Lessons Learned from an Island Lullaby

Nearly twenty years ago, I was stuck at an airport on the other side of the world, filing a report about a missing bag. Three days of flights to get to this tropical island had left me dizzy. And hot. Unbelievably hot. In an attempt to limit luggage weight, I was wearing a suit, three shirts, two pairs of socks, and I had several more articles of clothing stuffed in my suit jacket pockets. My carry-on bag had been loaded with books. They had forced me to check it for the last leg of my journey. Then they lost both my suitcase and carry-on.

I literally had the clothes on my back and my set of scriptures. At least I had several clothes on my back.

I was on an island called La Réunion, a little volcanic rock in the Indian Ocean. For comparison, it’s about 80% of the size of Rhode Island, the smallest state in the U.S. I was there to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Yes, I was one of THOSE guys in white shirts with a black nametag. Never had to ride a bike though.

I stayed on this island for two years. We walked a lot and got pretty sweaty. I even saw a missionary get a sunburn through two layers of clothing. Cyclone season was pretty gnarly – I witnessed a palm tree bend completely sideways in extreme winds. We had doors slammed in our faces, although the more common response was just silence. On this island, most everybody has a fenced yard. The polite procedure is to yell out from the gate (in their version of French Créole), “Is anyone there?” When we heard them reply, “No,” we got the hint.

I loved it. Part of what made life sweet was the challenging, hard work of it all. And the people were amazing. Incredible diversity, a true “reunion” of languages, foods, beliefs, cultures, somehow all connected by the difficult history their ancestors had carved out on this land.

I learned a native lullaby while I served there. A sweet story of love and loss, "Ti fleur fané" became an expression of my connection to the island, to this people. Penned in the native Créole, which has no official written language rules, the song roughly translates as follows (I’m skipping the repetitions):

Do you remember my beloved,

The little bouquet you gave to me?

It’s been a long time since it wilted.

Do you remember how that was so long ago?

Little wilted flower, little loved flower,

Tell me still, what is love?

I was walking in the forest,

It was nice out, it was fresh.

There was dew in the grass,

In the sky, the birds were singing.

Little wilted flower, little loved flower,

Tell me still, what is love?

Since then, time has passed.

Only a sweet memory remains.

When I think of it, my heart breaks.

Everything here below must end the same way.

Little wilted flower, little loved flower,

Tell me still, what is love?

At the end of my two years on La Réunion, these words became more painfully meaningful. I was leaving the families who had welcomed me into their homes, their lives. I would no longer share a meal at their table, laugh together at my linguistic errors, weep with them in prayer for their loved ones, or encourage divine connection at their podiums and marketplaces. Like everything “here below,” my mission experience was ending the same way as the little wilted flower. I had known love, but now it was just a “sweet memory.”

After returning home, I resumed my university studies. I met the most amazing woman, and we got married. I had found love again, this time with dreams of our starting a beautiful family. Of course, just like the mission, we were destined for challenges.

We dealt with infertility for seven years. All kinds of treatments, needles, procedures. Other people poking and investigating where you REALLY don’t want them to. Mapping out and planning the most sacred expressions of love, turning intimacy and privacy into a scientific endeavor. Weary and broken, we gave up.

Occasionally, I would sing this lullaby from the mission to my sweet wife because I couldn’t sing it to any children. The words stung, especially the second verse, for we were supposed to have a model existence. We were young. There was supposed to be dew in the grass, birds singing in the sky. Ultimately, we accepted that our family dreams as we had imagined them, were dying. As do all things “here below.” Every time we thought of this struggle, our hearts broke, just as the lyrics explained.

We changed our plans and became foster parents. We ended up adopting three beautiful, intelligent, amazingly wonderful girls. They come from different backgrounds, but they all faced tough circumstances in their youth. They have their own stories to tell. Whenever I had the chance, I sang this lullaby to each of them.

As the words in the song relate, new life situations tend to start out rosy, but times inevitably get harder. Our older daughters have muddled through teenage years, hormones, ugly social norms, and the struggle of discovering their identity while trying to make sense of their past, present, and future. They have turned to self-medication, substance abuse, and harmful or destructive habits. They have run away more times than I can count, even for months at a time. They have walked down numerous dark roads.

We follow when we can.

The words from this lullaby echo in my mind. It was nice out, it was fresh. Do you remember how that was so long ago? My little, loved, wilted flowers, tell me still, what is love?

Our youngest daughter has her own challenges. She doesn’t want to make some of the choices her sisters made. We pray she sticks to a path that doesn’t lead to broken hearts all around. We still have hope for our older daughters of course, and we get occasional glimpses of great decisions they make. These are the moments we live for.

Through all this, I still love this lullaby and the story it tells. I still sing it whenever I have a chance. I have come to learn there is much more solace in the unspoken words, the unwritten song.

Yes, everything on earth must die. All happy times must come to a close. We’ve certainly dealt with our share of heartache and pain to see these truths again and again. But while everything “here below” just leaves a memory’s souvenir when it concludes, there is something greater, something “up above,” something eternal.

I believe in my soul, in my wife’s soul, and in my children’s souls. Our relationships are eternal. I’m sure we’ll still have plenty of challenges to overcome, together, because that seems to be the natural course of life. More importantly, it seems to be the natural course of love.

Vi souviens mon nénère adore, le ti bouquet kou la don à moin.

Na lontan ke li lé fané, vi souviens, comme ça lé loin.

Vi souviens mon nénère adore, le ti bouquet kou la don à moin.

Na lontan ke li lé fané, vi souviens, comme ça lé loin.

Ti fleur fané, ti fleur aimé, di a moin toujours, kouk c'est que l'amour.

Ti fleur fané, ti fleur aimé, di a moin toujours, kouk c'est que l'amour.

Mi marché dan la forêt, i faisait bon, i faisait frais.

Dans zerbes navé la rosé, dans le ciel zoizo i santé.

Mi marché dan la forêt, i faisait bon, i faisait frais.

Dans zerbes navé la rosé, dans le ciel zoizo i santé.

Ti fleur fané, ti fleur aimé, di a moin toujours, kouk c'est que l'amour.

Ti fleur fané, ti fleur aimé, di a moin toujours, kouk c'est que l'amour.

Depuis ça, le temps l'a passé, i reste plus qu'un doux souvenir.

Quand mi pense mon coeur lé brisé, tout ici bas comme ça i doit finir.

Depuis ça, le temps l'a passé, i reste plus qu'un doux souvenir.

Quand mi pense mon coeur lé brisé, tout ici bas comme ça i doit finir.

Ti fleur fané, ti fleur aimé, di a moin toujours, kouk c'est que l'amour.

Ti fleur fané, ti fleur aimé, di a moin toujours, kouk c'est que l'amour.

Di a moin toujours, kouk c’est que l’amour.