Which story do I tell today?
Do I choose from the tragedies and tell about the traffic safety awareness guy who lost his government job because of quake-related budget cuts, and lost his work buddy who ducked out of work and went to a gift shop on the coast just before the wave? The somber silence when he said "I stayed at work and didn't go with him"?
Do I choose from the smiles and tell about the mom who stopped by for relief goods with her three-year-old boy after picking him up from kindergarten, and her sheer enjoyment of watching him play with an American volunteer's kids? For hours?
Do I highlight a volunteer and tell about the prayer artist who drew prayer pictures all day for people at the assistance center cafe and during a barbecue supper at an evacuation center? How each recipient brightened a couple notches when they received them?
How about the most memorable evacuee of the day? She started rather brusquely, informing the artist that she wanted two pictures done for her grandkids, a three-year-old girl and a 7th-grade boy. He obliged graciously. Each picture was captioned "God loves you," but in kid-speak: "God likes you VERY much!"
She started to soften when the little one's picture turned out to look quite a bit like her granddaughter. I went into the shelter to get her when he had finished the pictures, so she could see them. Grandma approved.
The artist moved on to his next picture.
Then Grandma saw something and suddenly took a couple of steps backward in sheer surprise, stared at the artist for a few seconds, and stage-whispered to me: "Is he pr... praying??" I said "Yes, he prays when he draws each picture. Each child is prayed for." "Oh?" She went back into the shelter to wait while the pictures dried. She looked a bit dazed.
When I took the pictures to her a few minutes later, she bowed deeply, put her palms together, and took the pictures with both hands, gently and reverently, telling her friend "The artist prayed."
Now the pictures were holy and precious. Wish I could be there when she gives them to her grandbabies.
I'll tell you one thing. They'll know they were prayed for.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Lil' sis
Her big sister set the stage. "This one here basically survived the tsunami by holding onto the wooden deck." Then she sat back and smiled as her little sister told the story.
She loaded her elderly neighbors into her car and was about to get in and drive them away to safety. Just then, she saw the wave. It was seven meters tall (that's about 21 feet). No time. She slammed the car door and grabbed onto the closest solid object: the wooden deck.
"If I hadn't, I would have been washed away and wouldn't be here." Her own voice was casual. Big sis was teary-eyed.
We thanked her for being here.
The neighbors survived too. The car floated. They evacuated safely to their son's home and she hasn't seen them since.
Lil' sis is very casual about her experience. Big sis is by her side. Maybe the tears have come and gone. Maybe they're on their way. But I sense that big sis knows a hero when she sees one, and will be nearby when lil' sis needs a shoulder to lean on.
Who ever imagined that slamming a car door and risking her own death would save two lives?
I'm with big sis on this one. I'm proud I met a hero today.
Thank You Papa, for protection in the midst of tragedy.
She loaded her elderly neighbors into her car and was about to get in and drive them away to safety. Just then, she saw the wave. It was seven meters tall (that's about 21 feet). No time. She slammed the car door and grabbed onto the closest solid object: the wooden deck.
"If I hadn't, I would have been washed away and wouldn't be here." Her own voice was casual. Big sis was teary-eyed.
We thanked her for being here.
The neighbors survived too. The car floated. They evacuated safely to their son's home and she hasn't seen them since.
Lil' sis is very casual about her experience. Big sis is by her side. Maybe the tears have come and gone. Maybe they're on their way. But I sense that big sis knows a hero when she sees one, and will be nearby when lil' sis needs a shoulder to lean on.
Who ever imagined that slamming a car door and risking her own death would save two lives?
I'm with big sis on this one. I'm proud I met a hero today.
Thank You Papa, for protection in the midst of tragedy.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Prop us up
You can blame the weather for one of our best debris workers being glassy-eyed on the couch tonight. It's hot and drippingly humid today. One lady has been bringing him cold cloths, I went to buy some spring water ice, and another lady is cooking some soft rice gruel to help revive him a bit.
You can blame impatience for my tears today, when I got a bit over-worried about having more opportunities with kids. The gentle one sat me down in the hallway couch and heard me out.
Then there's one of our treasures, who slept over twelve hours last night. Who was a soggy puddle tonight without quite knowing why. It's not the heat. She has spent three solid months caring about and caring for everyone in her path, with hardly a break to speak of. She needs rest, and plenty of it.
If only she were the only one. It's like the layer of humidity brings the fatigue to the surface. All the long-termers look somewhat frayed around the edges.
I wish I could say things are winding down. Not yet.
The ripple effect keeps growing. Take the life insurance salesman who came to the assistance center a couple days ago. Yep. Out of work. He says more commission-based salesmen will be out of work soon.
Nobody is buying local fish. Too iffy with the radiation. So much so that deep-sea fishing vessels that fish hundreds of miles away in safe waters couldn't sell their fish at their usual local port, and had to dock elsewhere to sell their catch.
Then there's the freak-out effect. Foreign businesses are dropping out of Japan far more than necessary. They call it a safety measure. Remember when that happened in the USA just after 9-11? Not fun.
Life things?
The gruff giant finally growled a "you're funny" in my direction tonight. Maybe he won't eat me after all.
One of my current roommates just went downstairs to pray, and met a man who comes to pray when he's tired. She got to listen to his story.
A couple more volunteers will arrive later tonight. The artist guy is praying and sketching pictures for whoever needs one.
And this place is absolutely overflowing with Korean volunteers this week. Joyful ones, willing to come here to radiation-ville. If you don't recognize that as a miracle of grace, check your Asian history. Life had to win to bring them here.
Please prop us up from where you are. Remind me how life is winning near you. Pray for our exhausted staff.
And if any of you want to come, I sure won't object.
You can blame impatience for my tears today, when I got a bit over-worried about having more opportunities with kids. The gentle one sat me down in the hallway couch and heard me out.
Then there's one of our treasures, who slept over twelve hours last night. Who was a soggy puddle tonight without quite knowing why. It's not the heat. She has spent three solid months caring about and caring for everyone in her path, with hardly a break to speak of. She needs rest, and plenty of it.
If only she were the only one. It's like the layer of humidity brings the fatigue to the surface. All the long-termers look somewhat frayed around the edges.
I wish I could say things are winding down. Not yet.
The ripple effect keeps growing. Take the life insurance salesman who came to the assistance center a couple days ago. Yep. Out of work. He says more commission-based salesmen will be out of work soon.
Nobody is buying local fish. Too iffy with the radiation. So much so that deep-sea fishing vessels that fish hundreds of miles away in safe waters couldn't sell their fish at their usual local port, and had to dock elsewhere to sell their catch.
Then there's the freak-out effect. Foreign businesses are dropping out of Japan far more than necessary. They call it a safety measure. Remember when that happened in the USA just after 9-11? Not fun.
Life things?
