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. 

Remembering (Lord’s Supper)

It’s been an unusual year for communions.

In late January visiting a supporting church we had communion. I remember because they invite people to go up by family. Unlike many churches with a very somber feel as we reflect on the cross of Christ, this church’s communion is soaked in the joy of what the cross achieved for us, the joy of being welcomed into the family of God. As I watched couples and families go up, I felt a twinge of insecurity and sadness. I guess I would go up alone? Communion had never felt lonely before. The mission intern who had invited me to sit by her smiled at me as her husband started to stand, “Take communion with us?” I was doubly invited to the table, and my sadness vanished. This, too, was my family, my people. There was a place for me at this table. 

 

I think that just might have been my last communion before I flew back to Japan in March in what I thought was the middle but turned out to be the beginning of a global pandemic.

 

This year communion is not a given that blurs together, but distinct, in all its unusualness.

 

I remember the one when I was quarantined. Participating in church from my laptop, and the friend who brought me groceries a few days earlier thought to include a bottle of grape juice. 

 

I remember the time instead of bread I used a chunk of a cinnamon roll (I was experimenting with just how much my rice cooker could do). How I’d exit full screen mode to see the number of how many others were online now, and felt a bit more like we were taking the bread and cup together. But how I was also kind of glad they couldn’t see me because who knows who might be appalled or distracted (or most importantly, think less of me) by my untraditional cinnamon sweet body of Christ broken for me. 

 

I remember being quarantine free and participating in online worship with my pastor’s wife and her son. How she poured tiny glasses of wine and set out a wooden board with chunks of bread as we listened to her husband officiate on the screen. How wonderful it felt to take communion with real live people again. 

 

I remember getting to travel a few hours away where an older church in a smaller city had their own building and was able to have worship in person. A special treat to me this year. I remember how we picked up mini juice boxes of grape juice and individually wrapped square sweet cookies. It was the only social-distancing-appropriate thing the church could find. I grinned behind my mask as I heard little amplified slurps of mouths leaving straws popcorning up from here and there across the spaced out sanctuary. After the service we stood around chatting, pulling down masks to finish off juice boxes and pop in last bites of cookie.

 

It felt familiar. This church I had never been to before suddenly felt warmly nostalgic. It reminded me of the preschool Sunday School class at the church where I grew up. How we always sat around the table in mini wooden chairs and were served little apple juices and sweet graham crackers. It wasn’t communion, of course. Just a special treat to get us through until lunch. But it had a similar feeling. A feeling of being served, cared for, welcome, at home.

 

I remember my only communion in person at Grace City Church this year. In addition to those running the service, 10 people are allowed to go in person each week. After they stop the live stream we take communion together. Carefully opening the thin top lid to first slip out the tiny tasteless wafer before opening the full lid to swallow the plastic thimble of juice, sliding our masks down for just a moment. There’s a rustling as we fumble with the lids. It stands out because with this small group, ¼ being the worship team, they don’t play any music during communion like they used it. But it feels good, right somehow. We are together, and with the more casual feel of no song nor powerpoint slides nor waiting in line, it somehow feels even more like family. It is precious for being so rare. 

 

Today as I again had communion "alone" with my pastor on a screen, I thought back on all the communions above. The textures, the tastes, the people I was with. In that moment the taste of bread and grape juice brought back an old memory, when I was a very little girl. How sick at home one day my parents convinced me to get some more calories by upgrading from plain saltines to saltines with a spread of grape jelly on top. I was suspicious, but apparently Dad liked crackers with jelly. Now so did I. 

 

It may not be a particularly fascinating story of a memory, but I remember it. I remember my Dad and what he likes and what I need and how I liked the idea of being a bit like him in some way. I thank God that he connected tastes and memories. And one more time today, closing out 2020, I do this in remembrance of Him. 

 

A Little Irish Sunshine

I may be an American living in Japan, but I have an Irish last name, which I declare excuse enough for an Irish post on St. Patrick's week!

