Reset

Thanks to all of you who wondered about the blog going silent. For every message you sent I know there were even more prayers. I am not here alone. 

I hadn't realized how abnormal this year has been until my body caught a nasty cold and laid me flat for four days. I had fair warning. When you drive through devastation again and again, and you find yourself saying "oh how terrible" with no emotion, it's time to pull back and take some time to reset. And small problems loom large when fatigue sets in. So my body forced the reset switch. 

Thank Heavenly Papa for wise leaders. They heard more than I knew to say, and once I was well enough to get out of bed, they sent me off to winter camp to rest up. 

Rest comes in many forms. Tubing and snowshoeing are two of them. Knitting and getting interrupted to teach finger-knitting to eager kids are two more. Chopping onions and wiping dishes in the camp kitchen work too. Trying to convince a snow country kid that I really truly don't know how to ski is remarkably refreshing. (She hasn't tried to teach me yet though.)

In the quiet moments, I wonder what I can bring to people who live in the midst of destruction. Not all that much, beyond stealth prayers and a little bit of normal. But unlike my last trip, I'm beginning to see that simply "being with" is valuable. I like that. 

There's just under a month left on my tourist visa. A not-quite-traditional New Year here at the camp, and I'll be ready to jump in again. Can't wait to see what happens next. 

Normal

What a normal week. Not an everyday week, mind you... You don't get hula dancers everyday, and I haven't been recruited to help pling out Silent Night on handbells before. Nor do we hang out with a gospel singer duo too often. 

But the activities are normal. Putting on a program at a nursing home, and distributing gifts. Singing in the cold in front of a daycare. Preparing for a city Christmas concert. This would work anywhere, and should be happening everywhere this Christmas week. We're trying to cover the bases, making sure people know they haven't been forgotten. 

Except that this kind of normal hasn't happened here in a while. And this year, the half-shattered city of Ofunato can use as much normal as it can get. 

Have yourself a very normal Christmas. Remember that those you meet may be carrying tremendous grief. Make sure to share the hope, and treasure someone forgotten. Big wave or not, we all need that. 

Manger and shepherds

Look past the wreaths and Christmas lights. Christmas is coming quietly to Ofunato hearts this year. 

Round granny cried. "Ain't really cried since the tsunami, not in front of nobody."

It wasn't the cheery wreath she made in the meeting room at her temporary housing unit. It was Baby Jesus sleeping in a manger. Not in a palace, but with the poor. With the suffering, so that He could understand. 

She heard that Jesus is the kind of God who understands, and her tears started flowing. She needs Someone to hear what she told us: that her kids are far away, she's old, and doesn't know whether she can rebuild her house. More importantly, there's all those things she carries but has not spoken of. We'll hear whenever we can. The One in the manger can hear all the time. 

Once her tears started flowing freely, she started chuckling about crying so much. She headed back to her temporary home with a rather shimmery smile. 

At another housing unit, our task was to decorate the meeting room building with Christmas lights, along with adding lights to the Christmas tree they had already cut from the mountain out back, and decorated with whatever they had. 

We decorated, and they made us lunch. 

Did you catch that? That's right. They made us lunch. Do you hear the life in that? The tide is changing. The mamas and grandmas are clanging and chopping and cooking in their kitchens again. Company's here. 

Nothing like a home-cooked meal to bring out the stories. 

Oh the stories they had of barely making it. Of neighbors who didn't. Of gratitude to a neighbor who yelled "TSUNAMI!!! RUN!!!" Of feeling the car float. Of houses torn down, ones that could have been fixed, but where the bodies of their next-door neighbors had been found. Of their careers. One lady had sewn the wedding kimono for a famous singer. Of dogs saved. Of cats lost, and of kids grieving over their pets. Of relief that the wave stopped just short of the crest of the hill, which saved the next neighborhood over. 

They've lived this for nine months. It doesn't dawn on them that last year none of them would have considered this to be appropriate mealtime conversation. They need to tell their stories. 

The Christmas story was told here, too. The Baby in the manger was visited by shepherds, who were at the bottom of society. They were kicked out of town, and slept in the fields with their sheep. Yet it was the shepherds who were visited by angels to tell them that the Savior was born. They were the ones invited to come meet God's Son. 

"That's what we are. Shepherds." So said the leader of the  housing unit. His quiet smile lingered awhile. 

Merry Christmas. 

Ohtsuchi

Ohtsuchi is just as horribly destroyed as any other town. A bit more raw, with the piles of mangled cars still in plain view, and more of the foundations clearly visible. You can imagine more easily that there was life here, going on as usual, just nine months ago. 