The gruff giant finally growled a "you're funny" in my direction tonight. Maybe he won't eat me after all.
One of my current roommates just went downstairs to pray, and met a man who comes to pray when he's tired. She got to listen to his story.
A couple more volunteers will arrive later tonight. The artist guy is praying and sketching pictures for whoever needs one.
And this place is absolutely overflowing with Korean volunteers this week. Joyful ones, willing to come here to radiation-ville. If you don't recognize that as a miracle of grace, check your Asian history. Life had to win to bring them here.
Please prop us up from where you are. Remind me how life is winning near you. Pray for our exhausted staff.
And if any of you want to come, I sure won't object.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Acknowledgment
There's just one me. I'm backed by a lot more friends and family than I ever knew I had, and I'm in God's hands. My job is not to solve anything. It is to come alongside, pray for, and love the person in front of me. Who the person is, how many someones there are, and what loving looks like are God's business, not mine. My job is to keep my eyes and ears open and say what I see, to God and to all of you. Even if it's an overwhelming number of damaged houses with blue tarps. It is to rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
Not much different from my usual role. Just swap in a disaster in Japan where life in Maine used to be.
My sister said the first week is for jet-lag and the second is for looking around and finding out where you are. That pretty much sums it up.
Which means that my adventure is just starting now.
On the bus back to Iwaki, I picked up my knitting for the first time since I arrived in Japan. That's a good sign. A couple hours left before I arrive in Iwaki. Enough for a nap and a little more knitting.
I didn't get here alone, and I'm not walking alone. Thanks for coming along.
Chapter two. Ready.
Not much different from my usual role. Just swap in a disaster in Japan where life in Maine used to be.
My sister said the first week is for jet-lag and the second is for looking around and finding out where you are. That pretty much sums it up.
Which means that my adventure is just starting now.
On the bus back to Iwaki, I picked up my knitting for the first time since I arrived in Japan. That's a good sign. A couple hours left before I arrive in Iwaki. Enough for a nap and a little more knitting.
I didn't get here alone, and I'm not walking alone. Thanks for coming along.
Chapter two. Ready.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Nothing
Blue tarps. What do you think of? Until the last couple of weeks, I probably thought of the same things too. Not anymore.
Now I think of roofs. Hundreds of tile roofs. Many look old enough to have been there before WWII. The blue tarps mark the quake damage. Sometimes the tarp is bunched up along the top ridge or the corner ridges. Sometimes spread out over a quarter or half of the roof. No more than that. No point saving a house with more damage than that. The tarp is weighted down with white sandbags.
Looking out of the window on the train to Tokyo, I saw more blue tarps than I've ever seen. Just a few roofs here and there, but for mile after mile. Each is a story that may never be told.
"It's nothing." And I thought Americans played the comparison game. Y'all are amateurs.
Yes, it gets absurd when we're listening to tsunami victims who lost all their property, including their cars, and they say "but we didn't lose anyone in our family so it's really nothing." I'll buy that if you're joyful and overflowing with gratitude. But not with a tired voice and foggy eyes, and not with tears rolling down.
Culturally, though, these people facing roof damage (and probably plenty of structural damage) are unlikely to tell their story. Those older houses don't look like rich people live there. Money is already tight. But they still have part of a roof over their heads. Nobody died. They're not part of the 26,000. It's nothing.
Applaud them if you must. Stiff upper lip, positive thinking and all that. But I wonder if the poor will be poorer. If the extra pressure will bring extra trouble down the road. If roofing crews will be affordable in time to prevent irretrievable water damage. If the aftershocks put any of the residents in danger. When and how life will win.
I'm taking a break in Yokohama now. And I have a textbook case of wanna-shake-'em-itis. Life is going on as usual here. I just saw those tarps dotting the landscape yesterday. Has everyone forgotten March 11? Doesn't the suffering of the Northeast mean anything around here?
How quickly I forget that I can't even name all of the prefectures (like states) anymore in the northern half of Japan. And that I've largely forgotten Haiti, Christchurch, Chile, and Mexico City.
Simply lazing around and goofing off for a day has mended my attitude considerably. Still have a ways to go though. It's hard to switch back to a normal world.
Even what little I've seen isn't nothing.
Yep, I need this break.
Now I think of roofs. Hundreds of tile roofs. Many look old enough to have been there before WWII. The blue tarps mark the quake damage. Sometimes the tarp is bunched up along the top ridge or the corner ridges. Sometimes spread out over a quarter or half of the roof. No more than that. No point saving a house with more damage than that. The tarp is weighted down with white sandbags.
Looking out of the window on the train to Tokyo, I saw more blue tarps than I've ever seen. Just a few roofs here and there, but for mile after mile. Each is a story that may never be told.
"It's nothing." And I thought Americans played the comparison game. Y'all are amateurs.
Yes, it gets absurd when we're listening to tsunami victims who lost all their property, including their cars, and they say "but we didn't lose anyone in our family so it's really nothing." I'll buy that if you're joyful and overflowing with gratitude. But not with a tired voice and foggy eyes, and not with tears rolling down.
Culturally, though, these people facing roof damage (and probably plenty of structural damage) are unlikely to tell their story. Those older houses don't look like rich people live there. Money is already tight. But they still have part of a roof over their heads. Nobody died. They're not part of the 26,000. It's nothing.
Applaud them if you must. Stiff upper lip, positive thinking and all that. But I wonder if the poor will be poorer. If the extra pressure will bring extra trouble down the road. If roofing crews will be affordable in time to prevent irretrievable water damage. If the aftershocks put any of the residents in danger. When and how life will win.
I'm taking a break in Yokohama now. And I have a textbook case of wanna-shake-'em-itis. Life is going on as usual here. I just saw those tarps dotting the landscape yesterday. Has everyone forgotten March 11? Doesn't the suffering of the Northeast mean anything around here?
How quickly I forget that I can't even name all of the prefectures (like states) anymore in the northern half of Japan. And that I've largely forgotten Haiti, Christchurch, Chile, and Mexico City.
Simply lazing around and goofing off for a day has mended my attitude considerably. Still have a ways to go though. It's hard to switch back to a normal world.
Even what little I've seen isn't nothing.
Yep, I need this break.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Visible, invisible
A fellow volunteer was ready. The plan to come to Japan was set. Then he got an e-mail from a friend. "I'm from Iwaki City. My brother's family is living in a shelter. Could you visit them?"
It wasn't in his original plan, but wasn't outside of it either. So he started looking for them when he arrived. But the shelter they were in was already closed, and their neighborhood was so badly mangled that a roadblock was set up to keep traffic out. It didn't look possible.
Then one of the evacuees who came downstairs to the assistance center turned out to be his friend's cousin. Contact. And when he and the pastor went and showed their name tags to the roadblock guard, they were allowed through for a visit. Global Mission Center is a trusted name around here.