This week I stumbled upon "The Secret of Kells" - a delightful animated film based (roughly) on The Book of Kells, or as the film likes to call it, "the book that turned/will turn darkness into light".

While definitely a fictional film and not a Bible study, I couldn't help being smitten with many of it's themes and symbols. Here's just two of those...

"The Book"
The Book of Kells, illuminated manuscript of the four Gospels from 800AD Ireland. It seems the gorgeous elaborate designs and illustrations were actually the only content the vast majority of people could understand. The beauty of the Gospel displayed in extravagant art in a (besides the monks) illiterate era.
     The Bible, the Gospels = God's Word. And as the Gospel of John tells us, God's Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  Light of the world. Jesus="the book that turns darkness into light". Our most precious treasure. Try thinking from that perspective as you go rent this film, curl up with a cup of tea, and enjoy!

"The Wall"
Abbot Cellach has a project, a goal - and it is a good one. To build a wall to keep the vikings out, to protect his nephew, his flock, hundreds of people from evil and destruction.... And this project consumes him so completely that he loses all joy, forgets even the joy of exploring, illuminating, and sharing The Book.  What are you and I aiming for, and what might we be forgetting in the process?

And in light of that, my favorite quote, from the old Illuminator Aidan:
"The Book was never meant to be hidden away behind walls... You must take the Book to the people, so that they may have hope. Let it light the way in these dark days..."

Mmhhmm. Time to illuminate, and let The Book light the way!

River of Life

Before you can see it, you can hear it. That soothing, consistent burbling song of a stream. Then you can feel it, as the gentle breeze coming off the mountain stream breaths cool refreshment on a warm day. You can see the effects it has, the environment it fosters as greenery thickens and trees thrive. And when it comes into view you can't help but pause and enjoy it for a moment, the way the water shifts in color from green to grey to white as it splashes down and plays in the light.

If I was to compare life to a river, I think this little stream flowing down the side of a small mountain out on the west side of Tokyo would be a decent comparison for many of us. Not that we're always cool and a refreshment to all around us (as much as I would love to say we are...), but rather that it's absolutely full of rocks.

Unyielding rocks that force the water around and above and seem to simply be in the way of what could have been a smooth and effortless journey. They are no more than unnecessary obstacles. Not to mention green with algae and slippery in places.

However... a stream without rocks wouldn't be as beautiful, would it? And I for one have never heard a rockless stream burble. If you pave it down for a smooth and effortless journey you are left not with a lovely mountain stream, but a utilitarian drainage ditch.

It's hard to see individual rocks in our lives as beautiful though. Whatever the rocks - bumps in the road, closed doors, illness, or hardships - may be, I am prone to view them as unnecessary obstacles in my stream. (Why?? Why this rock, why my stream, why now?) 

Mountain streams remind me to step back and remember the big picture. They remind me that rocks are not a test to see if you'll put your head down and white-knuckle through; not a chance to prove what you're made of. Yes, perseverance and hard work is often called for. But not often by looking down. Rather, it is a call to look around and above as you press on with a joyful burble. And to trust that it's part of, or turning into, or even already is (to someone) something beautiful. 

This may be a small and insignificant stream. But even so, even the smallest of streams can point to and dream of the True River of Life.

"...the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations."

The Art of Taking Away

"Sculpture is the art of taking away, while painting/clay modeling are arts of adding on." ~Michelangelo originally said in Italian, translated into Japanese, I'm remembering vaguely and translating into English...does it still count as a quote?

After leisurely strolling through galleries filled with Michelangelo and Leonardo's sketches, designs, and sculptures, mostly of the human form, I did a triple-take at the above quote written in large white letters high up on the museum wall. A simple, obvious statement, that seemed to hold so much truth about humanity.

Adding on is great: we learn and grow in many ways throughout life by adding on. But there is something especially beautiful in the refining art of taking away. Of finding the beauty hidden within.

