Sanity Clause

Dear friends and family,

Yesterday marked two years since I arrived in Jamaica!
And how perfect that it was a Sunday – my favorite day. Also, you’ll note, a day of religion; an ideal time to tell you about last month when a crowd of black people prayed explicitly for your safety and wellbeing.

Story time:
I was in Santa Cruz when I saw a large assembly – complete with a minivan, tent, two folding tables, a microphone, stacks of speakers, and a sizable crowd. My instinct, you’ll appreciate, is to avoid. As I was casually crossing the street to establish distance I overheard (mildly put) multiple, fanatical “Jesus” shrieks and deduced that this was a parking-lot revival of sorts. Later, after having my spirit purified, I found out that this particular Church group is semi-famous; hailing from Kingston they are featured on TV Jamaica at 7am Sunday mornings performing “Revival Hour” (ironically, 30 minutes long).

Anyhow, back to the drama. I was skirting by, as unnoticed as a bruise on a banana, when a few of my dear community members spotted me, smiled, called my name, and wildly motioned that I should come and attend this service. They seemed happy but I’ve been to Jamaican services before…5 hours later I pledged to myself that I would never have to do that again. Color me white, but I am a grownup who does not break her promises. So, from across the street, I graciously gave a friendly wave of acknowledgment and then skillfully gesticulated that I cannot come stand over there because I am, in fact, Jewish.

Did you know that miming ‘yamaka’ is not universally understood?
I couldn’t believe it either so I re-mimed with clearer articulation.
The pastor with the loudspeaker detected something was amiss – A soul that needed restoration? – and paused his sermon. I froze. The air was pregnant with curiosity and rituals. How do you hide the fact that bunnies do not lay eggs?

“Whitie!” I heard over the megaphone.
The crowd of dark-skinned Jamaicans collectively turned towards me.
I smiled. Waved. Then casually tried to shuffle away ruminating, ‘I’m brown’.

“Come! The Lord is calling! The Lord is speaking to me!”, he bellowed. The preacher re-established his groove, his voice escalating, “In the Lords name! Can I get a Hallalujah for this Whitie?”

Barring any unlikely persons with pigment deficiencies, he was talking to me. I decided to take this in stride. Why not? I’d been in (almost) this exact situation other times in Jamaica so I had practice. “The Lord! In Jesus’ name! Come!! Let us pray!”, he yearned. I faced the throng; I was in a good mood and while the preacher spouted energetic blessings into the microphone, I walked into the nucleolus. As I maneuvered, I reflected how lucky I was; a group of people was about to give me strength.

When I reached the pastor he was covered in sweat, his white shirt soaked through and his black skin glistened. Seized by the spirit myself, I shouted a few “hallalujahs” and felt him take each of my arms and thrust them into the air. With his hands on my head he convulsed into the microphone, “Jesus! Jesus! He wants me to pray for you! Give you health! Safe travels! This beautiful country! Can I get an Amen?”
I heard murmurs of ‘Amen’.
“The Lord he ask nothing of you”, he continued, still touching the spot where my yamaka might lay, “in Jesus’ name! Bless this woman! Bless her family! Her friends! Those who know her foreign and those who know her community! Bless them! Provide for them! Their travels. We ask of you Lord! Care for her!” He was on a roll. An amplified, so-loud-it-diminishes-your-experience, passionate, heart-felt roll. “Make the devil not take she! Guide her! Jesus! Jesus! We ask you! Lord! Keep evil away! Jesus!”, his eyes rolled back into his head. I grew concerned until he jumped up with new urgency and I saw that he was okay. “Say his name!”, he commanded. “Say the Lords name! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”, he burgeoned on hysterical.
I closed my eyes, serenely smiled, and sent a silent, personal prayer of gratitude to Ms. Dawkins for all those elementary school acting class. “Jesus”, I started, my smile broadened; if Rabbi Art Donsky could see me now! “Jesus! Jesus! Thank you Jesus!”, it was easy once I got going. “Jesus! Lord Jesus, thank you!”, my heart rate was elevated and I started sweating; I was into this.

The preacher took his hands off of me and spun me around in a circle. “Yes, yes”, he muttered, “God Bless” and sent me out of the spotlight. Just like that, my holy session had ended. I noticed then that the crowd had gotten larger — which made sense because, in Jamaica, the only thing ruder than pointing and staring is not pointing and staring — and I caught the eyes of my community members as we sieved towards each other.
“Mah sah! That was quite a prayer!”, Mr. Higgler pronounced. “Yeah, I feel like I’ve been sufficiently protected from all sorts of evil!”, I declared, wiping my brow. “Not to mention your friends and family”, Rocky elaborated.
Ah yes, my esteemed friends and family.

So,if you’re counted among my friends and family – and let’s assume by reading this you are – this past month you were professionally prayed for, redeemed.

With (officially) 2 years of experience and all due veneration, you’re welcome.
‘mi