They met with the family and offered their help. The family asked Global Mission Center to do a barbecue for the entire neighborhood on July 2nd. The former residents are sleeping in evacuation centers, apartments, and the homes of friends and relatives. During the day, they're coming through the roadblock to work on rebuilding the neighborhood.
"How many people are we talking about?"
"Oh, about 500."
"................................ OK, let's do it."
So. July 2nd will be just a tad busy. That's a lot of barbecue.
Now that's a visible result. Coming alongside five hundred people redoing their neighborhood?
But maybe, just maybe, the invisible results matter too. The respect he expresses when he serves a cold drink at the assistance center cafe. The gentle questions he asks. The way he defuses harsh conversations. You can't quantify that.
There will be lots of chances to work with kids this summer. There's plenty that's visible.
But right now, a lonely woman is having lunch with us and getting into deep discussions about history and the Bible, and getting prayer. And an exhausted staff member is taking a break with me this weekend. We both need it badly.
Visible, invisible. I'll take both, please.
It wasn't in his original plan, but wasn't outside of it either. So he started looking for them when he arrived. But the shelter they were in was already closed, and their neighborhood was so badly mangled that a roadblock was set up to keep traffic out. It didn't look possible.
Then one of the evacuees who came downstairs to the assistance center turned out to be his friend's cousin. Contact. And when he and the pastor went and showed their name tags to the roadblock guard, they were allowed through for a visit. Global Mission Center is a trusted name around here.
They met with the family and offered their help. The family asked Global Mission Center to do a barbecue for the entire neighborhood on July 2nd. The former residents are sleeping in evacuation centers, apartments, and the homes of friends and relatives. During the day, they're coming through the roadblock to work on rebuilding the neighborhood.
"How many people are we talking about?"
"Oh, about 500."
"................................ OK, let's do it."
So. July 2nd will be just a tad busy. That's a lot of barbecue.
Now that's a visible result. Coming alongside five hundred people redoing their neighborhood?
But maybe, just maybe, the invisible results matter too. The respect he expresses when he serves a cold drink at the assistance center cafe. The gentle questions he asks. The way he defuses harsh conversations. You can't quantify that.
There will be lots of chances to work with kids this summer. There's plenty that's visible.
But right now, a lonely woman is having lunch with us and getting into deep discussions about history and the Bible, and getting prayer. And an exhausted staff member is taking a break with me this weekend. We both need it badly.
Visible, invisible. I'll take both, please.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Rebuilding
I hate debris sand. The pharmacist is moving his business into his house after the tsunami destroyed his store, and the new patio area needed some sand. Unfortunately the only sand the pharmacist could find was debris.
I'm a newcomer. Seeing sharp shards of glass, a battery, and a measuring tape in the dark sand still brings tears. Whose window was that? Where was that measuring tape on March 10, 2011?
And the smell. If destruction has a smell, that would be it. I can't smell it for long. It's dark, and just plain wrong.
The debris sand was used as the base layer under the new patio. Then new sand from the store, then concrete tiles in red and gray over that. Seems appropriate somehow. Rebuilding on top of the destruction and starting over.
The pharmacy can reopen now with a new entryway and steps into the living room.
Maybe things will settle down enough to trim the bushes in their yard soon. The butterflies and bees don't seem to mind the wilderness look.
After the work was done, we drove past one of the milder areas of destruction. Most houses were still standing, with their first floor blasted out.
It's just too much to take in. Too many. Too large.
All we can do is help one family at a time.
The pharmacist showed me his belly scar and very proudly told me that his stomach had been removed three years ago. Stomach cancer. Two more years and he's cleared.
And he's rebuilding after the big wave. Doesn't seem to notice he's old enough to retire.
Methinks life is on a winning streak here.
I'm a newcomer. Seeing sharp shards of glass, a battery, and a measuring tape in the dark sand still brings tears. Whose window was that? Where was that measuring tape on March 10, 2011?
And the smell. If destruction has a smell, that would be it. I can't smell it for long. It's dark, and just plain wrong.
The debris sand was used as the base layer under the new patio. Then new sand from the store, then concrete tiles in red and gray over that. Seems appropriate somehow. Rebuilding on top of the destruction and starting over.
The pharmacy can reopen now with a new entryway and steps into the living room.
Maybe things will settle down enough to trim the bushes in their yard soon. The butterflies and bees don't seem to mind the wilderness look.
After the work was done, we drove past one of the milder areas of destruction. Most houses were still standing, with their first floor blasted out.
It's just too much to take in. Too many. Too large.
All we can do is help one family at a time.
The pharmacist showed me his belly scar and very proudly told me that his stomach had been removed three years ago. Stomach cancer. Two more years and he's cleared.
And he's rebuilding after the big wave. Doesn't seem to notice he's old enough to retire.
Methinks life is on a winning streak here.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Needs
Hair dryers. Electric fans. Irons. Sewing machines. Adult diapers for Grandma or Grandpa. Bicycles, bicycles, bicycles.
And food. We need more food.
Oh, and the city government is closing the shelters earlier than expected. The shelters close at the end of June.
Yokohama City has more abandoned bicycles than it can handle. 100 of them are coming to Iwaki City.
Each of these dry-looking facts comes with a face. A life. A story. Some are ready for the shelters to close. Others are not.
"I need a bicycle for my daughter to ride to school. Someone told me to just keep asking for one here each time I come for relief goods. So I'm writing it on the request form again."
"What do I make for supper tonight? We're short on rice so I'd like to make pizza for the kids, but Grandpa won't eat that. Do I have the budget to get him some fish?"
I'm a little uncertain about the shelters closing. Maybe because I've met some kids who live there. Maybe because I can't quite imagine what helping the evacuees will look like afterward. This will bring new needs and will change how we come alongside.
Many evacuees are already in apartments. Others live with relatives or neighbors. A lot of them are out of work. The ones who were near the nuclear plant just want to go home. Some duck the barricades and go home anyway to salvage supplies. Some burglars are starting to loot the empty houses in the evacuation zone.
This crisis is far from over.
9 AM. Time for the morning meeting, then getting to work for the day.
Ready.
And food. We need more food.
Oh, and the city government is closing the shelters earlier than expected. The shelters close at the end of June.
Yokohama City has more abandoned bicycles than it can handle. 100 of them are coming to Iwaki City.
Each of these dry-looking facts comes with a face. A life. A story. Some are ready for the shelters to close. Others are not.
"I need a bicycle for my daughter to ride to school. Someone told me to just keep asking for one here each time I come for relief goods. So I'm writing it on the request form again."
"What do I make for supper tonight? We're short on rice so I'd like to make pizza for the kids, but Grandpa won't eat that. Do I have the budget to get him some fish?"