The taking away of chiseling off chunks of marble. Of marble marred with a black streak; of perfectly good marble! But masking the beauty of a masterpiece.

~~~

Walking back to the train station I couldn't help but notice how absolutely gorgeous the everyday people around me are. The form of the neck of the woman in front of me with her head twisted down, the way that businessman's pants fold as he walks up the escalator, the lines and variations in lips and noses and cheekbones (and oops! Not staring I promise. *awkwardly quit making eye contact with all these gorgeous people).

But at the same time, I was saddened by how much more full of life Leonardo's 15th century sketches seemed compared to the actually alive faces around me. And wondered whether I look just as done at the end of a work-day. Or if maybe part of Leonardo's genius was showing the life hidden within that can't be seen at a glance walking by.

I wonder if we all need a little more of the art of taking away. The taking away that finds the beauty and life in others, and in ourselves. The taking away of saying "no" to some good things, in order to prioritize the best. Of chiseling off hours spent working overtime, or worrying, or on social media; of packing all our time in the guise of a rich, full life, stuffing ourselves with accomplishments and productivity and glowing screens.

What could we chisel away, or allow to be chiseled away, to become more in the image of the masterpiece we were created to be?

Spectrum

In Ginza, tucked between thousand-dollar purses and million dollar necklaces are a few priceless hidden gems: free admission art galleries!  My favorite find today was this piece by Tokujin Yoshioka, which the iphone/my lack-of-photography skills/your computer screen will not come close to doing justice, but:

   

Clear glass prisms beam rainbows of color, gently swaying on the walls and floor, brilliantly transforming as you look from different angles. Maybe it's because the first work I saw by this artist was Rainbow Church several years ago, or maybe it's because I had just finished preparing music and slides for tomorrow's worship service, but I couldn't help feeling similarities between what I experience at this art gallery and in the church.

People gather together who maybe have absolutely nothing else in common. Diverse backgrounds, ages, languages; some alone, some with family or friends; united together because they have come to see, to wonder at, to appreciate, to soak... for all of their senses to be captivated and focused not on themselves or each other but on the thing, the One they look to in awe. 

We can't help but be drawn to the Light. And the longer we look, from various angles, the more we see the infinite possibilities. 

Like most I started far away in the back corner of the room, slowly wandered closer, then turned back to see how it was painting the whole room in light from the perspective of the prism itself. And I saw a small crowd of people facing the prism, their eyes glued... to the screens of their smartphones (to document the shining glass, or check the shot they had just taken). Each and every one was completely oblivious that they had become part of the exhibit: their hands and faces and jackets were painted gorgeously with the reflections of refracted light. Just as mine must have been several minutes before.

Then two ladies visiting together noticed the light on each other. Beautiful! They smiled and instructed and positioned each other to make the most of the light shining on them. 

A beautiful reminder to notice the Light around me, in community, and hold on to a sense of wonder.

Bonus: "Wonder" by Mika Aoki (Such incredible detail and whimsy in these glass sculptures based on microscopic patterns in cells/bacteria...unseen but silently and fantastically breathing life into the world)

Christmas Reflection: A Spark

The world said goodbye to a great man this week. To be honest it probably held on to him a bit too long, his body exhausted as his lungs held on by a thread these past few years. But...it's hard to let the good ones go. 

Alex Mitchell. My piano teacher through high school. 16 was in many ways the hardest year of my life (another story for another day), but weekly piano lessons with Mr. Mitchell were one of the very few things I enjoyed. I don't actually remember much of that year, a hazy blur of doctors appointments and sleeping, but so many moments with Alex are etched into my memory. At the time and still clear as photographs today, sparks of hope and wonder.

