Belonging to Heaven, page 10
I will just go see the house. If anyone is outside, then maybe I’ll call to them. If they come to talk, I will just ask a few questions. If they ask me questions, I will tell them . . . what? Young as I am and in such an awful state, they’d never take me seriously.
He passed the stone church on his left and kept walking, his stomach churning against the big breakfast.
The gospel will speak for itself. The first principles and ordinances . . . priesthood authority . . . perhaps they won’t want to hear about priesthood authority. I’ll just spend time visiting. I’ll let them tell me what they’ve learned about the island and the people. I can tell them how I admire the Hawaiian alphabet and their translation of the Bible into the Hawaiian language.
George was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost walked past the white house. He moved toward it, admiring the well-kept yard and the basic structure of the lovely home. It was two stories with a veranda and an upstairs balcony, all painted a gleaming white with green shutters and green vines curling along the balcony railing. George imagined upholstered chairs, hardwood tables, and china dishes inside. He put his hand on the gate and stopped. An image of his scruffy beard, unkempt hair, and rumpled clothing came into his mind, and he lost his confidence. He stepped back.
I can’t go to meet the reverend now. He is probably a well-kept gentleman, and his lady will be finely dressed and mannered.
A dark feeling invaded George’s thoughts, assuring him that he was nothing more than a country yokel whose grasp of doctrinal truths was infantile at best. He turned away from the house and hurried off down the road. As he walked, he passed several lovely homes on his left and saw movement in one of the yards.
George glanced over to see two Hawaiian women, dressed in fine British clothing, watching him with keen interest. He thought he heard one of them call him keiki, and the words never seemed truer. He kept walking. He reached the road that headed back toward the west and Lahaina and heaved a sigh of relief. He’d scarcely put one foot in the direction of Lahaina when the Spirit told him to stop and go back into town. He stopped, but he argued with the prompting. He did not want to go back, and he felt the ache of tears in his throat. He put forth a myriad of noble excuses: his ineptitude, his tiredness, his ragged appearance. He pointed out that the soles of his shoes were wearing thin and that his stomach hurt.
Finally, when the prompting persisted, George stopped his murmuring, squared his shoulders, turned around, and went back. He came to the crossroads and stood staring at the impressive Ka‘ahumanu church. Fatigue and doubt overwhelmed him, and it took his last bit of fortitude to turn up the road and trudge toward the white house. He heard the Hawaiian women in the yard across the street calling out to someone in the house.
“E ka haole! E ka haole!” Oh, the white man! “Jonathan! Jonathan! E ka haole!”
George walked more quickly. He did not know why they were calling out in such a strange manner. He was sure they met whites frequently and it was nothing unusual for one such as himself to pass by. George wondered if he had offended them in some way. He put his head down and kept walking. He glanced over to see three Hawaiian men coming from the house and moving quickly to the gate. Dear Father, help me, George prayed silently. He looked tentatively into the face of the man in front, who was watching him with great interest. “Aloha,” he said as he passed.
“Aloha,” the man returned. “Where are you going, young man?”
George stopped. In broken Hawaiian he stammered out, “I . . . I am going to see the Protestant missionaries.”
The man stepped forward. “Are you a missionary?”
“I am,” George said quietly, trying to match the softness and warmth of the Hawaiian’s tone. “I am a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
The man’s face filled with wonder, and he turned to look at his companions. “E ka haole.” He stepped closer to George and extended his hand. “Aloha, friend. I am Jonathan Hawaii Napela. I would like to hear your words.”
George took his hand. “You . . . you would?”
Jonathan grinned. “Yes, I think I have been waiting for you.”
***
George sat at the Napelas’ kitchen table in borrowed clothes. He was bathed, and clean shaven, and mystified. He looked at the people sitting around the table: Mr. Napela; his cousin, H.K. Kaleohano; his friend, William Uaua; Napela’s wife, Catherine; and her sister, Nele Richardson.
The women were the loveliest women George had ever seen. Their light brown eyes sparkled, and their dark wavy hair cascaded to their waists. They wore long skirts and white gauzy blouses with lace collars and pearl buttons. The three men also wore proper British clothing, although at the moment their coats were slung over the backs of their chairs and their collars were unbuttoned.
George looked from face to face, ending at Mr. Napela. George tried not to be intimidated by the fact that this man, who was fourteen years his senior, was also a district court judge and a son of Hawaiian royalty. The only thing that kept George from bolting for the door was the Spirit testifying that this was the man the Lord had prepared to hear the message of the gospel.
In fact, the entire company seemed eager to learn about prophets, modern-day revelation, and the first principles and ordinances of the gospel. George was amazed by their sincere questions and lack of guile as they listened patiently as he faltered to teach them in their language. It was frustrating because he could understand almost every word they said, but when it came time to speak, the words jumbled in his brain. The members of the group also spoke a little English, and they willingly tried to substitute words when George’s vocabulary gave out. They seemed to him to be very intelligent, and so it did not surprise him when he discovered that all three of the men had graduated from the Lahainaluna Seminary in Lahaina.
“I know your school,” George said. “It is on the hillside above where we live. Were you all planning to become ministers?”
