Open hands

I turned from where I'd written my name on the blackboard, hands dusted with chalk, and faced my eight high-school freshman with a gulp. Opened my mouth...then closed it. Normally no matter how I'm feeling, I can force words to come out when teaching, but those eight aloof faces, masked and locked away, brought up a fear that left me speechless.

That first class ticked by slowly. I went home from my company that night and laughed with Cindy at the irony of life--Cindy, who has studied and worked in youth ministry and who usually teaches my high-school classes while I teach anyone else.

It took a few weeks of them looking at me like I was crazy and me wondering if they understood anything at all, but now it seems like we're in a good place. We talk about school, friends, schedules, fashion, travel. I've learned that they come from a full day of school and sports practice to study English until the late evening hours and if they have faces locked in a sleepy glaze, it's because they really are fighting hard to stay awake.

Next week is my last class with them. Last night I sat through evening prayer with tears dripping down my face, feeling ridiculous for always crying over impending goodbyes--especially goodbyes with students I've only taught for a total of 6 weeks. I wonder where they will go, what they will end up doing. Will they survive their last years of high-school, go on to college, and end up in a company that makes them work 80 hours a week? Will they take their place in society with their heads down in submission, ready to accept the bullying that is expected from those in leadership above them? Will they succumb to depression, end up hidden away in a room somewhere, or will they somehow receive freedom and confidence? Who will impact them, for good or for ill?

Blah. I feel overly-dramatic and overly-protective--and I really have nothing to say in my own defense. Living with limited language competence--I can do that. Living knowing that there will be daily cultural clashes and pains--it's hard, but I'm okay with sorting through it all. Continual, continual goodbyes with people that I have fought with and for, grown together with, prayed for, and tried to invest in--that feels like dying. Bit by bit, person by person, a continual reminder that nothing is certain and I am only a steward of that which God gives for the day--or for the hour. I wish that I could--I hope someday I'll learn how to--relinquish people to God with trust and hope. But for now, this is me feeling wrinkled-skin old, broken-down, and calloused with bitterness from countless goodbyes.

I can't explain it--why don't I just get used to this life rhythm?

Where did I first hear this phrase: "Live with open hands"? I'm no longer sure. But...I guess this is another day to learn what "open hands" might look like. And I know I learn of grace in the process.

Off to class...

Rainy day

Rain falls, and we pace inside looking longingly out the windows, wanting to escape the truth that togetherness makes us face: we are not nice people.

There have been stormy quarrels over colored crayons. Tears have fallen, and even mothers' lips have trembled. Fears voiced by the young have been left hanging in the air, as the old could not find words to comfort.

"I'm sorry." We have all said those words so many times today--when roads have been confused, schedules challenged, hurtful words or glances slung across the distance between us. When children pound angry fists and raise wails of frustration.

There is only tiredness. Even birthday congratulations, meant to speak hope and joy, are shadowed by future fears and unknowns.

"Why can't this get better? Why can't we be better?" On rainy days, the gnawing questions and disappointment remind us that sometimes our best efforts come out so hopelessly short of love. Come to think of it, they come out that way on sunny days too.

We have studied Easter, Jesus' death and resurrection, and we have studied the Christmas story, and students ask if we can please go back to Christmas and study more about Jesus' life. After clarifying together what is known and unknown, we are all slightly surprised to start back in Matthew 2--back with the Magi and Herod, and Joseph and Mary fleeing to Egypt, and the settling down in the ill-reputed Nazareth.

And maybe it is the Living One knocking on our hearts, along with the rain pounding on the roof, that leads us to see Herod with understanding eyes. Killing children in a futile effort to protect himself and his throne. Just like he killed relatives, others... On this day, how well we understand how far we all go in an effort to achieve success and protect ourselves! The Light is born into the world, and the darkness is threatened and fearful and very, very black.

And this living together also brings out the undeniable fact that we are naturally part of that darkness, regardless of the goals we have or resolutions we make. We hurt and yell and tear and lack and, together, we groan because of it all...

"What must I do to be saved?" the Philippian jailer's plea is ours.

And that is grace, because we are not left unanswered.

From the classroom...