I'm a little uncertain about the shelters closing. Maybe because I've met some kids who live there. Maybe because I can't quite imagine what helping the evacuees will look like afterward. This will bring new needs and will change how we come alongside.
Many evacuees are already in apartments. Others live with relatives or neighbors. A lot of them are out of work. The ones who were near the nuclear plant just want to go home. Some duck the barricades and go home anyway to salvage supplies. Some burglars are starting to loot the empty houses in the evacuation zone.
This crisis is far from over.
9 AM. Time for the morning meeting, then getting to work for the day.
Ready.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Space
I love it here. And I'm getting tired.
There are so many treasures around me, wrapped in human form. Much to explore. I'm a sucker for a good story. Prayer and the accompanying answer is just plain fun. There's plenty to do.
But the intensity of it all is getting to me. There were around 50 to 60 people here for all of last week. The scale of the disaster is visually and emotionally gigantic, and that's just in one person's life. I'm not used to the activity level either.
I don't think I've carried what I hear. I'd have turned into a puddle days ago. Yet I know I've got a backlog of tears that need to be spilled. There's just not enough space to hold the joy I come across.
And I miss my Dad. He went Home two years ago today.
Dad, your heart would have broken clean in two if you saw this disaster. But you'd have been here too. You'd have really liked the carpenter team. They're building a ramp and moving an awning today to help reopen a pharmacy. You'd have been all over that.
In the middle of all this activity, what do I do with these tears?
A bilingual carpenter showed up last night. Turns out he'd like to take my place as the interpreter for the carpenters today. I'll gratefully accept his offer. That'll give me more room to cry.
There's already a lot of grief in the mix here. I can't afford to stuff mine.
We have another volunteer beautician this week too. Maybe I can hang out with the ladies and praise new dos. Something a little lighter.
So far there's only about 30 volunteers today. When did I start considering that a low-key day?
Thank You Papa God for a gentle space. Hold me a while.
There are so many treasures around me, wrapped in human form. Much to explore. I'm a sucker for a good story. Prayer and the accompanying answer is just plain fun. There's plenty to do.
But the intensity of it all is getting to me. There were around 50 to 60 people here for all of last week. The scale of the disaster is visually and emotionally gigantic, and that's just in one person's life. I'm not used to the activity level either.
I don't think I've carried what I hear. I'd have turned into a puddle days ago. Yet I know I've got a backlog of tears that need to be spilled. There's just not enough space to hold the joy I come across.
And I miss my Dad. He went Home two years ago today.
Dad, your heart would have broken clean in two if you saw this disaster. But you'd have been here too. You'd have really liked the carpenter team. They're building a ramp and moving an awning today to help reopen a pharmacy. You'd have been all over that.
In the middle of all this activity, what do I do with these tears?
A bilingual carpenter showed up last night. Turns out he'd like to take my place as the interpreter for the carpenters today. I'll gratefully accept his offer. That'll give me more room to cry.
There's already a lot of grief in the mix here. I can't afford to stuff mine.
We have another volunteer beautician this week too. Maybe I can hang out with the ladies and praise new dos. Something a little lighter.
So far there's only about 30 volunteers today. When did I start considering that a low-key day?
Thank You Papa God for a gentle space. Hold me a while.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Camp
A sudden change of plans and I got to hang out with kids for the weekend. Yay!
Fourteen kids from the hard-hit part of Iwaki were taken to camp for the weekend, no charge. It was a much-needed vacation from destroyed neighborhoods and evacuation shelters.
We went to a gorgeous resort area several hours away. There was no agenda but being kids. Pirate games, chasing each other around the room, kicking soccer balls around outdoors, a foot race, long walks in the woods and in a park, a night-time treasure hunt, barbecue for supper, smash-the-watermelon, fireworks, a hot springs bath (some kids took evening *and* morning baths), tons of candy and snacks, playing with balloons, you name it, we did it. And McDonalds on the way home. Teriyaki burgers and Shaka Shaka chicken. Yum.
It was a place where nothing was broken. The toll road was flat, without the wavy bumps or odd angles. The rain, air, water, sand, and grass were safe. Short sleeves were OK. The older kids knew that. But after playing outdoors for several hours, one of the littlest guys was in a big hurry to get to his bath. "I gotta wash off the radiation." He couldn't quite understand that this place was different. That looking for frogs at the pond in the park hadn't been dangerous. He understood "you're ok." But he still wanted to get to his bath. As far as he knows, this disaster happened everywhere.
I was Janken-man for the treasure hunt. (Janken is rock-paper-scissors.) I wore a duck head for game time, then a soccer star outfit for the second game time. Janken-man stuck. It's been years since I played that many rounds.
There were typical kid moments, like the little boy who said "Wow, you sure ate fast! Is that how you got so fat?" Yes, honey, you're probably right. Ahh, honesty.
Not everything went smoothly. Boys kept trying to open the door to the girls' room, resulting in one of those hallway meetings with the camp director. And the bad language was over the top sometimes. I ran out of steam the second night and swapped places with another staff member to get some rest.
But the boy who was cussing at me at the beginning was respectful by the end of the weekend. And the angriest little girl, who had rather colorfully assured me on the way to camp that she totally hated the new girl, was sitting next to the new girl in the car on the way home with no problem. Not best buddies, but I'll take it. Kids who were unsure about the porch swing (it feels like an earthquake) were enjoying it on the last morning.
The break did us all good. The disaster wasn't mentioned unless the kids brought it up. There will be other times for heart-to-heart talks. The tension level dropped waaaay down in just two days. The cussing is nearly gone. The kids are relaxed.
Mission accomplished.
And boy was it fun!!
Fourteen kids from the hard-hit part of Iwaki were taken to camp for the weekend, no charge. It was a much-needed vacation from destroyed neighborhoods and evacuation shelters.
We went to a gorgeous resort area several hours away. There was no agenda but being kids. Pirate games, chasing each other around the room, kicking soccer balls around outdoors, a foot race, long walks in the woods and in a park, a night-time treasure hunt, barbecue for supper, smash-the-watermelon, fireworks, a hot springs bath (some kids took evening *and* morning baths), tons of candy and snacks, playing with balloons, you name it, we did it. And McDonalds on the way home. Teriyaki burgers and Shaka Shaka chicken. Yum.
It was a place where nothing was broken. The toll road was flat, without the wavy bumps or odd angles. The rain, air, water, sand, and grass were safe. Short sleeves were OK. The older kids knew that. But after playing outdoors for several hours, one of the littlest guys was in a big hurry to get to his bath. "I gotta wash off the radiation." He couldn't quite understand that this place was different. That looking for frogs at the pond in the park hadn't been dangerous. He understood "you're ok." But he still wanted to get to his bath. As far as he knows, this disaster happened everywhere.
I was Janken-man for the treasure hunt. (Janken is rock-paper-scissors.) I wore a duck head for game time, then a soccer star outfit for the second game time. Janken-man stuck. It's been years since I played that many rounds.
