Reflections of Light

After a day full of zoom calls and emails I was restless, and thrilled to realize I had time to take a walk before my evening zoom call began. In this concrete jungle, my go-to place to walk is a paved path by the Sumida River. 

I have spent many hours over the past 9 years along this river path. Exercising, letting my mind wander, thinking through problems, praying, talking with a friend. This night my mind quickly bounced to several things that weighed heavy on my heart. Decisions, conflicts, friends who were hurting. Again and again I realized my thoughts were an internal griping monologue instead of an honest prayer directed to God, and again and again I struggled to redirect my thoughts into prayer, or reign them in for a moment of simply being still with Him. 

It suddenly occurred to me it was surprising how many other people were walking or even just sitting by the river. Odd on a weekday evening... but then again the weather was lovely?  I walked along the guardrail looking down into the still water reflecting the city lights, lost in thought. I didn't think anything of it when a lady walking from the other way paused in front of me and took a picture. But then there was another. And another. I looked up from the river to the widening path and saw dozens of people ahead taking pictures of something behind me. What was going on?!

I turned around and instantly understood. A full harvest moon. My pictures do it no justice. It was big, shining, glorious. 

Many of these people had clearly come out specifically to see the harvest moon, knowing it would be beautiful tonight, like the middle-aged men with massive cameras, and the four masked old ladies sitting squished together on a bench and chatting softly. Many people paused their commute home or bike ride to pick up children from daycare to enjoy it for a moment. 

If they hadn't been there, I would not have looked up and looked behind me. If it had been just one person taking a snapshot, I still would have missed this beautiful sight. But all of these people were giving their time and focusing their attention on something they considered worthy and beautiful. 

I only knew I was tired and needed a walk. But when I saw their focus it caught my attention. Not to look at them, but to look at what they were looking at. After enjoying the moon for a moment I pulled out my phone to snap a picture as well. I knew it wouldn't do the scene justice, but I couldn't resist capturing even a weak reflection to remind myself, and to share with others.  

For the rest of my walk it was easy to set aside my decisions, conflicts, wounds, and worries. I was busy thinking about how beautiful the moon was. Enjoying how it looked a bit different from different perspectives as I walked, as the clouds moved. I thanked God for the shining moon, and for the people who alerted me to its beauty by simply being there enjoying it together. 

I prayed that I, that we, the church, would be like them. As we worship the one who is beautiful and worthy, may others look not at us but follow our gaze to Him. May repentance be at the heart of my worship, may worship be the heart of our mission - or of His mission that we get to tag along on, rather. As the first missionary said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”  (John 8:12)

Blooming Where You're Not Planted

Flowers blooming have been a special balm to my soul this year. Especially the spunky ones. Not the ones blooming in beautifully tended carefully fertilized beds, but the ones which seem to defy physics by sprouting straight out of the side of a rock, overflowing with life. Beauty defiantly gushing out of brick and stone. Like these:

Maybe the stress of living in a covid world has pushed me over the edge in the reasonable personification department, but as I pause by each flower and snap a photo, I imagine them giving an acknowledging head nod, "I see you there, fellow fragile and fierce one. This is not an ideal circumstance; this is not 'my place' in this crazy world. But I'm here today. And as long as I am here I'll cling my roots into the rock and stretch my head up towards the sun." 

That's where I want my beauty to come from: stretching towards the sun, my Savior. More focused on the Son than on my circumstances or my desire to be transplanted to some rich and comfortable soil. This is a fragile place to be, and a good one.

And that's where I want my spunk to come from: clinging to the Rock that is Christ. Finding my strength not in myself, but oddly enough, in my neediness. This is a fierce place to be, in a good way. 

Because unlike the flowers, if I am not firm in faith, I'm not going to be firm in anything anywhere. (Isaiah 7:9)  Here today, not feeling particularly 'planted' in this place, I am encouraged by the flowers beginning to bloom in odd places. They remind me that:

"When the poor and needy seek water,

    and there is none,

    and their tongue is parched with thirst,

I the Lord will answer them;

    I the God of Israel will not forsake them. 

I will open rivers on the bare heights,

    and fountains in the midst of the valleys.

I will make the wilderness a pool of water,

    and the dry land springs of water. 

I will put in the wilderness the cedar,

the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive.

I will set in the desert the cypress,

the plane and the pine together, 

that they may see and know,

    may consider and understand together,

that the hand of the Lord has done this,

    the Holy One of Israel has created it.

~Isaiah 41:17-20

Thirsty and fragile, I consider the trees and the flowers, and take courage. 

On Prayer Walking in Tokyo

Lost.

A toddler shoe, placed carefully on top of the fence by the playground
A ladies’ handkerchief, folded on the brick flower box by the apartment
A silver key, spiral lanyard clipped to the guardrail by the river
Known to belong to someone
To be valued by someone and therefore worth stooping to pick up
Even if I don’t know where they come from
Or how to get them home
They are worth more than to be trampled or lost in the crowd
To be noticed
To be lifted up
A prayer they will soon be
Found.