This town lost its mayor in the tsunami. On the job, I'm told. The new town government is hard at work. This is my second visit to this town, and I see the intense effort that has gone into restarting the town. The outside of the mangled mall has already been rebuilt. Slap-together prefab buildings will do just fine as a shopping district for now. There's a big tent in a destroyed part of town. It houses the Reconstruction Restaurant. Styrofoam dishes and a several-item menu never looked this good. The bubbly young guy we met there is absolutely determined that this town is going to rebuild. It needed a restaurant again, so he helped to get it started. 

He gave us quite a pep talk about reconstruction. Then he pointed to the ground at our feet and said that his mom grew up here, in a house that stood right here where the tent now stands. 

The house was washed away. 

For the morning and the afternoon, we went to temporary housing units and made Christmas wreaths with some of the ladies, and the occasional brave man. 

Wash away their city. Wash away their homes, their wardrobes, their beauticians, their beauty budget, their jobs, and their gardens. 

But you can't stop their love of beauty and desire to decorate. 

"Oh dear, I so intended to keep it low-key, and now look what I've gone and done!!"

Dear sweet lady, if you could say that without that big grin on your face, and if I hadn't helped you arrange your purple, orange, green, pink, and other dried flowers on your Christmas wreath, and if I could still see much of any green behind all those flowers,  I might actually believe you're upset about this. 

Besides, it's been a dismal year. It's time for a splash of color. 

Christmas is coming, wave or no wave. A good 30 little temporary apartments look a little brighter now. A bit more lifelike. 

There are challenges ahead. Houses can be built but nobody will insure them. And can you imagine what the new town government is facing? 

But for now, for today, life has won here at a feisty restaurant and in a few hearts bold enough to decorate. 

We're behind you, Ohtsuchi. 

Smell that?

 I am only reluctantly walking among destroyed buildings in what was downtown Ofunato. And the much-diluted smell of March 11 lingers still, nine months later. Stagnant seawater is pooled here and there. 

"Yes, it's the smell of the ocean, along with other things," I hear myself say in answer to a gentle newcomer. I can't bring myself to say anything more specific in this place. 

Moments later, I suddenly noticed I didn't smell it anymore. And I had a choice. Do I allow my nose to shut off and shut out the grim reality all around me? No, I need to smell life later. Amazing how the body responds to a choice. It stank. 

In Rikuzen-Takata, the blank city, smoke is rising this noon-time from a gigantic pile of tsunami-shredded wood that had overheated. The "shovel-cars" are perched precariously, trying to take down the pile, while firemen blast the pile with their fire hoses. 

The sight forces me to notice the towering piles of logs nearby. I see the problem. Thank you, firemen and heavy equipment drivers. 

And let me just say that I don't like those flocks of crows circling over the disaster zone. It doesn't say "Life" to me. 

I'm glad we're heading to a kids' Christmas party next, at a temporary housing unit that tajes up a grade-school playground. About 15 kids showed up. 

An old-sounding Christmas song, too antique for four-year-old ears to understand, sends her into a fit of giggles. "Hee hee, she said 'fart'!" 

"Hey, I wanna put this cotton fluff on the Christmas tree. Somebody pick me up so I can reach."

    Here ya go. 

"Nope, I'm not playing that game. Don't wanna tear my tights."

    OK. Here, I'll sit with you while the others play, then. 

"Auntie, you smell good."

"What's in the Christmas presents? C'mon, tell me!"

The earth jolts. A mama comes running to check on her kids. A pudgy first-grade boy looks up at me, the nearest adult. "What was that earthquake?" 

    It's a small one, little man, you're OK. 

"We're gonna light these candles with real fire?"

    Yes, be careful.

"Hey, I sang Silent Night with you. I sang. My cousin did too!"

    Yes you did! *hug*

"I blew out my candle. Ewwwwww, that stinks! Ewwwwww!!"

The four-year-old grosses out. A fourth-grade boy objects. 

"Whaddya mean it stinks? I like this smell. It smells like cake!"

I dunno kids, it sure smells like Life to me. Thanks. I needed that. 

Whaddya call it

Relief work, they call it. 

Sorting out the already-opened kid's puzzles that arrived in relief goods and putting them together to make sure all the pieces are there. Going to Toys R Us to buy stuff for kid's Christmas gift bags. 

Listening to a lonely woman's don't-forget-me story. Her dad is very ill and heading into senility, and she and Dad would have stayed home after the quake if her older brother hadn't convinced her to load Dad in the car and head for higher ground just in case. Their house and store are just plain gone. The government prioritized families of the ill, persons with disabilities, the elderly, and small children for available housing. But now that they're in apartments and houses, they get very little aid anymore. 