There were typical kid moments, like the little boy who said "Wow, you sure ate fast! Is that how you got so fat?" Yes, honey, you're probably right. Ahh, honesty.
Not everything went smoothly. Boys kept trying to open the door to the girls' room, resulting in one of those hallway meetings with the camp director. And the bad language was over the top sometimes. I ran out of steam the second night and swapped places with another staff member to get some rest.
But the boy who was cussing at me at the beginning was respectful by the end of the weekend. And the angriest little girl, who had rather colorfully assured me on the way to camp that she totally hated the new girl, was sitting next to the new girl in the car on the way home with no problem. Not best buddies, but I'll take it. Kids who were unsure about the porch swing (it feels like an earthquake) were enjoying it on the last morning.
The break did us all good. The disaster wasn't mentioned unless the kids brought it up. There will be other times for heart-to-heart talks. The tension level dropped waaaay down in just two days. The cussing is nearly gone. The kids are relaxed.
Mission accomplished.
And boy was it fun!!
Repeaters
Friday was another cafe day. There were more new stories, including a wife and mother who needs to cry but is being told to put on a brave face. She needs a place to let it out.
She'll probably be back, just like the several others who had returned. The grandmother who lost Papa at teatime is still weeping whenever she's left alone, but brightens up when her daughter suggests coming here. Good thing she came. She met a neighbor here, who she hadn't seen since the tsunami destroyed her town.
The single lady about my age was back too. She doesn't come for the relief goods anymore. She wants books about Jesus, and someone to talk to. Her questions are fun to answer.
The repeaters are more relaxed than last time, and seem to own the place. That does my heart good. They don't own much right now.
And kids. So many kids. I flitted from babies to toddlers, and eventually settled on a third-grader who lives at the edge of the school district and walks a half-hour to school.
She doesn't like Disney. Sanrio is her world. Hello Kitty weighs the same as three apples. There are 46 different Jewel Pets. Oh, and she likes social studies. Just finishing making a map of her town. She wants to grow her hair out. Daddy was out of work for a while.
The volunteer barber was busy. Hope another volunteer barber comes here soon. The line was pretty long.
"That'll feel better for the summer, Mother."
She'll still miss Papa. But maybe the fresh haircut will help keep our grieving grandmother comfortable.
She'll probably be back, just like the several others who had returned. The grandmother who lost Papa at teatime is still weeping whenever she's left alone, but brightens up when her daughter suggests coming here. Good thing she came. She met a neighbor here, who she hadn't seen since the tsunami destroyed her town.
The single lady about my age was back too. She doesn't come for the relief goods anymore. She wants books about Jesus, and someone to talk to. Her questions are fun to answer.
The repeaters are more relaxed than last time, and seem to own the place. That does my heart good. They don't own much right now.
And kids. So many kids. I flitted from babies to toddlers, and eventually settled on a third-grader who lives at the edge of the school district and walks a half-hour to school.
She doesn't like Disney. Sanrio is her world. Hello Kitty weighs the same as three apples. There are 46 different Jewel Pets. Oh, and she likes social studies. Just finishing making a map of her town. She wants to grow her hair out. Daddy was out of work for a while.
The volunteer barber was busy. Hope another volunteer barber comes here soon. The line was pretty long.
"That'll feel better for the summer, Mother."
She'll still miss Papa. But maybe the fresh haircut will help keep our grieving grandmother comfortable.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Woah, curve ball
I got 45 minutes warning to go to kid's camp. I'll update you when I get back. YIPPEEEEE!!!!
Woah, curve ball
I got 45 minutes warning to go to kid's camp. I'll update you when I get back. YIPPEEEEE!!!!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Dishes
I didn't get it for a while. Washing sandy gunked-up dishes at a fairly posh seaside hotel? How would this help?
Like all the other usable buildings, the first floor is gone. They salvaged whatever dishes they could from the rubble. Volunteers have been washing them for days. I knew I didn't have the whole picture, so I kept my pause button pressed. Barely.
Then I met the owner (who made us the world's best white stew for lunch, but I digress). She has a case of very contagious joy. Life already won for her 43 years ago. Jesus took an anxious, tennis playing high school girl and changed her. So much so that when she saw the devastation in March 2011, she cried once, told God it's His responsibility to do something about the obstacles, and swung into action.
Sure, it's her family business. But she also had about 70 employees who she plans to rehire as soon as she possibly can.
Construction crews will start in July, and the hotel reopens in November. That means massive loans and restarting tourism in the area, but those are just obstacles that she gave to God.
I get it now. Life already won here, and is very likely to win for her employees too. We're just coming alongside. Dishwashing makes sense now.
The hotel brochure included the line "Enjoy this place of healing."
During this rebuilding process, we'll all need some of that.
Like all the other usable buildings, the first floor is gone. They salvaged whatever dishes they could from the rubble. Volunteers have been washing them for days. I knew I didn't have the whole picture, so I kept my pause button pressed. Barely.
Then I met the owner (who made us the world's best white stew for lunch, but I digress). She has a case of very contagious joy. Life already won for her 43 years ago. Jesus took an anxious, tennis playing high school girl and changed her. So much so that when she saw the devastation in March 2011, she cried once, told God it's His responsibility to do something about the obstacles, and swung into action.
Sure, it's her family business. But she also had about 70 employees who she plans to rehire as soon as she possibly can.
Construction crews will start in July, and the hotel reopens in November. That means massive loans and restarting tourism in the area, but those are just obstacles that she gave to God.
I get it now. Life already won here, and is very likely to win for her employees too. We're just coming alongside. Dishwashing makes sense now.
The hotel brochure included the line "Enjoy this place of healing."
During this rebuilding process, we'll all need some of that.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Kitchen
A lot of good food came out of that kitchen. French cuisine, spaghetti, ramen... Surfers knew Tokeidai (Clock Tower) for its big bowls of ramen. Not the instant stuff, either. Homemade noodles, perfect broth, and plenty of additional veggies or meat. A real bowl of ramen, enough for a hungry surfer.
The tsunami demolished the restaurant. The rubble was covered with several inches of sand and debris. The owner needs the building cleaned out before he decides his next move.
Yesterday was day five of cleaning up. The indoor debris was mostly removed and heaped along the side of the building. I was part of the crew finding the floor in the empty kitchen. There was only about an inch of sand left. We seived it to remove glass shards and dish fragments and burnables. And occasional silverware.
We don't quite know what'll happen there. The building may have to go. We can't decide for him, or figure out what to do next.
But we could sweep out his kitchen to honor what the room had been. We could sing as we worked. And, as always, we could pray for guidance and wisdom for the days ahead.
Will he restart?
Tough question. Probably not here. The beaches are closed this summer and there are no customers.