William Uaua shook his head. “It was not theological training we received, though some of the first graduating class did join the ministry. Others became teachers, or government administrators, or judges.” He grinned at Jonathan, and then turned back to George. “And you, Mr. Cannon, where did you study to become a preacher?”
George inwardly braced himself for their response to his answer. “I did not go to school to become a preacher. Like those disciples in Christ’s day, we who are called on missions, study, pray, and seek for the guidance of the Spirit.”
The three men who had been leaning forward, all sat back in their chairs and stared at him. Finally Jonathan spoke.
“You have received no training?”
“No.”
“And you are very young.”
George pushed back at the fear that was eroding his confidence. “I am young, but I have seen many things. I have experienced many things, and I have a testimony of the doctrine I’ve been preaching to you.”
Jonathan grinned. “I know a thing or two about testimonies.” George nodded, and Jonathan leaned forward again. He seemed very much the judge seeking out truth. “You have a testimony of this vision of Joseph Smith?”
“Yes.”
“You have a testimony that God is again speaking from heaven?”
“Yes.”
“You have a testimony that this message you bring is for us?”
George’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes.” He fought to steady his voice. “I was told that if I went on this journey, the Lord would prepare someone to hear the message of the gospel. I believe that someone is you.”
There was complete silence in the room, and George was again afraid that he had offended them. He wanted to speak and explain, but the Spirit told him to be still and have faith. After what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Napela spoke.
“Mr. Cannon, what did you think when you heard my wife calling out when you passed by our house? E ka haole. Do you know what it means?”
George nodded. “Oh, the white man.”
“Did you find that unusual?”
George looked over at Mrs. Napela. “I did, yes.”
“Well, Mr. Cannon,” Jonathan continued, “just as you were looking for me, I have been waiting for you.”
George glanced around at the others in the room to assess their reaction to these words, but there was no indication that each person did not take Mr. Napela’s words for the truth.
“Several weeks ago I had a dream where a stranger, dressed in white clothing, was sent to me to deliver an important message. The dream made such an impression that I told my wife and friends.”
Catherine Napela spoke softly. “We have spoken of the dream many times, wondering about its meaning.” She smiled at him. “When I saw you, the dream came to my mind.”
George stood, beaming at his hosts, and wiping the tears from his cheeks with the palms of his hands. For once he felt like the child that everyone saw when they looked at him. “I do have an important message to give you, Mr. Napela—a message that will change your life.”
Jonathan smiled at him. “My life has changed many times, Mr. Cannon. I am not afraid of change. But, you must teach us from the scriptures. You must teach us the words of Jesus.”
“I would not want you to listen to me if I did not teach from the scriptures, Mr. Napela. We teach the doctrine of the primitive church, and we want you to pray and find out for yourself if the doctrine is true.”
Jonathan stood. “As Paul said. Try all things and hold fast to that which is good. Well then, you will stay with us and we will listen, and tomorrow I will take you up to meet the Reverend Daniel Conde and his esteemed wife, Andelucia.”
The euphoric feeling drained from George’s spirit, and doubt returned to cast a shadow on his hopes. He did not know if he was up to speaking with a Congregationalist minister—a man much older who had gone to school for years to train for his position. George also knew that Reverend Conde would have command of the Hawaiian language, a blessing he longed for, but did not as yet possess.
“Are you all right, Mr. Cannon? The color has drained from your face. Here, sit down,” Jonathan ordered and George sat. “Would you rather not stay with us for a time?”
“No . . . no, it’s not that,” George stammered. “That is a very generous offer. I would be honored.” He managed a smile. “I just have one question: will you stay with me when we visit Reverend and Mrs. Conde?”
Jonathan smiled. “Of course, Mr. Cannon. I will keep you in the canoe if you feel there are sharks in the water.”
George thought Mr. Napela quite clever for coming up with that image. “Oh, one more thing: I would like it if you called me George instead of Mr. Cannon, if that’s all right?”
“Of course, I will call you Brother George and you can call me Brother Jonathan.”
George liked the man. He did not know what the future would bring, but for now he was grateful for the guidance of the Spirit that had led him to this home in Wailuku.
Notes
The incidents of falling in the water and of the meeting of Jonathan Hawaii Napela are recorded in George Q. Cannon’s journal.
Lahainaluna Seminary was a school established by Protestant missionaries with the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions in Lahaina in 1831. It was the first school founded in Hawaii, and many young men from high-ranking Hawaiian families were educated there, including David Malo and Jonathan Napela. Lahainaluna School continues to operate as a coed boarding school. It is the oldest high school on American soil west of the Mississippi.
Haole meains a fair-skinned person or a foreigner.
Chapter 13
Wailuku, Maui
April 12, 1851
Watch your footing, Brother George!” Jonathan Napela called out. “The pathway has many rocks and tree roots.”
George understood the Hawaiian words and called his thanks. He watched his companion maneuver the path with effortless agility, seeming to gain strength from the dirt under his bare feet and grace from the trees that overshadowed the path. George too felt his spirit quickened by the craggy, forested cliffs rising up on either side of the valley.