He said if you can play Bach (and Chopin), you can play anything. So straight from the piano-for-beginners-adult-series to Bach's little preludes and fugues I went. Sitting just to my right grasping a sharpened yellow pencil, the sweet tinge of peppermint on his breath failing to hide the familiar musk of tobacco on his clothes ("Don't EVER smoke. Nasty habit") he said Bach isn't about seeing how fast and impressively you can play; Bach is a tapestry. It may seem like a mess. But as you fully appreciate each line, bringing out each unique color and carefully weave them together, the product is not the jumbled mess the back may have appeared to be, but a beautiful tapestry. Not unlike quite a lot of life if you think about it...

I was about to walk out out the door after one lesson when he stopped me with a string of very proper, inspiring sounding words in Latin. But wait, didn't that one word mean... after letting me wrestle with his "riddle" for a moment his eyes sparkled and he grinned, "roughly translated, 'don't let the bastards get you down'". In the moments between figuring fingerings and phrasing he had a knack for knowing when I needed a word of encouragement, a life lesson, or a laugh.

This Christmas I remember again to wait on and for Immanuel, God With Us; a season set apart to remember hope, wonder, light shining in the darkness. Christ of course is all those things for us, but in His ridiculous generosity He gave us more than his more-than-enough self. He gave us Mr. Mitchells. He who put on human flesh calls us to put on...Himself. For our own good, and for each other.

Who has God used to shine light on your darkness? Who might you be a spark of hope, wonder, and light to today? 

Color

Sometimes on my morning commute I play the color game with the unsuspecting hundreds and hundreds of people I pass: spot a person wearing a color besides black, white, grey, or blue. 15 minutes in this morning all I got was 1 green skirt, 1 red-striped pair of capris, and 1 purple shirt. Come on, Tokyo; you can do better than that! ;)

But seriously, I'm a foreigner who sticks out like a bright-pink-minority-of-a-thumb and I've never felt safer in my life.

Meanwhile in America...well, on a good day race is something that is defended; each person given rights and respect regardless of race (or gender, religion, financial status...). But this week hasn't been a "good day". This week every day I see the next headline my heart is wrenched open with sadness and anger: "really America? What part of 'don't shoot each other to bits' is so hard?!"

But it is hard; it's complicated. It's culture and sometimes cross-cultural communication, and laws, and policies, and perceptions, and little every-day actions and comments made without a conscious thought...

But I long for my nieces and nephews to grow up in a world where color is something that isn't judged, but isn't "defended" either. That isn't protested, but isn't the elephant in the room either. I long for them to grow up in a world where color is enjoyed and celebrated.

And in the meantime... this is emotional. I don't want to have a calm and collected debate about right now. I want to be angry about the injustice, on all sides. And pray for mercy for the country that raised me, that my passport says is "home". And I want to do something to make it better.

I'm reminded that maybe the arts were created for moments like these. Maybe music can't fix all the mess and violence and tension and hurt about race. But maybe it can bring us together for just a moment, remind us who we are, give us a glimmer of hope for the day when there will be perfect peace; and help us to simply... grieve together.    ( ↓"Mercy" by Max Richter)

Contagious Beauty

Outlines of leaves delicately carved into the wood bar. Our host recalls the titles of 1960s jazz tunes gently swirling in the air like the steam from our mugs of green tea. Little pieces of artwork appear on our plates one piece at a time: vibrant orange, rich yellow, smooth white; a hint of citrus bringing out the almost sweet flavor of cooked eel; crisp shiso with pickled radish... The flavors, textures, and colors compliment each other perfectly, like a polyphonic violin partita dancing in my mouth. Sushi.

We grin and leave the chopsticks on their holders, copying our host in old-school "real" Japanese manners: this is finger food! He is quick to smile, eager to explain, generous in sharing this country that has been his home for over 70 years with these two young foreigners who have barely skimmed the surface of culture, language, and food. We chat across the bar with the chef as he shows us the different kinds of fish they have tonight, and by the end of the evening the 2 businessmen beside us join in the pleasant small talk.

