Wherein a Rasta Mon Changes My Perspective

A week ago my hubby Buns and I did something decidedly unusual for us. We went on a cruise. This was not something we had done before for a multitude of reasons. Those reasons mainly being tied to the financial and logistical constraints of rearing four late model children. 

Many family road and camping trips had been pursued up to this point, with 4,297 toddler bathroom stops in every repulsive germ infested truck stop on the West Coast along the way, but never had Buns and I gone, just us, to do much of anything. 

This year my awesome mother-in-law took pity on our lack of grown-up vacation experience and arranged for us to accompany her on a kids-free week long trip to the Western Caribbean. My mom and sister bravely volunteered to watch the troops while we journeyed.

The trip was oh-so-fun. The ship beautiful, the activities exciting, the food scrum-didili-upmtious, and the sea breezes divine. As we made our way  from port to port, picking up Mexican vanilla, souvenir T-shirts, and talavera pottery along the way I found my mind wandering to home and worrying about how the kids were doing, the bills that we needed to pay when we got back, if the plumbing was behaving itself, what was going on at work. 

Worrying is a genetic trait in my family. Along with our Scandinavian genealogy which provides mayonnaise white easily sunburnt skin, we worry. A lot. And usually it is about stuff that has only a 0.01% chance of actually happening. 

Will I be attacked by rabid squirrels today? Is the low grade fever my 5 year old has really the black plague? Will the pint-sized mistake I made at work bankrupt the entire company and bring hoards of raving lawyers down on us?

Then there is the worry about spiritual growth. Am I overcoming this weakness fast enough? Why can’t I find the answer to my question right this instant? Why do I have to suffer this particular trial? Haven’t I already learned this lesson?

Never mind the waving palm trees and the coral pink sunsets, I worried the toilet at home was going to somehow explode and I wouldn’t be there to take care of it.

Then we got to Jamaica. A beautiful port- clean and controlled by the cruise companies with smiling merchants selling wood carvings and hand-made dolls, Bob Marley playing over the loudspeakers. After perusing the vendors for a while it was decided we would leave the walls of our tourist enclosure and venture into the city to see if we could find real Jamaican jerk chicken. 

The city outside was a different place altogether. Crumbling buildings painted tropical colors lined narrow streets. Beat up 25 year old cars raced by with reckless abandon, honking at pedestrians to get out of the way as they bounced up and over the sidewalks. Cab drivers lined the streets and aggressively accosted us to take a ride in their vans. I was even offered a joint by a young man trying to sell his Reggae album for $10.

It was clear that the lives of the people living there were tough. Money was scarce, the living conditions were difficult, and that to keep yourself and your family fed you had to really hustle.

As we walked deeper into the city after getting directions to a local restaurant, we came to a man selling handmade necklaces at a little table on the side of the road. He was old. He was small. His salt and pepper hair hung almost to his waist in dreadlocks over a filthy white T-shirt. He wore a dilapidated Rastafarian cap and as we stopped to talk to him I realized he had the most beautiful soft brown eyes I have ever seen. They were the color of coffee beans and were full of humor and love and wisdom. 

He told us that he was a Rasta Mon who lived in the mountains above town. He made his living by carving jewelry and selling it to the travelers who came by sea for a day, but what he also did was teach. He wanted people to taste the culture and the way of life in Jamaica. He wanted to transmit his truth.

In the course of five short minutes we learned about the life colors of his people. 

Red for the blood of their ancestors who had spent hundreds of years in slavery.

Yellow for the life giving sun that dominates the sky. 

Green for the trees and plants that sustain man.

Black for the skin of the people.

He spoke about the deep connection mankind has to the earth and through a thick accent told us about their attitude that no matter what the circumstances that there was no need to worry. Everything was going to be all right. Life is beautiful and we have power even in the humblest of circumstances.

Irie. Power, beauty, love.

As we walked away from our encounter I marveled at the deep faith this man had in a higher power. It was part of his being, he knew that even in the harshest circumstances God would take care of him and bring him to a place of peace. There was no doubt. Pain, poverty, oppression, none of it mattered. All you had to do was come out of the mindset that creates injustice and you could change the world. Love your fellow man, stop being greedy, trust God and stop worrying, it will be alright. 

The idea is basic and profoundly freeing. I imagine the ritualistic cannabis smoking helps with the easy going outlook as well, but even for someone who doesn’t participate in that activity the basis of their belief system is a universal truth we should take notice of. 

Obsessive worry is just doubt and lack of faith, a break down in the trust I should have in God. As smart and sophisticated as I think I am I’m really just second guessing the Almighty when I worry. The toilet will be OK. Life will be OK. It's all a blessing.

So relax, don’t worry. Everything is gonna be alright.

Irie.

Brenda

D&C 100:12 Therefore, continue your journey and let your hearts rejoice; for behold, and lo, I am with you even unto the end. 

I found truth in the tropics, what unexpected place have you found it?

