Life still wins

Kinda went silent there, didn’t I?

Let me explain.

The day we took a trip up to Iwate, up North in the devastation zone, I fell in love with the place. It was right. There’s something more there for me. It was a marvelous day.

And simultaneously, I came face to face with the terror of the disaster. The images of all those buildings with Os crossed out with Xs, indicating that bodies had been located and recovered. The weeds overtaking the expanses of bare foundations. Crumpled cars and boats where they should never be. Destruction too far inland to even fathom how the water got there. The fatigue and uncertainty among the evacuees stood out and echoed my own, and I lost perspective.

In love and terror at the same time. Problem, to say the least.

I could have written it off as post-traumatic stress, and resigned myself to jolting awake in the middle of the night for a while. But over the summer I had seen too much of the good, of the hope, of newness peeking out through the debris. That had to count for something. I needed my balance back.

Did you know that a building totally stripped inside and out for remodeling looks very much like a tsunami-ravaged building, except that the pillars are a little bit too straight and solid? Yeah, I saw one Stateside and spooked, and momentarily expected to see miles of mangled buildings. Not the best of all responses.

So I took the time both to rest and to face up to what my heart had seen, both the love and the terror. And found myself on the receiving end of heart-care. Coming to terms with what I saw. Going much further back before the disaster to take care of some preexisting fears. Hearing God’s gentle voice assure me that safety is being with Him, not where I am or what is happening. Gratitude is back, deeper than ever.

The storm has finally settled. Once again, I can’t stay away. I’m ready to head to Japan again for another three months of whatever may come.

I came to the disaster zone from the outside. I had the freedom to outright leave after three months. And needed some TLC afterward. And I didn’t even do or see all that much.

Does my weakness mean I should stay away? I don’t see it that way. It means I have something small in common with the many who live and work there. Children who know no other world. Moms who are trying to make a home out of a little two-room apartment in rickety temporary housing, with winter on its way. Over a thousand kids who lost a parent. Adults fatigued and unprepared to face the silences of winter, who desperately need to be heard. I didn’t experience all of what they did, but I have tasted enough to know a little bit of it.

No illusions here. Rachel showing up won’t POOF heal everybody. But I’ve got a decent set of arms, hands, and ears to add to the mix. Can’t hurt to pray up close.

No specific dates yet for Round Two. But soon. Talks are underway for heading North to Iwate.

There’s good news of restarts coming from the disaster zone. Seaweed farms restarted. Baby scallops (active little things, did you know that?) collected for raising. Town officials elected. Kids saying they love the ocean. They wish their new school could be built to float, but they love the ocean.

I saw a news story of a dad and his young son. They had gone to see the crumbled foundation where their house had been.

“See that? That’s where our front door was. And you’d go down the hall there to the bathroom. See the weeds over at the back corner there? That’s where you studied…”

“Let’s build a house somewhere again. Soon. Son, where do you want to build it?”

“Right here, Dad.”

I like that kid.