"And there's no point in restarting unless my wife restarts with me."
Good man.
He let us pray for him at the end of the day. And asked if we could come back for a few more days. Yes, the inn he had on the second floor needs attention too. But his wife is out of town for a couple of days, and he wants her to meet us.
That sounds pretty lifeish.
The tsunami demolished the restaurant. The rubble was covered with several inches of sand and debris. The owner needs the building cleaned out before he decides his next move.
Yesterday was day five of cleaning up. The indoor debris was mostly removed and heaped along the side of the building. I was part of the crew finding the floor in the empty kitchen. There was only about an inch of sand left. We seived it to remove glass shards and dish fragments and burnables. And occasional silverware.
We don't quite know what'll happen there. The building may have to go. We can't decide for him, or figure out what to do next.
But we could sweep out his kitchen to honor what the room had been. We could sing as we worked. And, as always, we could pray for guidance and wisdom for the days ahead.
Will he restart?
Tough question. Probably not here. The beaches are closed this summer and there are no customers.
"And there's no point in restarting unless my wife restarts with me."
Good man.
He let us pray for him at the end of the day. And asked if we could come back for a few more days. Yes, the inn he had on the second floor needs attention too. But his wife is out of town for a couple of days, and he wants her to meet us.
That sounds pretty lifeish.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Messy
Where no oxen are, the crib is clean; But much increase is by the strength of the ox. (Proverbs 14:4)
I don't know whether my face had twisted into a knot, or whether he was reminding himself. This verse was the way Pastor Mori started our first major conversation. "We could go for cleanliness. And that's the choice that the Japanese tend to make. But we really need the strength of oxen right now. So it's messy around here." Timely, indeed. We had about sixty volunteers here at Global Mission Center yesterday, and the morning scramble to assemble work teams was getting a bit chaotic. I ended up getting switched around from one task to another several times. My luggage finally made it into the hallway of the three-story building last night. There just wasn't room before then.
Every time I walk through the central room there's a new face. I never know which language to start with. The Brazilian lady doesn't know either of my languages.
Carpenters. Christian musicians. English teachers. A feisty delivery truck girl. A grandma who owns the kitchen. A four-year-old boy picking on the guitar guy. A Christian Tai Chi instructor. Two hair stylists. Everyone else you could possibly imagine. Except that guy who just rushed by. Nobody could imagine that guy.
Nationalities? Japanese, Korean, Taiwanese, American, Brazilian, Norwegian, Canadian, Indonesian, some others I'm forgetting, and various mixtures thereof.
Don't even get me started on personalities. There are actually people odder than me in this world, and they're all here.
Efficient? No, not really. But ten guys in a shelter got over-fed for once by a bunch of ladies. I heard of sixteen free haircuts. After Beauty got away from The Flirt, unloading the supply trucks went pretty smoothly. The Brazilian team got their plans made for the next trip. Relief goods were distributed. Sea water got removed from a crawl space under someone's house. Sand and debris was removed from another. Powerful prayers were prayed. Shoulder massages were given. Meals were made and eaten. Songs of praise and joy were sung. Tears were shared. We all left a mess and even cleaned up part of it.
Best yet, the 23-year-old guy we brought back from the evacuation shelter for a proper haircut for work stuck around for the evening to hang out with guys his age, and was relaxed and smiling.
Life won here. Pardon the mess.
I don't know whether my face had twisted into a knot, or whether he was reminding himself. This verse was the way Pastor Mori started our first major conversation. "We could go for cleanliness. And that's the choice that the Japanese tend to make. But we really need the strength of oxen right now. So it's messy around here." Timely, indeed. We had about sixty volunteers here at Global Mission Center yesterday, and the morning scramble to assemble work teams was getting a bit chaotic. I ended up getting switched around from one task to another several times. My luggage finally made it into the hallway of the three-story building last night. There just wasn't room before then.
Every time I walk through the central room there's a new face. I never know which language to start with. The Brazilian lady doesn't know either of my languages.
Carpenters. Christian musicians. English teachers. A feisty delivery truck girl. A grandma who owns the kitchen. A four-year-old boy picking on the guitar guy. A Christian Tai Chi instructor. Two hair stylists. Everyone else you could possibly imagine. Except that guy who just rushed by. Nobody could imagine that guy.
Nationalities? Japanese, Korean, Taiwanese, American, Brazilian, Norwegian, Canadian, Indonesian, some others I'm forgetting, and various mixtures thereof.
Don't even get me started on personalities. There are actually people odder than me in this world, and they're all here.
Efficient? No, not really. But ten guys in a shelter got over-fed for once by a bunch of ladies. I heard of sixteen free haircuts. After Beauty got away from The Flirt, unloading the supply trucks went pretty smoothly. The Brazilian team got their plans made for the next trip. Relief goods were distributed. Sea water got removed from a crawl space under someone's house. Sand and debris was removed from another. Powerful prayers were prayed. Shoulder massages were given. Meals were made and eaten. Songs of praise and joy were sung. Tears were shared. We all left a mess and even cleaned up part of it.
Best yet, the 23-year-old guy we brought back from the evacuation shelter for a proper haircut for work stuck around for the evening to hang out with guys his age, and was relaxed and smiling.
Life won here. Pardon the mess.
For us?
Unloading four trucks. Waxing a floor. I still haven't seen the disaster area, and I wasn't sure why.
Then I saw a fellow volunteer struggling with a conversation, and stopped by to interpret for a while. That's how I met Matsushima-san and Makino-san.
These two older ladies had come to pray and to encourage us. They sang with us, and marveled at getting to talk to fellow Christians from the other side of the world. We drew strength from them and they from us.
They said they came without knowing exactly what they would do. And that our conversation was part of why they came. They aren't physically able to do volunteer work anymore.
It sounded so much like my story. But I'm accustomed to seeing it from the viewpoint of the one who is sent. This time I got to see it as one of the recipients. I know that meeting these ladies was vital for the three of us who were there.
Would God send someone just for me? What is ahead that He's being so gentle and tender with me? Their smiles have now been added to the energy reserves I'll use later on.
I wanna be like these sisters of mine when I grow up.
I wonder what's ahead? I'm looking forward to it even more now.
Then I saw a fellow volunteer struggling with a conversation, and stopped by to interpret for a while. That's how I met Matsushima-san and Makino-san.
These two older ladies had come to pray and to encourage us. They sang with us, and marveled at getting to talk to fellow Christians from the other side of the world. We drew strength from them and they from us.
They said they came without knowing exactly what they would do. And that our conversation was part of why they came. They aren't physically able to do volunteer work anymore.
It sounded so much like my story. But I'm accustomed to seeing it from the viewpoint of the one who is sent. This time I got to see it as one of the recipients. I know that meeting these ladies was vital for the three of us who were there.
