Remembering Spencer W. Kimball – Sunday November 10, 1985
The reporters said Spencer W. Kimball, President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, died, but we know he lives. Literally, as a part of God’s eternal plan, his life’s eternal. But his influence still lives among we who are earthbound.
He’ll live for us any time we face agonizing pain and bodily ill and endure it well—when anguished days are followed by never-ending nights of pain and we survive, uncomplaining, knowing he did. When we are tempted to curse God and call life far too hard, we’ll hear in memory his raspy voice, preaching the love of the Lord on a partial vocal cord, his once-rich voice eaten by cancer, and we’ll go on.
He’ll live for us every time we remember that loving humanity means taking it one person at a time—that you don’t love clumps of people, but individuals, whatever their persuasion, background, or origin. We’ll remember he was never too busy to help one lost child, put an arm around a wandering soul, shake the hand of the least important person in the crowd, that he prayed on his knees for long hours for the blessings of Heaven to be extended to all. Remembering this, we’ll try harder to see the individual face within the crowd.
He’ll live for us whenever we are tempted to vault ourselves above another—when we are swayed by earthly pomp and power or seek to sit in high places. We’ll remember he admitted his frailties, waited in line, and, feeling overwhelmed when called to lead, sought the Lord’s assurance.
In an age when humility is trait neither envied nor emulated, we’ll remember that his humility was not weakness but strength—that, because he was an unpretentious man who accepted whatever trial or responsibility without complaint, he cast a long shadow.
He’ll live for us every time we do not become life’s victims but lengthen our stride to use our agency to make of it something good. Too tired to try, we’ll remember he worked sixteen-hour days even when his body was aging. Too worn to change, we’ll remember he ended a conference in his eighties by drawing up a list of personal resolutions of mortal life.
He wrote with his wife, Camilla, “We have wept together, and we have laughed together, We have seen the sublime and have suffered the grotesque. Our life has been full of fun in spite of all the sad and serious things. Life has been inclusive, full, and abundant.”1
Yes, the reporters said Spencer W. Kimball died, but we know that he lives, and we who remain bask in his afterglow.
1 Miner, Caroline Eyring and Kimball, Edward L., Camilla. Deseret Book, pg. VIII.
November 10, 1985
Broadcast Number 2,934