Marjorie came to bed last night complaining about the sounds in the night.  “It’s either dogs or drunks,” she said, “and I can’t tell which.”  We slept soundly, but the hullabaloo started up again this morning.  It gradually dawned upon us that we haven’t seen our very elderly neighbors for quite a while, and that the howling we were hearing was because of a death.

There are a couple of vacant lots to the west of us, filled with bush, that separate us from the next house.  My friend, Presley, lives there.  He’s the government minister for the Anglican Church in all of Vanuatu.  His 85-year-old father died last night.  I went over to offer my condolences and the use of my pickup to transport people.  There were about 50 people there.  I could see a bunch sitting inside the house on the floor.  They were howling and wailing in a most remarkable manner.  I was dying to go inside to check for tears, but didn’t.  Experience tells me that there weren’t any.  Wailing is just what’s done here to show respect for the deceased.

Presley took me up on my offer and dispatched me to Banban with half-a-dozen people to get a load of firewood and a bunch of pots to cook in.  My companions were all quite cheerful, and I even made a new friend who very gratefully received the Book of Mormon that I offered him.

The people were still howling when we got back to Presley’s place.  It was amazing.  I discretely turned on the camera’s video in my pants pocket in hopes that I could record their howling.  They kept it up all day!  It finally ceased as night fell.  They must be exhausted.  Maybe they did their mourning in shifts.  We’re amazed at their endurance.

Marjorie baked a cake and took it over.  As we delivered it we noticed a fresh cow hide by the cooking pit.  I said in amazement to Presley’s wife, “You had to butcher a cow to feed all of these people?”

She held up her fingers, “Two,” she replied.  “We used one today, and the other one is in the refrigerator.  The mourning lasts for 10 days.”

“Do you know what the problem is here?” I asked.  “Presley’s mother is 5 years older than his father was.  You may to have to go through this all over again in a few days.”

“I know,” she replied.  “That’s what I was worrying about.”

Presley’s father died on another island.  That’s why we hadn’t seen him for several months.  Presley was leaving the next day to go to that island “to see the grave.”  The grave will undoubtedly be something to see.  The dead are honored here by pouring immense blocks of cement over the grave.  These monuments can be found in the yards of many houses.

Marjorie says, “I worry about how these people are going to resurrect from under all this concrete.”

The last two days have been extremely busy.  I run from sunup until after dark.  Some of the things I do are very gratifying.  Like with a man I’ll call Willy.  Let me tell you a tender story.

School is free here for grades 1 through 6.  Willy’s father couldn’t afford the school fees thereafter, so that’s as far as Willy’s education went.  But Willy served a mission for the Church.  That was 10 years ago.  He came home from his mission and asked the district presidency to help him go to school.  He was put off again and again and again, became depressed over the hopelessness of his situation, and became inactive in the Church.  He began living with a non-member girl, and they had two children.

Willy began feeling the weight of his fatherhood and family responsibilities, and began taking his wife and little boys to church.  The missionaries taught the wife, and she was ready to be baptized.

First, the couple had to get married.  I was invited to attend their marriage ceremony in the branch president’s office so that I could be one of the two witnesses to sign the marriage certificate.  There were eight of us present.  The branch president stood up, welcomed everyone, and said, “Before I read the ceremony, Elder Kerns will give a toktok.”

So Elder Kerns stood up and gave what I thought was a surprisingly good toktok.  It didn’t come from him.  It was so good that it got repeated two more times in exactly the same setting within the next two weeks.

Willy’s wife was baptized the week following their marriage.  That was in November.  Willy was all smiles.  “This has taken nine years,” he told me.  Willy and his family are faithfully at church every Sunday.

Three weeks ago the mission president authorized the district presidency to convene a disciplinary council for Willy.  He had broken his temple covenants by living out of wedlock with a woman.  For eight or nine years he had refrained from taking the sacrament, and his boys were asking why.  He had suffered through a self-imposed disfellowshipment for all those years.

The result of the disciplinary council was that Willy was restored to full fellowship.  I took him straight into the Distribution Center and outfitted him with a set of new garments.  The Smiths later gifted several more sets to him.  He couldn’t quit smiling.

I watched from the stand as he took the sacrament for the first time on the Sunday following his disciplinary council.  I knew what it meant to him, and it brought tears to my eyes.  On the following Sunday I invited him to bless the sacrament.  Tears again came to my eyes as I watched him use his priesthood for the first time in 10 years.

Monday morning I found Willy at the church worrying about his boy’s school fees.  I assured him that everything was in order, and that the fees would be paid.  School starts next Monday, so paying school fees has been my big thrust for the past month.  He then confided in me that he had a big problem.  He has no job, and desperately needs one.  He’d heard how I’d helped others find employment.  Could I help him?

“Let’s go see my friend, Brad,” I said.

I took him to Santo Hardware where I succeeded in getting him an interview.  Unfortunately, because of his lack of skills, and because of their lack of an opening, Brad said, “Not yet.”

“Could you take me to see the branch president?” Willy asked.  “I want to ask him if the Church could give me a loan so that I could buy a grass cutter.  I could support my family from the jobs I could get if I had a grass cutter.”

“The Church can’t do that,” I said.  “No, the Church can’t do that—but I can.  Let’s go get a grass cutter.”

So for $250 Willy is set up in business.  I was even able to give him his first job, cutting the grass at one of the missionaries’ houses.  The house is owned by a member in Port Vila, and he has me take care of the grass, plumbing, and security issues there.

This morning I went by that house.  Willy was nearly done cutting the grass.  He had done a perfect job.  Grass clippings were in his hair and on his face.  He was smiling.  He was a happy man.

“It’s better to be a manager with your own business than to work for someone,” he said proudly.  “This grass cutter is more powerful than a Chinese grass cutter.”

I paid him 2,000 vatu ($20).  If he can do that for 20 days out of each month, he’ll be making exactly what the other men make for whom I’ve found jobs.  He’s going to be successful.  The $250 is a loan.  He’s to set aside 100-200 vatu from each job with which to pay me back.  He was all for giving me my share right then, but I told him to wait.

“You go home and get a can.  Every time you’re paid, put your tithing into that can.  Then take care of your family.  After that, worry about me.  If you’ll do that, you’ll always have plenty of work to do.  I’m not going to keep track of what you pay back.  You keep track, but be sure to pay your tithing.”

Willy said, “Every morning I have been reading the scriptures with my family, and every morning we have prayed that I could find a job.  Now I have one.  Thank you, Elder Kerns.”

“And thank you, Willy, for allowing me to be the answer to your family’s prayers.  It’s a privilege.”