Would God send someone just for me? What is ahead that He's being so gentle and tender with me? Their smiles have now been added to the energy reserves I'll use later on.
I wanna be like these sisters of mine when I grow up.
I wonder what's ahead? I'm looking forward to it even more now.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Stories
"My husband was swept away at teatime. Of course I loved Papa. Thanks for listening... My heart heals when I come here."
"My husband died back in February. Our cars got swept away. My daughter's car was OK, and we heard on the car radio that we needed to flee the radiation. Our first floor is gone. The appliances are ruined. But we're alive and didn't lose family, so our hardships don't count, right?"
(Oh yes, they count, grandma.)
"My baby is just a month old. They sent me to a good hospital. Do you have some diapers?"
"My boy is 4 months old. Man, dealing with a 1-month-old after the disaster was rough. Could I get some diapers and milk?"
"Our house wasn't hit by the tsunami. But the radiation... We can't go home. We could use water, rice, any food items... What do you have?"
"I just need shoes."
"I'm out of a job. The quake damaged the roof. I'm fighting a cold and need medicine and food. Don't have money for going to the doctor."
"My daughter was bouncing her baby sister when the whole car started bouncing. We'd already scolded her for bouncing the car when we realized it was a quake. Barely got away from the tsunami too."
(Hey happy mom. Thanks for letting me play with your two-year-old Ayumu (walk) and baby Mirai (future). Great names for a time like this.)
And that's just one afternoon.
My ears are gonna be busy.
"My husband died back in February. Our cars got swept away. My daughter's car was OK, and we heard on the car radio that we needed to flee the radiation. Our first floor is gone. The appliances are ruined. But we're alive and didn't lose family, so our hardships don't count, right?"
(Oh yes, they count, grandma.)
"My baby is just a month old. They sent me to a good hospital. Do you have some diapers?"
"My boy is 4 months old. Man, dealing with a 1-month-old after the disaster was rough. Could I get some diapers and milk?"
"Our house wasn't hit by the tsunami. But the radiation... We can't go home. We could use water, rice, any food items... What do you have?"
"I just need shoes."
"I'm out of a job. The quake damaged the roof. I'm fighting a cold and need medicine and food. Don't have money for going to the doctor."
"My daughter was bouncing her baby sister when the whole car started bouncing. We'd already scolded her for bouncing the car when we realized it was a quake. Barely got away from the tsunami too."
(Hey happy mom. Thanks for letting me play with your two-year-old Ayumu (walk) and baby Mirai (future). Great names for a time like this.)
And that's just one afternoon.
My ears are gonna be busy.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Almost there
One more step and it's real. Don't know why I'm insisting on personally experiencing it before deeming it real. Good thing God is patient with me. I think I pull this attitude on Him a lot too.
Now I've spent a day with people who have been there, people who took the photos.
I really, really hope it's just the jet-lag fog I've been swimming through since mid-afternoon. Because there was nothing matter-of-fact about those photos. My response is milder than it should be.
But the anticipation is building. I've been awake several times tonight, not wanting to be late.
Much has been said about doing what's in front of me. Of going to clean up the areas with milder damage because that's where life can resume quickly. (Triage is necessary but always sobering.) Of listening to one person at a time. Feeding this one. Washing one person's feet.
Back in Maine, Maila said to remember that I'm a cell in a body. To do my part well, and not worry about the whole. That if the cell is well, the body will be well.
So maybe my tendency to live in my own little world can be leveraged for good. Moving my little world to Iwaki City in a few hours to watch Life win.
Now I've spent a day with people who have been there, people who took the photos.
I really, really hope it's just the jet-lag fog I've been swimming through since mid-afternoon. Because there was nothing matter-of-fact about those photos. My response is milder than it should be.
But the anticipation is building. I've been awake several times tonight, not wanting to be late.
Much has been said about doing what's in front of me. Of going to clean up the areas with milder damage because that's where life can resume quickly. (Triage is necessary but always sobering.) Of listening to one person at a time. Feeding this one. Washing one person's feet.
Back in Maine, Maila said to remember that I'm a cell in a body. To do my part well, and not worry about the whole. That if the cell is well, the body will be well.
So maybe my tendency to live in my own little world can be leveraged for good. Moving my little world to Iwaki City in a few hours to watch Life win.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Seen it lately?
Grace. Wanna know what it looks like?
It looks like the view from a bus window, riding the expressway from Narita Airport to Yokohama. Cityscapes, still there. It's the boredom and fatigue that had me nodding off.
It's the normalcy of taking off shoes as you enter a house. Udon noodles in miso soup for supper. Fermented beans, raw egg, and onion over hot rice, with miso soup and pickled cucumbers for breakfast. A Shiba-Ken doglet staring at every bite.
It's life as usual in the city.
Three months after the quake.
Heading to church soon. Good thing. I need to praise before I burst.
It looks like the view from a bus window, riding the expressway from Narita Airport to Yokohama. Cityscapes, still there. It's the boredom and fatigue that had me nodding off.
It's the normalcy of taking off shoes as you enter a house. Udon noodles in miso soup for supper. Fermented beans, raw egg, and onion over hot rice, with miso soup and pickled cucumbers for breakfast. A Shiba-Ken doglet staring at every bite.
It's life as usual in the city.
Three months after the quake.
Heading to church soon. Good thing. I need to praise before I burst.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Rare birds
"Three months? What can you do in three months?"
She was singularly unimpressed. Compared to her 37 and 1/2 years in Japan, my trip is just a blink.
My mother, 82, is slowly but surely losing her memory. Which means each conversation is short and repeated a dozen times, with no assurance that it will stick.
Much of Japan's disaster did not register. The geography went fuzzy within seconds.
But one thing she knew:
"You know Nihongo! That's why you can go!"
Yes, that's a big part of it. I wouldn't speak Nihongo (Japanese) if Mother hadn't been in Japan. Thank you Mother.
"You're a rare bird. You speak Nihongo. You're a rare bird. Are there many like you?"
Actually, it seems the rare birds are flocking to Japan lately. A lot of bilinguals have joined the relief efforts.
"Are people who don't speak Nihongo helping? What can they do?"
Those of us who can speak Nihongo will help the ones who can't. There's lots to do.
She may not know about the disaster for long, nor why I'm going, nor what I'll do.
But one of her rare birds is going to Japan. That much she understands, for now.
"Take me with you?"
...
I left the fragile little rare bird sitting at the breakfast table this morning.
Pray for us rare birds. The ones already working in the disaster zone. Newcomers like me. Caregivers like my sister, who make going possible.
And the ones who cannot go.
She was singularly unimpressed. Compared to her 37 and 1/2 years in Japan, my trip is just a blink.
My mother, 82, is slowly but surely losing her memory. Which means each conversation is short and repeated a dozen times, with no assurance that it will stick.
Much of Japan's disaster did not register. The geography went fuzzy within seconds.