The way people in Tokyo, especially my neighborhood along this river, treat lost items is helping shape my prayer life. It started last year as I began walking even more than usual as part of my covid-world sanity plan. 

There is a sense of respect and care for neighbor by lifting things up: don't let it sit on the ground, don't let it get accidentally stepped on, of course don't steal it, but simply place it on the nearest pole or railing. Not an extravagant act of love, but simple common sense. Of course that's what we do for each other's stuff!  

How can this simple culture of care and community reshape how we pray? It's not a perfect analogy. Prayer is a mysterious and powerful thing. People are not handkerchiefs. God is certainly not an owner who realizes later, "Oops! Dropped that one!" And I'm so very thankful he is not. 

But what if we believed there was meaning in lifting the people we walk by up in prayer ? What if it became an automatic, simple, common sense part of our every day walk? 

Remembering (Missionary Memories)

Lost in Ginza

I think my least favorite mishap of my entire young missionary career so far, was within my first few months in Japan. I was simply making the 3 minute drive from a basement parking garage in Ginza – downtown Tokyo – back to Gospel Choir to pick up the equipment after rehearsal. I couldn’t speak much Japanese yet, and I’m not a great singer, so I was so excited to actually be able to do something helpful. 

The excitement was short-lived. I quickly realized I was lost and called a fellow missionary. I had time to say “I think I’m lo-” before the phone died because I had forgotten to charge it earlier that day. It’s only 3 minutes away, I can’t be that far off, so I prayed under my breath that I wouldn’t hit any cars or people in this Moby Dick of a massive white church van on narrow city streets and drove around in circles getting more and more disoriented. I started pulling up to convenient stores and attempting to ask for directions. In retrospect, I was actually saying variations on: “excuse me, I don’t understand the road” They would graciously give me directions to train stations, and when I shook my head and said “kuruma” (car), their eyes got wide. They would shrug and point one way or the other, say some other directions I might catch snatches of if I was lucky, and in general looked almost as shocked and terrified as I felt.

 

Tokyo is a very safe city. The statistical chances of me getting mugged or attacked were slim to none. But I had plenty of other things to keep my building fear building. Glancing at the gas gage as it occurred to me I had yet to pass a gas station in my wanderings. Turning what felt like the right direction only to end up on a narrowing one-way street between bars, and I’m pretty sure passing within inches of yakuza (Japanese gang) members. I hadn’t met any before, but if I had I was sure they would look just like that: gold chains and edges of tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of pimpy suits. What would happen if I accidentally bumped one with my side-view mirror on this tiny road?

 

But those were more fleeting thoughts that came and went. What stayed pulsing through my mind was shame. I had one simple job! One chance to do something helpful! And I had completely blown it. I felt like an idiot. I was ashamed to think of the poor choir director or pastor or neighbor or that missionary I called… whoever was stuck waiting for me in the dark, in the rain. I was supposed to be helping them, serving them, not making their life more difficult! What were they thinking of me right now? Did they think as little of me as I thought of myself? 

 

It wasn’t just the shame. On top of the constant pulse of shame, I was honestly afraid of what would happen if I couldn’t find the building the choir had met in. I was so occupied with staying in the right lane, not hitting anything or anyone, praying I was heading in the right direction, I had no spare room in my brain to think of a good plan. Find a police box? What could I tell a policeman that I hadn’t told the convenience store guys? Give up and park and spend the night? Hope my fellow missionaries sent out a search party? I saw no option other than to keep driving.

 

My prayers were constant, desperate, and simple. No eloquent words. No time to think through the selfishness of the shame I was feeling and repent before the Lord. Just a desperate, repeated, soaked in tears, cry of “Oh, God, help me.”

 

Over an hour later, I did finally, miraculously, pull up in front of the building where rehearsal had finished looooong ago and the pastor and choir director had been waiting in the dark in the rain. I don’t know about them, but to me it felt like a lifetime. 

 

I didn’t have to say anything. Which is good, because my Japanese level was not up to the task. They didn’t know what had happened. But they knew that something had gone horribly wrong and I had made them wait in the dark in the rain when surely they would rather be home with their families. To my knowledge and memory, they didn’t ask me what in the world went wrong. They didn’t pierce me with looks of judgement, or even frustration. 

 

The pastor's gentle eyes were full of concern. The choir director gushed something along the lines of “you’re ok!!” and I’m pretty sure even gave me a hug. I had made it. Their gracious response to my failure soothed my fear and shame. I was safe. 

 

A beautiful part of being human is not being able to do everything well the first time, but having the courage to keep trying new things like volunteering to drive. Just about any new thing could potentially expose us to fear, hurt, and failure. 

 

A beautiful part of being human is allowing others around us to have that courageous vulnerability as well, like letting the newbie drive. Letting someone into our life in just about any new way could potentially expose us to fear, hurt, and failure. And if it does? We can choose to respond in one of the most beautiful parts of being human: wrapping them in grace.