Preparing ornaments. Delivering Christmas trees, tiny and large. Hearing of plans to decorate, oh, four or five different places. Asking a little girl to choose a teeny bouncy ball. Hearing of a temporary housing unit that needs knitted hats. Taking knitting patterns to another temporary housing unit. 

Hearing again that the smaller units don't get nearly as much of the aid or the fun as the big units do. Hmm. What can we do about that?

Accepting a couple of mandarin oranges. (Those peelable Christmas ones that come in wooden boxes in the States, only fresher.) They come from hands that just received relief goods. Hands that don't hold much right now but want to give something. Accepting oranges may be the most important thing we did all day. 

Relief work, they call it. Silly name, if you ask me. I'd just call it "being here."

The New Japan: The new buzzword

The New Japan: The new buzzword

This time, a blog from my friend Amya Miller. The video she shares is a must-see. Click on the blue link above.

I admit to covering my eyes or my iPhone screen during the tsunami footage. I can't watch it anymore. I've been to these kinds of places and met the people, and it's just too much to watch it happen all over again. So if it's too much for you too, I apologize.

But I will look at the aftermath and watch their recovery with both eyes wide open. That's the part I want you to watch with me.

Lifebeats

Coffee, tea, green tea. (Or, as the Japanese say, coffee, red tea, tea.) Cakes by a real patisserie (or, as bumpkins like me say, by a baker guy), homemade cookies, rice crackers, sweet rice, and a hearty vegetable soup with dumplings (known in some parts as pinch-and-throw). Distribution of veggies, Christmas treelets, winter clothes, and what was left of the soup and dumplings. 

Singing a moldie oldie Japanese country song. Getting everyone to sing Angels We Have Heard On High and Silent Night. Distributing yarn, and finding out I need to bring more crochet needles next time along with some knitting and crochet patterns. 

All that makes a good day. 

But seeing one lady's sad look turn a bit bemused when I gave her a jigsaw puzzle, then start to soften while we talked about music, and turn into a smile while playing Chinese Checkers? Seeing how carefully one little girl chose some cute hair ties? Entertaining two babies with the Mr. Ticklebug puppet? Watching similar things happening all over the room? Seeing the baker guy standing in the kitchen doorway watching all of this and smiling before ducking back in to slice another cake? Hearing the little girl say "Mommy, let's go to the City Christmas on the 22nd"? Seeing grandmas get all excited about plans to make them some fresh mochi (pounded sticky rice) just before New Years?

That's the kind of stuff that makes a great day.

Sure, the grandmas say they'll use part of it for New Year's decorations, but come on. Betcha the decorations will be pretty small. Fresh warm mochi is just too yummy. 

Yesterday afternoon I saw the downtown clock, stopped forever at tsunami time. 

Here's to marking time and celebrating anyway. 

Re-joy us

I scared myself angry a couple of days ago. And that was just from finding out that the turn signals in Japanese cars are not only on the opposite side of the steering wheel, but are also upside down. And finding out by signaling the wrong direction in a busy intersection, in a van that feels like I'm driving a hippo. Fear of hurting my passengers morphed straight into anger, and it took me a while to simmer down. 

So don't be too surprised when an evacuee snarls when she meets a government worker, eight and a half months after the disaster. She fears she's been forgotten, and everything she can see points in that direction. Not even the official information bulletins are getting to her new apartment. She has to seek out the information herself, and she misses chances to get help. 

Another evacuee from the missing city can't bring herself to drive the shoreline road. It's not so much the sight of the devastation. It's the fear of not knowing when another wave will come. 

Stonewalling from some residents of temporary housing. Sure, there was miscommunication involved. But there was fatigue there too, and perhaps a tinge of volunteer overload. There's some trust to rebuild, it seems. 

Fatigue shows up in various forms among long-term volunteers. Some catch colds too easily. Others forget to care for themselves and push themselves into sheer exhaustion. Others fall silent or get cranky (yours truly, guilty as charged). 

Then comes a breath of fresh air. 

"I walked with Jesus by Matsubara Lake. We sang together under the pines."

The staff from the camp in that song are here to volunteer. At first, even I didn't quite understand why we were having them put up Christmas lights at a local church. But as I worked with them, I understood. 

Joy. They brought Jesus with them from Matsubara Lake, and splashed a good solid dose of joy on the front lawn of the church. 

Thanks. We all needed that. One church member died in the wave, along with her twin daughters. Several others are hurting from lost lives, homes, and jobs. 

Christmas is still coming this year. 

Meanwhile, indoors, the tiniest potted Christmas trees, barely a foot tall if that, are being gift-wrapped for 50 households in a temporary housing unit. 

Come on, guys. We have some more joying to do tomorrow when we give out those treelets. I hear rumors of cakes coming too, and I brought cookies. Here goes.