Sam's Story

This is Sam

I have always admired large families. In my teen years several of my close friends were the products of those types. Seven kids, ten kids, nine kids. Those households were crazy and messy and fun. This had an impact on me.  I ordered up a soccer team of boys for my future expectations.

After getting married and checking the first two slots off of my all-boys roster in quick succession, the genetic quirks that had limited my mom to four kids and my grandmother to three manifested themselves. For eight long years we tried and failed to have our third. The doctors were not encouraging; my body looked at pregnancy like it was a peanut butter and onion sandwich. Blech, no thanks.

I was beyond grateful for the two awesome boys I had and finally came to terms with the fact that it just wasn’t in the cards that we should have another baby. It was then, once I had accepted God’s will that a miracle occurred. 

That miracle arrived after a tumultuous 8 ½ months of health issues and eventual bed rest. No kidding that little super-pink bundle of joy nearly did me in. It was such a rocky road that when it was over and we had a healthy baby girl in our arms I said to Buns “never again!” 

Life went on and due to the disturbing realization that it takes money to raise three kids, Buns and I found ourselves on the hamster wheel. I worked at a bank days, he did technical support nights. We would pass each other coming and going and our conversations happened on phone calls at break times. 

I would come home from stressful fast paced workdays and cook dinner, help with homework, do laundry, and make sure everyone was bathed and ready for the next day. Then there was the other million things that moms do. On top of that our little girl had nonstop ear infections. She and I sat up countless nights, rocking and trying everything to soothe the pain in her ears. I was exhausted, and because of the economic conditions of the area, didn’t see any possibility of getting out of our hamster cage anytime soon.

Even with the situation not being ideal, we were happy and I would think to myself “man I sure am glad we are done having kids, I just couldn’t do it again.” 

You can imagine my surprise, when on one of the rare days a week Buns and I were home together, he said to me “Brenda, I feel like we need to have another baby.” After doing a proverbial spit take I nearly shouted “you can’t be serious?” 

So that you don’t get the wrong impression, Buns is not a person who likes watching his spouse run herself into the ground. He gets no joy out of torturing her (unless it is to fluff the covers once in a while). He knew our situation but had been having the impression for some time and had prayerfully considered it. He knew how I was going to react, but could not keep ignoring that prompting.

After a few minutes of hyperventilating, I decided that there was no way God was going to ask this of me. He knew I was going to get sick. He knew it was going to take everything I had to be pregnant and keep up what I was doing. There was no way he was going to ask me to do this. It was too hard. I decided to pray about it, confident that the answer was going to be that Buns was just engaging in wishful thinking. 

I chose to ask my question a few days later in a quiet spot in our bedroom. I started off telling Heavenly Father all of the reasons this was a bad idea. It wasn’t that I didn’t want another child, I did, but the circumstances were just not right. I couldn’t do it. I then told Father that I would do His will whatever that was, but I was certain I knew what the answer would be. As I knelt there I had a sense of peace fill my heart but didn’t get a yes or no. I stayed for a while waiting but nothing came. 

I got up and headed out into the hall. As I did, I glanced over at a small table that was next to the door. There on the table was a copy of the Ensign magazine. The cover picture was a beautiful painting by Carl Bloch of Christ, He was pointing to a little boy. They were both looking expectantly at me. I stopped in my tracks and could not tear my eyes from that picture. 

Frozen in that moment, the Spirit flooded me with the knowledge that there was a little boy, a member of our family, who was waiting to join us. His name was Sam and nothing would be complete without him. All the worry about work, and kids, energy, and health evaporated instantly. Sam was waiting and we needed him. 

Tears streaming down my face I went to tell Buns what I had learned. Even with that powerful confirmation of the Spirit I knew it had taken almost 9 years the last time around. Sam would probably take a decade to arrive.

One month later I was pregnant. 

As expected, there were serious trials to be had and overcome in the short term. And even with the conviction that I was doing the Lord's will, there was some major whining done on my part. It was hard, it was scary, there were many moments spent by myself, and Buns, and others praying for us. Priesthood blessings were had. Once again, bed rest was impatiently endured. Thankfully Sammy arrived healthy and happy. 

Not too much later our life in the world of hamsters ended with a move across the country to a place where the pace is slow and everyone has a drawl. We were directed  to a situation that allowed us to be together, to take care of our kids in the way we wanted, and to slow down.

Now as I look at my precocious, adorable, long-lashed Sam I shake my head at the foolishness of my selfish attitude. I don't know better than the Lord what will bring joy into my life. My perspective is so limited, why can't I let go and trust him more? Part of me knows that it is because I am a wimp and with the best blessings there always seems to be hard work, faith, overcoming fear, and pain to be had before we get to the good stuff. And sometimes things don't work out the way we think they should. Sometimes they do. 

Either way when we keep doing His will the joy eventually comes, the blessing is exponentially bigger than the discomfort of the trial preceding it, and He is able to teach and bless us in completely wonderful and unexpected ways.

And sometimes that blessing will squeeze your cheeks between his little hands and say "I wuv you mom."

Cheers,

Brenda