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What Have I Done With Their Name?

As told to me by my mother:

      "It’s a boy!" the doctor exclaimed as he pulled the rest of my body into the world.
      "What?" my mother replied in astonishment. "Check again!"
      The doctor, in an attempt to prove his point, grabbed me by the legs and held me upside down so my mother could see. "He’s got all the right plumbing for a boy."
      Mother had been expecting a girl, and now, she faced a dilemma. Angela April Moll is what I was supposed to be named. But now, I had no name and no identity. In the baby nursery I was labeled as "boy--Moll."
      That day was January 5, 1982. My mother and father stewed over what to name me for almost four days. Being one-sixteenth Indian, my father tried to name me like the Indians as he watched out the window at the rain clouds above. He stubbornly insisted Rain Cloud be recorded on my birth certificate as my name. Fortunately, there is a God and his wish wasn’t granted. However, during that time many names were thought of, but just as many were rejected. I was supposed to have a family name, but Herman, Charles, Melvin, Worth, Junior and Miller were not too appealing.
      To make a long story short, I was eventually named Jared Benjamin Moll. Jared came from the Book of Mormon story of the Brother of Jared, and Benjamin came from the prophet and King Benjamin. I had been given an honorable name to represent me throughout the rest of my life. Unfortunately, many times in the past I have not lived up to my name.
      I can remember the time when my grandfather (Charles* is what we called him) and Uncle Bill* were living at our house when I was around the age of sixteen. Grandma had passed away about a year before, and Bill had never married, so it was just the two of them. Charles just recently had surgery on his stomach a couple months earlier to remove the cancer that had developed because of smoking. For ten hours the doctors scraped the cancer off his intestines like gum stuck to cement. After the surgery was complete, the doctor reported to my parents that it would be at least five months before Charles would be able to take care of himself again. Uncle Bill could not take care of him alone, so Charles and Bill came to stay with us.
      My grandfather was an old man. He spoke in a heavy, raspy voice, often accompanied by hacking coughs. He weighed a mere 105 pounds and had a neck that could be mistaken for a popsicle stick. His skin was wrinkled and rough and his fingers shook non-stop. The stench of cigarette smoke followed him wherever he went. Charles was a friendly man, but he always had a reason to yell at his son, Bill. The two of them were constantly bickering, often yelling at each other for no apparent reason. The Lord’s name was a common exclamation they used in their many arguments. When Grandpa got mad, there was never a "Please be quiet," or a "Please stop it, Bill." Instead it was a "Bill! Shut up!" yelled with fury, often accompanied by a few swear words.
      I loved my grandpa and my uncle as I should, but they sometimes influenced the harmony and spirit that resided in our home. When they lived with us there was a definite change and sometimes it didn’t exactly feel like "Home Sweet Home." I was constantly hiding in my room, only appearing once or twice to partake of the basic nutrients of food and water. Every night my mother would come into my room and ask me how I felt about having Grandpa and Bill there.
      "Oh, I’m fine. It doesn’t bother me," I would reply, masking my true feelings. Deep down inside I was upset with the whole situation. I had little faith that things would get better anytime soon. I hated having our house smell like smoke. I hated the fact that my uncle drank alcohol, and I despised the constant arguing between my grandpa and uncle.
      At night when I knelt down to pray, I was not looking for how I could help solve the situation. "God, don’t get me wrong," I prayed, "I love my grandpa and Bill, but I also love having our home clean, both physically and spiritually. I am having trouble dealing with them being here, but I know you will take care of it. I will try my best to be patient, but if you could take care of it soon, it would be greatly appreciated." Every morning when I woke up, I expected my prayers to be answered and my problems to be over. However, my prayers were not answered instantly.
      Five months later my grandfather and uncle left to go home. After they left, I contemplated the events of the past five months. I began to realize that through all of the trials we faced, my actions were not indicative of my name. I did not resemble the faith and devotion of the Brother of Jared. Instead of waiting on the Lord to take care of my problems, I should have been working to find the "stones" to lighten up our darkened home. I should have done my part and asked the Lord what He required of me to help resolve our problem. I had forgotten the noble man I had been named after, and I failed to act accordingly.


*Names have been changed
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