"Resistance" Many Rivers to Cross

Because righteousness govern the world.

Broadcasting live and direct from the rolling red hills on the outskirts of Kingston, Jamaica, from a magical place at the intersection of words, sound, and power.

The Roots Land podcast.

Stories that are music to your ears.

Welcome to our Roots Land family.

Hello, everyone.

We are still here praying for our Jamaican brothers and sisters fighting to recover from the carnage of Hurricane Melissa.

And first of all, thank you to everyone who has donated to the women's shelter up in the Blue Mountains.

They're more than halfway to reaching their goal of $10,000.

Yeah.

Thank you.

Thank you, everyone.

Much appreciated.

And, Siya, how about your family, your friends?

Everyone doing well?

Recovering well?

Everybody's doing much better.

Lights are back, phones are back.

But that's my family there.

You know, a lot of people out there still are in dire needs.

You know, they don't have anything.

Everything is lost.

Well, it may be slow, but hopefully a steady journey back.

And speaking of journeys, on this episode, we continue to explore the many complex layers of what resistance really means for most of us.

When we think about putting up resistance, we picture a barrier, something to protect us from the outside forces trying to break us down.

But sometimes the real battle isn't out there.

It's inside our own doubts, our own emotions.

And tell me, do any really hit harder than regret?

What do you think, Siya?

Do you have any regrets?

Yeah.

Marrying my second husband.

I'm just kidding.

Oh, gosh.

Well, all right.

Honestly, before my journey with God, I had regrets.

But my belief is that everything is ordained, that this was meant to be.

Everything that I've experienced that was a part of my journey.

No matter how painful it is, I've learned something valuable.

I may not always agree or think I am deserving to go through certain things.

I feel like that's how it was written, if you get what I mean.

That's deep, Siya.

Very profound.

Well, I can say this.

Let regret control you.

It can cause irreparable damage.

Learn to harness it, and it can lead to unimaginable freedom.

Absolutely.

Like Bob Marley sang, emancipate yourself from mental slavery.

None but ourselves can free our minds.

So, Siya, sometimes you read a story, and it touches you in all the obvious ways.

And then somewhere near the end, something hits you a little deeper.

The details, the setting, the lifetime may be different, but something within those words seem so familiar, like it was written for you.

Well, that's what happened when I read the story of Ryan Ray Harbuck.

And although it's just one girl's journey, it shows what we all have the potential to accomplish when we finally free our minds.

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery.

None but ourselves can free our mind.

Choo choo.

Ryan grew up in the water.

The real swimmer's life.

The early mornings, the cold pools, the smell of chlorine that clings to everything.

And she was good.

Good enough to swim in the fast lane with the best of them.

But Ryan's one problem.

She didn't believe in herself, so she held back in small ways.

A goggle problem here, a shoulder issue there.

Quiet excuses, little hesitations.

Not because she didn't love swimming, but because trusting her own potential felt too big, too exposed, too risky.

Not unlike so many of us that hold ourselves back not just out of fear of failure, but out of fear of success.

Do we deserve it?

Do we even want it?

That kind of pressure, that kind of possibility can scare us just as much.

By junior year, she was tired, not physically tired, of pretending she wasn't capable of more.

Then came the night that changed everything.

A high school dance.

She was just 16 years old.

A satin primrose periwinkle dress.

A crop little jacket she felt beautiful in.

And a pair of shiny T.J. maxx patent leather shoes, a size too big, stuffed with tissues.

It was a sweet, ordinary teenage night.

On the drive home, the car she was a passenger in rolled over and crossed the median and hit another vehicle head on.

When the car stopped moving, Ryan's body was thrown from the wreck, scrawled across the cold concrete, blood starved and motionless until the paramedics arrived.

Two people died that night.

Ryan survived, but was paralyzed from the chest down.

And her memory of that night never returned.

Whether conscious or not, the cruel set of events that led to her injury was locked behind the closed doors of her mind.

It took months of recovery for her to work her way back, not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

Rehab wasn't just about building strength in the parts of her body that could still respond.

It was about learning how to live in a body that no longer matched the memory of the one she had before the accident.

And most people never see that part.

The quiet work, the small daily battles, the moments when pain isn't the only injury.

It's the realization of what's changed.

After months of hospital rooms, rehab sessions, and a body she barely recognized, she finally went back to the one place that had always made sense.

