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?