The Iao Valley was created by water—water that cascaded off the Hamaluka peaks to form rivulets and streams that flowed into two rivers. These courses ran down either side of the valley creating a ridge in the center. Along the spine of this ridge the kanaka and the haole ventured. George felt the draw of discovery pulling him along the winding path, ever deeper into the heart of the mountain. He glanced up at the gray clouds swirling amidst the peaks of the pali, and worried that rain might ruin their hike. He stumbled over a tree root for lack of attention, righted himself, and forged ahead, trying with little success to keep up with Brother Napela’s pace. The man was familiar with the track and he was strong. Over the weeks of staying in the Napela’s home, George had learned much about Brother Jonathan’s strengths: he had a heart filled with childlike joy, a spirit open to faith, and an astute mind ready to evaluate new ideas.
George was also grateful for Brother Jonathan’s sagacity. He was a support during the first meeting with Reverend Conde at the Ka‘ahumanu church. Napela had introduced him to the reverend after the Sunday services, and George remembered how his stomach churned as he tried to organize his thoughts. The man was polished and intelligent and obviously knew something about the Mormons, for the first thing he questioned was the idea of Joseph Smith digging up another Bible out of the ground. George tried to explain about the Book of Mormon and that the members of the Church did not take the book in place of the Bible, but proved one by the other. He then tried to offer him the missionary tract, “The Voice of Warning,” but the reverend refused, and condemned it without reading it. George found himself silenced by the man’s disdain, but Brother Napela stood close by him, and, against the reverend’s warning, declared that he would listen to what the Mormon missionary had to say. If the preaching went against the Bible, he would reject it; if it did not, he would consider it.
Reverend Conde and others in the church council were not pleased with that pronouncement. George knew it was because Jonathan held a high position in the community. As a district court judge and a descendant of Hawaiian royalty, he was influential, and many would give credence to his choice.
George smiled as he looked at his hiking companion. In his work pants, simple cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and bare feet, he did not seem much like a judge or the son of a chief. George shook his head. They made quite a pair—he with his fair skin, pale blue eyes, and sandy colored hair, and Jonathan with his brown skin, brown eyes, and wavy black hair. One was a child of the land; one was hoping for adoption.
A rise brought them momentarily above the trees, and George caught his breath as a shaft of sun shot through the lowering clouds, illuminating the side of the distant mountain. The sunlight exposed deep clefts in the cliff face, where three silver ribbons of water plunged a thousand feet to the base of the pali. There the water was lost in the thick vegetation.
Jonathan came to stand beside him.
“This is heaven,” George whispered, the Hawaiian words coming easily.
“Do you think heaven looks like this, Brother George?”
“Oh, I hope so,” George said, with such longing that Jonathan laughed.
“Come, let us sit and eat our food, and talk about heaven.”
They settled themselves under a koa tree with unobstructed views of the cliffs and the waterfalls. They drank from their canteens and ate the fish and poi wrapped in ti leaves. George peered down into the valley, trying to catch a glimpse of the river running below. All he saw were the light-colored leaves of the kukui trees and the bright red flowers of the lehua.
“It is such a peaceful place,” George said in English.
“What is the word peaceful?” Jonathan asked.
George tried to think of Hawaiian words that had the same meaning. Mali‘e. Calm. Ma‘lu. Quiet. He relayed these words to Napela who gave him a crooked smile.
“Well, not always calm and quiet. A great battle was fought in this valley.”
“Oh, yes?” George said, a note of anticipation in his voice. He loved the stories that Jonathan told, and over their weeks together, he had heard many. Listening helped him increase his Hawaiian vocabulary and learn much about the Hawaiian culture.
Jonathan sat back against the koa tree and began talking, his voice taking on a mellow tone and smooth cadence. “It was called the battle of Kepaniwai and in it, my grandfather, the chief and warrior Kihakaulia, fought bravely. He was a young man, and it is said he could cast a spear through the eye of a boar. The year was 1790 and the great warrior chief, Kamehameha, brought many canoes into the bay of Kahului. The conch shell blew, the drums beat, and the call went out for the warriors of Maui to come and fight for their leader, the high chief Kalanikupule. My grandfather, with a large group of fighters, ran over the mountain from Lahaina. They ran for many hours on this very path until they reached Kuka‘emoku, the great peak of the god Kanaloa.”
George closed his eyes and imagined the ferocious warriors running along the path with their wooden spears and stone clubs.
“When my grandfather and his men reached the great peak, Kamehameha’s warriors had already pushed the army of Kalanikupule far into the valley. Kamehameha had learned the weapons of the white man and brought muskets and cannon. Many of the warriors of Maui were killed, but many more fought on, their shouts of defiance echoing off the cliffs. In the end Kamehameha was victorious, but there were so many killed on both sides that their bodies clogged the stream. That is why it is called the battle of Kepaniwai—the damming of the waters.”
George did not like to imagine that scene. “And your grandfather?”
“He lived. He returned to tell the villagers at Honokawai that now Kamehameha, the warrior chief from Kona, would be the chief over everyone on Maui. And after more battles, Kamehameha would be the ali‘i nui over all the islands.”