The first familiar place she had seen since the accident and the last place she expected to feel so lost.

The swimming pool.

And when her coaches hoisted her back into the water.

That's when the reality hit her.

Her legs were thin, cold, unmoving.

The water no longer felt like home.

It felt like truth.

And in that moment, she was overcome with a deep, undeniable wave of regret.

A regret she realized had nothing to do with the accident.

Not the chair, not the loss.

But with all those years before, when she still had everything and never let herself go all in, never allowed herself to live up to her full potential.

Many people, if not most, would feel defeated by life at that point.

Given to the darkness that consumes those haunted by their past.

But Ryan didn't let that regret define her.

She used it to refine her.

She returned to the pool first as a coach, guiding young swimmers who reminded her of her 16 year old self.

The ones full of talent but scared to step into it.

You mean she was paralyzed and she was still coaching?

Yes.

In the wheelchair.

Siya.

That's amazing.

Then she returned as an athlete.

Different body, but new purpose and new fire.

Up at 3:30am in the morning.

Training, pushing, owning the work she once avoided.

She broke Paris swimming records, swam internationally, proudly wore her American flag.

She chased the Paralympic dream.

And although she didn't make that final team, she ended up walking away with something far greater.

No regrets.

A life of no regrets.

That takes a lot of strength, both mental and physical.

This is what Ryan said.

I will never know what I could have done with the determination I have now.

Never know what I could have been.

I used to dream about a different path, a different life for myself.

But I've learned that doesn't serve me.

The energy and force it takes to dream something different for yourself should be used to make those changes in your everyday.

Because a single moment of regret, that raw sense of pain and oozing remorse, I decided I would never allow myself to live another minute like that ever again.

There isn't enough time in this precious world to navigate the elusive what ifs.

Take advantage of what you can control to push forward.

And that's exactly what she did.

She pushed forward, carrying that uncompromising spirit wherever she went.

In the moment that Ryan met the man of her dreams, into the day she married him, and into the miracle of having two beautiful children.

Something the doctors said would never be possible.

Wow.

She had two kids.

That's a miracle.

Yes, she had two kids.

Wow.

Incredible.

Yes.

Paralyzed.

You know what she calls her regret?

Her guiding antagonist.

Love it.

I'm gonna use that one.

Not an enemy, a companion that keeps her honest, keeps her moving, keeps her alive.

Pretty cool.

That's what real freedom is about.

You know, when I heard Ryan talk about holding herself back before the tragedy, about how she got in her own way, that's something that so many of us can relate to.

Those moments when we could have raised our hand, could have spoken up for someone, asked for a raise or a job or ask someone out on a date that we never did.

All those little chances we let pass us by.

I know about them.

The quieter kind of regret.

I remember when I finally stepped away from music.

Really stepped away.

I couldn't even listen to it for a couple years.

Any kind of music.

It all reminded me of disappointment, the heartbreak the industry dishes out over decades.

You remember what I went through, Siya, when I worked on albums.

How can I forget?

You ignored everything else.

Releasing a song or a record, it's like getting ready for an Olympic race.

You spend months preparing, fine tuning every detail, recording, mixing, fixing the things that no one else will even notice.

And then you release it into the world, hoping for that gold medal.

Or in our world, a gold record, number one hit.

And every time you think this is the one, right?

You remember that you're always the optimist.

I was.

I always thought I was good enough to win.

But it doesn't.

And you're left wondering what went wrong?

Why didn't it connect?

After decades of second, third, fourth place finishes, it wears you down, takes a toll on your spirit, on your confidence, on your belief that you belong out there in the first place.

And unlike sports and so many other things in life, the music business isn't cut and dry.

It's not always about who's the fastest, the strongest, or who wants it more.

No, the music industry is about everything except the best song.

It's about who has the biggest label budget, who can pay off the DJs and promoters, who can afford the flashy feature that pushes a track into the spotlight.

As a small independent producer, I eventually gave up.

Outmatched, outgunned, outmaneuvered.

I believed I could no longer compete with the corporate machines that played by a different set of rules.

But, Henry, you listen to music now.

You love going to festival and concerts.

Did something change?

Well, something did happen.

What changed?

One morning during my daily walk under a particularly brilliant sunrise.

For the first time in a long time, I actually felt like listening to music.

Not an audiobook, not a podcast.

Music.

I wasn't even sure if I had any left on my phone.

But I scrolled through and found an old playlist.

