It was difficult to focus my thoughts when the brother passing the sacrament wore something so different than what I was used to. He had on a piupiu–thick fabric wrapped tightly around his hips and a sash that held it securely in place. His fleshy toes poked out of a modern pāraerae sandals.
We knew our children were living in a remote part of the North Island of New Zealand, but we couldn’t picture how remote until we visited them. The ride to church took us through miles of verdant green hills. The windy road climbed and dipped, with hidden curves that required us to honk long and loud to warn any oncoming cars, which in an hour’s time, there were none. Before we began the journey our kids handed us barf bags promising, “You’ll need them.” They were right.
I have pondered the experience my grandchildren are having in New Zealand and the lessons they are learning about the way we worship. It would be easy for my son to have church at home like we all did during the Covid epidemic. He is a high priest. He could bless the sacrament. But their family drives a harrowing road through the mountains an hour each way every Sunday. I finally understand why.
As we sat in the chapel sunlight streamed in the open windows and a cool breeze wisped my hair. The room was silent as people passed the sacrament trays along their row. We could hear the songbirds twitter to one another, a soft message telling us to remember Him always.
The speakers reminded me how exciting it is to discover the Book of Mormon for the first time. They spoke of Lehi’s journey in the wilderness with awe and wonder. They described the tree of life with longing, and the great and spacious building with fear. They were filled with delight to know of the iron rod. A little girl clung to the skirts of her mother as Mom bore witness to the words she had prepared. We could see how the story she shared affected her life and would give her daughter hope. Our enthusiasm for this beloved scripture was renewed.
The classroom set aside for Relief Society could not hold all the women who crowded into the room. A divider was pulled back and the women sat in chairs lined up against either wall, like in a game of speed-dating. The stories they shared with one another and the empathy they showed toward one another testified as to the value of “meeting together oft” (Moroni 6). The intense concern they had for the “welfare of one another’s souls” was evident in the hugs and hand clutching that followed the meeting.
The Temple
After church a visiting high councilman stood at the front of the primary room, dressed in his formal wear, a piupiu, like the brother who passed the sacrament. He came to address all the young people who would be attending the temple for the first time. A bulging white shirt and tie rested on top of his ample girth. This giant man, who had been called as a leader among his people tottered nervously as he shared his love for the temple.
The well-planned program was poorly attended. Of the four youth who were supposed to be there, only our grandson showed up (along with his 8-member entourage.) Our family enjoyed the program, complete with a lovely meal, and my grandchildren saw 1) how precious it is when people faithfully fulfill their callings, 2) how people fulfill their callings even when they are scared, and 3) how important it is to support the people who serve.
The Hamilton New Zealand temple sits atop a hill surrounded by miles and miles of verdant farmland. Neat fences divide the pastures where sheep graze and colorful flowers line the roads. Scores of New Zealand youth mulled about the entrance, when we arrived, every single one wearing Crocs for the special occasion. Shoes are not required inside the schools or the churches, but are dutifully donned when visiting the temple. As busy as the temple was, the temple workers efficiently escorted our family to the baptismal font where we all participated in ordinances for our family’s own ancestors. The temple experience for a first-time temple goer couldn’t have been better.
Perks
Attending a ward in the remote corners of the world has its perks—blessings our kiddos would not know if they had stayed home and worshipped like we all did during the pandemic. The Maori who live in Whangarei live on tribal land granted to them by the government because of their ancestors. They raise animals and grow their own crops and they do a lot of fishing. Members of the ward brought over fresh tomatoes of all varieties, lettuce, zucchini, leeks and mussels, lots of mussels. By American standards they may seem poor, living off the land, too far from civilization to have a traditional job, but they are resource-wealthy and generous with what they have.
Upon venturing to New Zealand, our kiddos thought they would be attending a ward where their talents would be in great demand. Surely a unit of the church so far from church headquarters might need a little help with doctrine or protocol or at least setting up chairs? But the saints there are completely self-sufficient.
They have the same challenges we have in the States. (Where were those other three youth invited to the program for first-time temple attendees?) But they pony-on just like we do in our hemisphere.
Our drive home from church followed the same windy and perilous road we came on. We had been at church for a long time and the grandchildren were tired so as we passed one of the many isolated beaches we stopped. We hiked up our skirts and hiked through the brush to take in a breathtaking view of the waves that crashed upon jutting rocks and licked the tranquil tide pools. We marveled at The Creator’s handiwork and determined to worship with gratitude no matter where in the world we might find ourselves.
JeaNette Goates Smith is a Licensed Marriage and Family therapist and Licensed Mental Health Counselor. She is the author of four books for families. For more information visit www.smithfamilytherapy.org.
