In weakness

I wonder if I'm too weak for this. I can't bring myself to buy one of those local tsunami photo books that are in convenience stores in every devastated city. I can't watch tsunami footage. I see the ocean and automatically brace myself to see devastation. I can't buy key holders that are made out of debris from homes and businesses, even to raise money for a good cause. I don't take very many photos of the devastation anymore. I cried as I left Ofunato, because there are people I love there.

But maybe my response is within the range of normal. Maybe that's exactly why I'm here, to just come alongside for a while. Nobody should be strong enough for what has happened. The people who show me their tsunami book only show me their own neighborhood, and where their own house used to be. Many of them can't watch the footage either. Some still fear driving by the shoreline. They've had enough of disaster tourists snapping pictures of their tragedy. They cry out of sheer relief when they meet a friend they hadn't seen for several years. You can only ask "Do you know if they survived?" so many times before it wears you out.

This leg of my journey is coming to a close in a week and a half. As we gather for our weekly meeting, I notice a major shift in the members of the team. I'm the only mid-termer in the bunch. There's only one short-termer this week. There are three young men who see that the needs on the shoreline aren't going away any time soon. They've each promised to stay for a year. Then there are the two preachers, who are lifetimers.

Don't get me wrong here. Short-termers are extremely valuable. So are mid-termers who can come for several months at a time. But now, ten months into the tragedy, I'm glad to see the long-termers in place. Some of them may make a lifetime of it. And I'm ready to throw my support behind them, both in remembering to pray and in checking on what the current needs are. One of them is getting my sleeping bag, along with the spillover prayers from my friends in Maine who gave it to me.

During my blog silence, partially brought on by my iPhone breaking down (insert "Awww" here), I headed south again to my old hometown in Kochi. I was greeted with a "Welcome home" and more food than anyone should ever have in one sitting. (The opinion of this blog writer does not necessarily match the opinion of the kitchen management.)

We visited Dad's grave again, and I found myself repeating what so many in the disaster zone have said about their recently departed relatives--that I'm glad Dad went Home before this disaster hit, and that he didn't have to go through it at his age. My friends just listened.

Then we did what I had needed for months. We went to the ocean. A normal, peaceful ocean with a walkable beach, with all the seawall in place, and all the trees still growing along the shore, and no mystery debris on the sand, and the flimsy-looking boardwalk still flat and functional and perfectly in place. Houses nearby with the first floor intact. Buildings up on the hill unchanged since my childhood. The pine trees looked fragile to me (may the day come soon when six-inch diameter trees look sturdy again), but all was well.

Ocean breezes, snack foods, and benches often lead to friends dropping their guard a little and sharing heavy secrets. I was glad to carry part of the load, and hear a story that didn't include a wall of water. Just sitting there, staring oceanward, munching on octopus dumplings and hearing her world. We needed that more than either one of us will ever understand.

I stopped by Yokohama, and was welcomed home. I returned to Morioka in the northlands, and was welcomed home again. Something tells me I'll be welcomed home to Maine too. I'm ready to push pause for a little while.

But first, a week in the Miyako City area. The jigsaw puzzles and yarn and knitting needles and kid toys are ready. So am I.