Up the narrow stairwell and down the back alleyways the train station is still bustling with people,  a whole other world oblivious to the refuge of quiet beauty just around the corner. Filing into the train car, eyes glued to phones, faces masking everything except a bit of tiredness after a long day's work. Across from me a baby twists away from her mom to beam at the businessmen standing above her, a contagious smile that spreads down the line of middle-aged business men before I realize I'm grinning as well.

Maybe it's cheesy, but moments like these are part of why I'm thrilled to call this city home. An appreciation for stepping away for a moment, and cherishing something beautiful. A reminder that beauty, and appreciating beauty, are wonderfully contagious. A hope that maybe through a bite of food, a quiet moment away, a smile, we can each share a contagious fascination with the One who is most beautiful of all.

Remembering Kumamoto

My favorite language mistake so far is thinking the word "takidashi" meant “cookout/BBQ/party”. Turns out the correct translation is more like “soup kitchen”. Oops! As you know, last month I got to join a small team playing concerts in evacuation shelters in Kumamoto after the big quakes. It was a quick and busy trip that’s still hard to put into words. I wrote this journal entry right after with no intentions to share it with the world, but, as it's the best I have to try to communicate the experience, here it goes:

“I'm still picking white paper fragments off my shirt.

I pulled the load of clothes out of the wash, no longer smelling of smoke from outdoor grills, no more stains of mud from unloading supplies at the evacuation center on that rainy morning. Clean. New. Fresh. And covered in tiny bits of clean white paper. Not a smudge of ink. Not a trace of the hastily written note "なりた... (Narita)" and a phone number. I wrack my brain for a memory of those 10 digits, but they're gone. My mind is as bright a white slate as the paper bits that fall off my jeans and float to the ground like Sakura petals. A reminder of our fleeting moment of friendship and connection. 

Our team of 5 walked into the hallway of the elementary school-turned-evacuation-center, arms loaded with thin insulated mats. They would at least be more comfortable then the single layer of cardboard or tarp currently serving as beds on hard floors of 2nd grade classrooms. She was right at the top of the stairs, almost as if she had been waiting just for us. She sighed in grateful relief when she saw what we carried. Actually she had been about to leave, but quickly guided me through the maze of staircases and hallways to point out the areas of greatest need. 

She told me her house is OK, so she's not staying here- just volunteering as she can. Her neighbor's house is marked with a bright red "don't enter- dangerous" sign, and she wears a hard hat if she goes outside, afraid one of the aftershocks will send debris or chunks of wall raining down. Her family is all fine. She tells me her daughter lives in Tokyo, and her grandson has started university. Out of the worry and hurry comes a smile, unique to proud grandparents everywhere.

We stop to chat with 2 young girls, sitting on a table with legs swinging, and I hope that in their memory this will be a fun camp-out, where school was cancelled and they got to have sleepovers with friends for 2 whole weeks. They eagerly chime in as Narita tells me what a wonderful music teacher this school has, who serenades the students with music during lunch time. "Music is wonderful, isn't it?" Actually, it so happens our team is musicians, and under the mats our van is packed with a violin, keyboard, and portable pipe organ (that's right!). Maybe we could play a concert during lunch time here?

She arranged it with the shelter leader, and an hour later the gym was a concert hall, the pop-tents prime box seats, and I silently prayed over the room as rhythms and melodies of Bach and Vivaldi gushed to fill the empty hall, fill in the unspoken fears of "where will we go next", fill in the cracks of stress on worried faces.

After talking with our precious audience for an hour I looked for another glimpse of Narita-san, who herself put into words my feeling that we were somehow instantly old friends. We exchanged phone numbers, and I told her to call me if she ever came up to Tokyo.

I wonder if she will. I wonder if my phone number is still there in her folder. I pray that even if our relationship is as over and gone as Sakura season, maybe it made as much an impact on her as it had on me. Maybe like the cherry blossoms our encounter will be all the more precious for its brevity. Maybe she'll think back and remember those Christians who floated by with a glimmer of Christ's light and love flowing from black and white keys and vibrating bow strings.”