is a Being with body, parts, and passions,” Christian replied. “I also know He does not sit on the top of a topless throne. I know our Heavenly Father is good and kind, that He sees, hears, and answers prayers. I know we are made in His image as was His Son Jesus Christ.”

The priest was surprised by this description but continued with the examination, becoming more and more amazed with the answers Christian gave. As the boy glanced at his father he could see that he was very upset. Finally, the priest said angrily, “You answer as if you belonged to that sect known as Mormons.”

“I do,” Christian said, “and I’m proud of it!”

At this declaration, Christian’s father arose from his seat near the front of the Church and rushed up the aisle and out the door, striking his cane hard against the floor with every step he took. Confused and embarrassed, Christian’s mother followed her husband, and their son was abruptly dismissed.

Christian went home wanting to talk with his parents, but he was afraid of what they would say. Having carried his usual armful of wood into the house that night, Christian was piling it near the fireplace when his father came into the room. At the sight of his son who he felt had disgraced him, Christian’s father struck him with his cane and then began to beat him. At last, panting for breath, his father laid the merciless cane on the table.

“Oh, Father,” Christian said quietly, “it feels good to be whipped for the gospel’s sake.”

At these words, the father became even more furious. He picked up stick after stick of firewood and hurled them at Christian. When the wood was gone, he opened the door and shouted, “Get out of my house. I never want to see you again!”

Bruised and bleeding from the beating and the wood that had been thrown at him, Christian dragged himself out to the barn where he threw himself upon the hay. Late that night after her husband was asleep, Christian’s mother noiselessly tied a little food and a few of his belongings in a handkerchief and went out to the barn. Tearfully she treated her son’s injuries as well as she could.

“Why, oh why, did you do this thing, Christian?” she pleaded heartbrokenly.

“Because I had to, Mother,” Christian replied. “I have studied and prayed and I know this is the only true Church. I tried to tell you but you would not listen to me. I cannot deny what I know, Mother. If I did, it would be to deny Jesus Christ, our Savior, and I cannot do that.”

“If, as you say, you know this is right, my boy,” his mother told him, “then you must stand firm. But oh, how my heart aches.”

When the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, Christian’s mother crept back into the house. Christian picked up the little bundle she had brought to him and started walking down the road. As he passed his house he breathed a good-bye to his parents, for he knew he would never see them again.

Christian Hans Monson didn’t know where he would go or what he could do. “But I have a testimony,” the fourteen-year-old boy said to himself. “Whatever happens, I can never deny that. And I know that because of my testimony, all will be well.”

Not Your Typical Day at the Beach

One summer day when I was seventeen, my friend, Brent, and I went to the beach. It was one of those rare days at the Oregon coast when the sun was actually shining! We hadn’t planned anything special, just a day of relaxing and lying in the sun. As was often the case, the water was too cold for swimming. No problem -- it was fun just watching the ocean.

We lay on the sand about 30-40 yards away from the water. Between us and the water was a large depression in the sand, about 15 feet long—parallel with the water line—about 4 feet across and a foot or two feet deep. It had a little water in it and just looked like a huge puddle.

We were south of the town of Cannon Beach, and in this particular area it was legal to drive vehicles on the sand. While we were dozing in the sun, we heard a car approaching from the direction of town. It was a two-door, cream-colored, 1961 Chevrolet. The windows were down, and inside we saw two young couples, teenagers, laughing and enjoying the ride along the water’s edge. As they neared that big depression, the driver saw it and steered to avoid it. The depression was easy to see because the tide was out. They continued down the beach until the car was out of sight.

After awhile we noticed that the tide was coming in, and as the water got closer, the rising tide filled that large depression until it was hidden from sight. If you didn't know better you wouldn't even know it was there. At about this same time we heard a car coming—the same Chevrolet we'd seen earlier. Because of the rising tide, the driver was having to drive closer to the water than before, and this time there was no way he could have seen that depression because it was hidden under water. As he reached it, his right wheels slipped into the depression, and the car became stuck. The driver gunned the engine, but the wheels only dug deeper -- and the tide kept rising.

All he could do was keep gunning the engine, to no avail. When the water was a couple feet deep, the two couples got out of the car, desperate to devise a way to get the car unstuck. But there was no way. I’m sure they were hoping the water had risen about as high as it would go, but they were mistaken—the tide continued to rise.

First the water completely covered the wheels, then it climbed up the doors and finally spilled inside through the open windows, totally filling the car’s interior. Anything that was loose inside the car came floating out—mostly beer cans, bobbing in the water—and the tide kept rising.

The young man who’d been driving was frantic. He had one last hope: He decided to run up the beach towards town, hoping to find a tow truck with a winch that could pull his car free. While he was gone, a small crowd had gathered, and we all watched as the car totally disappeared beneath the water, all except a few inches of the car’s radio antenna.

Pretty soon we noticed a vehicle racing toward us along the sand. It was a tow truck, and on its front bumper was a winch. In the passenger seat was the driver of the car, and he was shocked to see that his car was now totally underwater. When the tow truck came to a stop, the frantic young man jumped out, grabbed the winch’s cable that had a large hook on the end, and started swimming toward the radio antenna that marked the location of his car. When he reached the car he dove underwater, trying to find a place where he could attach the hook.

After a couple of dives he finally signaled to the tow truck operator to activate the winch. At first, all we could see was that little antenna slowly moving towards us through the water like the periscope of a miniature submarine. Then the car’s roof appeared – and the upper part of the windows – and finally the whole car was out of the water, unstuck and resting on the sand

The young man opened the car doors, and seawater gushed out. Opening the hood, he gazed hopelessly at the engine, slowly shaking his head.

Then, taking his girlfriend by the hand, the two of them, with heads hanging down, slowly walked over to some rocks and sat down. The last thing I heard him say was, “My Dad’s gonna kill me.”

I’ll let you come up with your own moral to this story . . . perhaps beginning with these words from the Book of Mormon: “And thus we see . . .”