But one thing she knew:
"You know Nihongo! That's why you can go!"
Yes, that's a big part of it. I wouldn't speak Nihongo (Japanese) if Mother hadn't been in Japan. Thank you Mother.
"You're a rare bird. You speak Nihongo. You're a rare bird. Are there many like you?"
Actually, it seems the rare birds are flocking to Japan lately. A lot of bilinguals have joined the relief efforts.
"Are people who don't speak Nihongo helping? What can they do?"
Those of us who can speak Nihongo will help the ones who can't. There's lots to do.
She may not know about the disaster for long, nor why I'm going, nor what I'll do.
But one of her rare birds is going to Japan. That much she understands, for now.
"Take me with you?"
...
I left the fragile little rare bird sitting at the breakfast table this morning.
Pray for us rare birds. The ones already working in the disaster zone. Newcomers like me. Caregivers like my sister, who make going possible.
And the ones who cannot go.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Here goes
Caught myself singing "fight" instead of "dance" in this song the other day. Getting those two words mixed up is a very, very good thing.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Pause
Ah yes, that awkward pause. It comes just after people find out that I'll be about 30 miles south of "the" nuclear plant. It's particularly freeze-framed if they had just tried to lighten the mood by saying "don'tcha go near that nuclear plant, don't wantcha to come back glowin' in the dark, ha ha..." Woops.
Poor dears. I thought briefly of simply letting them hang there, just to see what they would do, but I've found that mentioning my iodine pills gives them the out they need. Pardon my brief thought. And those of you who had only the shortest of pauses... hats off to you. :-)
There's an intentional pause that will occupy the bulk of the day tomorrow. Connie, who has graciously taken in my homeless self and all my boxes, has a "you will" tone that she only pulls out when necessary. She pulled it out. The preparations for the trip are mostly complete. It's time to simply stop and soak it all in, and make the occasional phone call, but with long pauses in between to be quiet with my Papa God. Maybe even snuggle up and take a nap.
Because, let's face it. After you're safely strapped into the roller-coaster, after all the deliberate kachunk-kachunk-kachunking up the first slope to get the coaster into position, there's that sudden silent pause at the top.
I'll be screaming my head off soon enough. Might as well savor the pause.
Poor dears. I thought briefly of simply letting them hang there, just to see what they would do, but I've found that mentioning my iodine pills gives them the out they need. Pardon my brief thought. And those of you who had only the shortest of pauses... hats off to you. :-)
There's an intentional pause that will occupy the bulk of the day tomorrow. Connie, who has graciously taken in my homeless self and all my boxes, has a "you will" tone that she only pulls out when necessary. She pulled it out. The preparations for the trip are mostly complete. It's time to simply stop and soak it all in, and make the occasional phone call, but with long pauses in between to be quiet with my Papa God. Maybe even snuggle up and take a nap.
Because, let's face it. After you're safely strapped into the roller-coaster, after all the deliberate kachunk-kachunk-kachunking up the first slope to get the coaster into position, there's that sudden silent pause at the top.
I'll be screaming my head off soon enough. Might as well savor the pause.
Speedy
This errand, that person, this place, that luggage, celebrating old love and new love, praying, giggling, exercising those tear glands and smile muscles (they gotta be in shape ya know), YIKES! OK, Life. Yes, You win, I understand that. You’re zooming around like a hyperactive cheetah. Celebration and preparation, but does it have to be so fast? Woops, gotta go…
Monday, June 6, 2011
Micro
As excited as I am to go to Japan, it caught me off-guard that closing my apartment bothered me so much. It was time. It was right. But that was my nest, and I liked it.
My parents were missionaries. Many missionary kids end up going nomadic, and don't settle easily. Perhaps it's a reaction to the pain of ripping up roots. Perhaps it's enjoying the adventure of change. Most likely a combination.
Somehow, this time, I had set down roots. I hadn't understood how many, until I saw all the people who are rallying behind me for this trip. They consider me their own, and I consider them mine. Lots of farewells, "You better come back here," people I will miss and who will miss me. People who love me deeply enough to send me out, thanking God for bringing me to them, asking His protection, and making sure I know that I can return.
Sure. I've left places and people I dearly love before. I know how to push back the tears and "be brave." Lots of practice in that realm, unfortunately. But this time, I need to be utterly real. Mourn the silly overly-big apartment I had, run through the memories of all the healing moments in each room, wince at the tensions, smile about the light switches I never quite figured out. Bawl like a baby at church when it hit me that I was actually leaving, and allow myself to be comforted. Talk openly about how I really don't have a clue what I'm walking into, about knowing Who does know, about needing to lean on God and on people around me. Experience the trepidation of stepping into the unknown. Conveniently forget that I've already hugged the person in front of me twice.
Good healthy response, I'm sure. But the choice to live it is more than that. Where I'm going, people have lost their places, their possessions, their people, their livelihoods, all the visible ingredients of their life. Where I'm going, many of them have never moved to a new life, and cannot even imagine the concept.
Mine is on a micro scale, and largely reversible. I will not pretend to be able to grasp what they have experienced. But without remaining open and fully experiencing my own micro move, how can I even begin to listen to their stories?
My parents were missionaries. Many missionary kids end up going nomadic, and don't settle easily. Perhaps it's a reaction to the pain of ripping up roots. Perhaps it's enjoying the adventure of change. Most likely a combination.
Somehow, this time, I had set down roots. I hadn't understood how many, until I saw all the people who are rallying behind me for this trip. They consider me their own, and I consider them mine. Lots of farewells, "You better come back here," people I will miss and who will miss me. People who love me deeply enough to send me out, thanking God for bringing me to them, asking His protection, and making sure I know that I can return.
Sure. I've left places and people I dearly love before. I know how to push back the tears and "be brave." Lots of practice in that realm, unfortunately. But this time, I need to be utterly real. Mourn the silly overly-big apartment I had, run through the memories of all the healing moments in each room, wince at the tensions, smile about the light switches I never quite figured out. Bawl like a baby at church when it hit me that I was actually leaving, and allow myself to be comforted. Talk openly about how I really don't have a clue what I'm walking into, about knowing Who does know, about needing to lean on God and on people around me. Experience the trepidation of stepping into the unknown. Conveniently forget that I've already hugged the person in front of me twice.
Good healthy response, I'm sure. But the choice to live it is more than that. Where I'm going, people have lost their places, their possessions, their people, their livelihoods, all the visible ingredients of their life. Where I'm going, many of them have never moved to a new life, and cannot even imagine the concept.
Mine is on a micro scale, and largely reversible. I will not pretend to be able to grasp what they have experienced. But without remaining open and fully experiencing my own micro move, how can I even begin to listen to their stories?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
But Life wins. It may not look like it yet. Come with me. I'm sure we'll find some telltale signs.
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