Travel-size Peacemonger
by Heather Smith
I
was born in Honolulu, Hawai'i, to a mixed-race family soon after the
Civil Rights movement. I was very small for one side of the family, and
average-sized for the other. My father joked later that they made me
travel-size in preparation for their future in the military. My parents
were an oddity; my father was a Filipino married to a Caucasian woman. I
didn't know that was unusual while I lived in that island paradise
because many people there have mixed heritage.
They can be a quarter Chinese, half Caucasian, and suspect that the rest
of their heritage could be Samoan-African-Portuguese, and cheerfully
carry on with life. Life is easy where air is thick with sea and
flowers.
When I was about to start kindergarten, we moved to Nebraska. Moving is always a shock to the system, especially for children, but moving from Hawai'i to Cornhusker territory made shock an understatement. I had never seen snow except in pictures or on the tops of distant mountains. My mother still laughs at my first snowfall, and my indignation that a plane had wasted good vanilla ice-cream all over our yard. She laughs harder about my trying to find the end of the dump-site. I have not yet heard the end of her re-telling.
My parents were more than different races. They came from different cultures, different places, and different religions. My mother had converted from the Southern Baptist Church to Mormonism in her early twenties. My father was raised Roman Catholic. But for all of our differences, my family and I found a peace that transcended any background, and for that reason I still love those four years in Nebraska where we found the same God.
I became aware of spiritual differences between people at the age of 7. Most of all, I realized that my beloved parents had their hearts set on different beliefs. For example, my father went to mass on important holidays or during troubled times, while my mother often took us to her church so we could fidget through sacrament meeting and play with our friends for two hours. My siblings and I mostly went with my mother, but occasionally we went with my father. I began to ask questions, trying to sort out my world.
My questions stirred up a lot of conversation. One night, my parents sat me down after the other children had been put to bed. I was just excited that I could stay up past my bed-time, like an adult. I didn't anticipate the rather mature topic of conversation that followed. They asked me questions. I answered. I asked why. They looked at each other, and then basically said this, with one picking up where the other left off, like a speech they had rehearsed in parts:
“Your mother and I love you very much...”
Uh oh.
“...we know that there is a God, and Jesus Christ, and a Holy Ghost...”
Okay; I know that, too.
“...but I can't tell you that he's wrong and I'm right...”
“...and I won't tell you that I'm right and she's wrong...”
“...but we agree on this:...”
“...you will have to find out which one is right for you.”
With that, I was soon ushered to bed with a thoughtful expression. I had some very large expectations on my very small shoulders. My father joked about my being travel size (I am convinced that I blew my chance of growing taller when I secretly fed my peas to the garbage can long ago), yet, despite my diminutive form, my parents were trusting me with a great responsibility: finding my God.
When I was about to start kindergarten, we moved to Nebraska. Moving is always a shock to the system, especially for children, but moving from Hawai'i to Cornhusker territory made shock an understatement. I had never seen snow except in pictures or on the tops of distant mountains. My mother still laughs at my first snowfall, and my indignation that a plane had wasted good vanilla ice-cream all over our yard. She laughs harder about my trying to find the end of the dump-site. I have not yet heard the end of her re-telling.
My parents were more than different races. They came from different cultures, different places, and different religions. My mother had converted from the Southern Baptist Church to Mormonism in her early twenties. My father was raised Roman Catholic. But for all of our differences, my family and I found a peace that transcended any background, and for that reason I still love those four years in Nebraska where we found the same God.
I became aware of spiritual differences between people at the age of 7. Most of all, I realized that my beloved parents had their hearts set on different beliefs. For example, my father went to mass on important holidays or during troubled times, while my mother often took us to her church so we could fidget through sacrament meeting and play with our friends for two hours. My siblings and I mostly went with my mother, but occasionally we went with my father. I began to ask questions, trying to sort out my world.
My questions stirred up a lot of conversation. One night, my parents sat me down after the other children had been put to bed. I was just excited that I could stay up past my bed-time, like an adult. I didn't anticipate the rather mature topic of conversation that followed. They asked me questions. I answered. I asked why. They looked at each other, and then basically said this, with one picking up where the other left off, like a speech they had rehearsed in parts:
“Your mother and I love you very much...”
Uh oh.
“...we know that there is a God, and Jesus Christ, and a Holy Ghost...”
Okay; I know that, too.
“...but I can't tell you that he's wrong and I'm right...”
“...and I won't tell you that I'm right and she's wrong...”
“...but we agree on this:...”
“...you will have to find out which one is right for you.”
With that, I was soon ushered to bed with a thoughtful expression. I had some very large expectations on my very small shoulders. My father joked about my being travel size (I am convinced that I blew my chance of growing taller when I secretly fed my peas to the garbage can long ago), yet, despite my diminutive form, my parents were trusting me with a great responsibility: finding my God.
But for all of our differences, my family and I found a peace that transcended any background, and for that reason I still love those four years in Nebraska where we found the same God.
I began to ask the
people around me for help in my search: neighbors, play-mates, and
grandmotherly women tending their gardens who didn't mind speaking to a
little girl who helped pluck-up weeds. I asked priests,
pastors, and bishops, and eventually my mother asked some
grandparent-type missionaries to come over so I could ask them, too. My
conclusions after speaking with each one were the same: the only way to
find God was to call Him.
I tried for two straight weeks; I prayed morning, night, and over meals. I think I told the missionaries that I was getting a busy tone. After they stopped laughing (why do people keep doing that?), they asked if I had listened for God to answer. Oh. Good point, I thought. I began to wait afterward each time.
I received an answer on a school night. No words can properly describe communion with God, but human beings still try. What I will say is that it is the purest, strongest peace that I have ever experienced.
I shared what I had learned with the missionaries the next day, before telling my family that I now understood what I had to do. I, travel-size child, had to follow my God and show others how to find Him, too. I had to do that by serving people and setting an example. Again, I felt pure peace fill the room. I could identify it then and now as the Spirit of God.
I have since learned much more, have traveled with a military father, as a missionary, and now as an Air Force wife. I cannot be ashamed of what brings joy all over the world. I have been over most of it, and seen the change in me is not isolated; the God of a whole world is at work. Traveling to church buildings where I do not even know the language, I still feel that same peace. This is what keeps me centered, no matter where I go, and I am thankful to be travel-size.
I tried for two straight weeks; I prayed morning, night, and over meals. I think I told the missionaries that I was getting a busy tone. After they stopped laughing (why do people keep doing that?), they asked if I had listened for God to answer. Oh. Good point, I thought. I began to wait afterward each time.
I received an answer on a school night. No words can properly describe communion with God, but human beings still try. What I will say is that it is the purest, strongest peace that I have ever experienced.
I shared what I had learned with the missionaries the next day, before telling my family that I now understood what I had to do. I, travel-size child, had to follow my God and show others how to find Him, too. I had to do that by serving people and setting an example. Again, I felt pure peace fill the room. I could identify it then and now as the Spirit of God.
I have since learned much more, have traveled with a military father, as a missionary, and now as an Air Force wife. I cannot be ashamed of what brings joy all over the world. I have been over most of it, and seen the change in me is not isolated; the God of a whole world is at work. Traveling to church buildings where I do not even know the language, I still feel that same peace. This is what keeps me centered, no matter where I go, and I am thankful to be travel-size.
Heather
Smith is earning her Bachelor's degree in Professional Writing at
Brigham Young University-Idaho. She has traveled between continents and
the Pacific Islands since the age of 4 as a representative of the
United States. She hopes to travel many more places while promoting
understanding between nations with her words.