And through my headphones came a heavenly voice with A heavenly message.

It was Jimmy Cliff, and he sang Many rivers to cross.

But I can't seem to find my way over.

Wandering I am lost as I travel along the white cliffs of Dover.

His trembling tenor vocal hit me like electricity.

A hymn of struggle.

A man admitting he doesn't know where he's going, but he keeps moving anyway.

I played it on repeat over and over the entire walk.

Just one song.

Because the truth is, I had seen that river Jimmy was singing about.

I stood on the glorious banks, saw the other side.

So close it was within reach.

But I never crossed it.

Never made it to the far shore.

One of my deepest regrets.

So on that morning in the humid air with the waves crashing on the shore, I decided to head back into the water, get back into the game.

Not on their terms, but on mine.

A new sense of purpose, a new lane, a new way to show up.

That was the morning Roots Land was born.

And this time, I have the strength to say the things I couldn't say when I was younger and naive and scared to stand up for the artists I feel I let down.

To face my disappointments and regret head on.

Not with shame, but with clarity.

And that's where my rebirth began.

Siya.

You know, we get so many letters and emails from listeners.

Many of you parents, a lot of you, grandparents, a lot of you.

Henry, stop it.

And you're reflecting on your lives, looking back at your hits and misses, your what ifs and.

And unfulfilled dreams.

And it seems there's a kind of quiet acceptance there, almost complacency.

Like I was ready to give in.

It's as if you decided the game's over.

You've played your last innings, and now it's time to check into the Golden Acres retirement home 55 plus community.

What do they serve over there for the early bird special?

Sia?

What's that?

Mashed potatoes and green beans?

Is that a joke?

Henry, you're not that young either.

You'll soon be checking into the assisted living, too.

Come on, Roots Land Crew, you're too young.

Get off that chaise lounge and jump back into that pool, whatever your pool may be.

Jump in with the same courage as young Ryan being lowered into that water by a lift, not even knowing what the water would feel like, but trusting it was where she needed to be.

Whatever you walked away from out of fear, exhaustion, regret.

Step back in.

Jump back in.

You are never too old, never too tired, never too broken to start again or begin something new.

Take that regret you've been avoiding and as Ryan says, turn it into your guiding antagonist.

Let it push you.

Let it sharpen you.

Let it move you forward.

As the author C.S.

lewis wrote, you can't go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.

Wow.

And speaking of writing your own ending, just as I finished recording the last words of this episode, I heard some breaking news from right here in South Florida, close to where many of us are right now.

And I felt the need, the responsibility, to rewrite this ending so I can honor a man and his daughter that became the latest victims of Hurricane Melissa.

Not from the storm's winds, but from the weight of trying to help the people it left behind.

A Christian missionary, Alexander worm, who was 53 years old, and his young daughter, Serena, just 22.

They were flying towards Jamaica with humanitarian aid.

Medical supplies, water filters, satellite equipment, on a mission to bring light into some of the darkest corners of the storm's aftermath.

The airplane went down in a South Florida neighborhood, into a small pond.

Missing homes by grace alone.

Still two lives gone.

A father and a daughter together on their final mission.

It turns out Alex was a man with a vision for the Caribbean.

Not a tourist's vision, but a servant's vision.

When the hurricane hit, he didn't wait for someone to ask.

He moved.

He acted.

He delivered.

He showed up for us.

He showed up for Jamaica, for our brothers and sisters on the ground who had nothing but faith to hold onto.

And tonight, as we sit here and listen, with the privilege of roofs over our heads and with the freedom to rewrite our own endings, let us pause and honor a man who wasn't rewriting his ending.

He was writing hours.

He was delivering hope to people he didn't know in a land he loved enough to risk everything for.

So tonight, as Jamaica rebuilds, as families mourn, as communities try to find their footing after Hurricane Melissa, we honor their service.

We honor their courage.

And we honor that spirit that carried them skyward.

A spirit rooted not in fear, but in compassion, in mission, and in the belief that helping one another is the only way we can make it through storms like this.

Rest in peace, Alexander and Serena Wurm.

Your final flight was a mission of love.

And to my Roots, Land, family.

Hold your loved ones close.

Call someone you've been meaning to call.

Serve someone who can't repay you.

Write your ending with intention and let your resistance be rooted always in love.

Until next time.

One love, one heart.

We are Roots.

Land.

Produced by Henry Cade.