When I lived in Niigata, I had a class of 6-year-old boys who would tramp in on a Friday night for their English lesson. They would answer my cheerful, "How are you?" with a continual, "I'm hungry!" Between extra-curricular activities and the extra lessons deemed necessary by most caring parents in Japan (in my experience, at least), the boys had at least five 10-hour days a week. I felt bonded to those boys simply because I felt so sorry for the small, tired faces and the squirming bodies still too small for their desks.

Fast-forward to the present. The most common answer to my opening "How are you?": "I'm sleepy." And I still feel sorry.

The students' stories can't be blogged because they are personal, but the theme of the stories remains one and the same: Just need to push a little longer, a little harder, a little more...can't stop now.

Is it American or the Christian in me that wants so often to say to them, "Stop. Rest. You're okay."...? Probably some mix of both.

Cindy and I often talk about how all cultural values or traditions have sin in them, because there is no one perfect culture. I wouldn't say that Americans have the perfect education system, or really wonderful methods of encouraging and giving grace and meaning to students. Neither does Japan. And so, as a Christian teacher who is flawed working within a flawed system...how do I respond to my sleepy sixth-graders? The high-schoolers who walk in a monotonous haze of tiredness and hunger? The students who speak at a whisper and refuse to speak louder because they have been taught to never stick out and are so fearful of making a mistake?

Sometimes I spend the whole class period wanting to bluntly say, "You are more than the grade you get. Than the hours you put in studying. More than the opinions of your teachers, your classmates, your parents. More than the fear you have of failure or the successes you take pride in..."

Even said bluntly, I know those sentences would not communicate what I want them to say. Grace and love are not easily understood--for all of us flawed people with flawed cultures. They are illogical concepts to minds that only understand the cold logic of rewards won and punishment deserved.

I believe that the small things communicate. Smiling. Laughing. A high-five or a "good job!" Sometimes I get impatient with the small things and just wish freedom, hope, and confidence could be given in gift-boxes to my students as they go out the classroom door into the pressures of life.

So...we pray for those things.

Heading back to the classroom. :)

Love,

Haidee

When fields lie fallow...

This past week held the annual "Golden Week" vacation--several national holidays in a row that make up a sort of "spring break" here in Japan. When I lived in Niigata, Golden Week was the customary time for rice planting, and the week was marked by flooded fields becoming home for frail-looking green shoots with a special sort of beauty. Once the rice was planted, I would take note of the quickly-changing shoots of green, marking their development and enjoying the obvious productivity and life.

This year is a little different here in Fukushima. At first I couldn't put my finger on the difference--was it cooler weather, or the strong winds from the mountains? Why did it not feel quite like spring yet? Then Cindy commented, "They didn't plant the rice fields."

Of course. Almost every morning I walk or run out by the river near my apartment--right on the riverbank, where there are many fields and orchards...now brown, dusty clay. I guess this year, because of the radiation levels, the government had at first told the farmers here that they could not plant crops...and now they can, but it is too late to prepare the ground. I've also heard whispers like, "We probably couldn't sell anything anyway..."

I was out walking this morning thinking of life and productivity and the future and meaning and all of the questions that I'm constantly asking God in terms of guidance and direction...and my eyes stopped on the dry fields. They look so barren and empty at the moment. And I thought of the farmers asking, "What are we going to do?"...and I thought of my newly-adopted coworkers and students, asking "What are we going to do?"...and I thought of myself, so often asking, "What am I going to do?"...and today it struck me that maybe now is the season of patience and waiting...to stop our human attempts at productivity and let God produce what He will in our dusty, hopeless-looking fields. And that is scary.

When farmers leave fields fallow, it is not because of hopelessness. It is because of a belief in a future of produce and growth.

And this makes me think of redemption--that our barren, empty, meaningless places of futility are filled with Spirit and future and fruit. I believe in redemption. I believe in God's grace and His gift of rest. But my heart joins in the ache of desolate waiting for life, and I hear the whisper, "Not dead, but asleep," and I wonder why something like sleep and rest and the lack of productivity is so frightening. Do we really feel so self-dependent that a year of lying fallow shakes us to the core?

Easter pictures

We were able to celebrate Easter twice this year with the two churches and schools!

The first gathering was in Fukushima with some of the kids from the English school for the Easter story, a craft, songs, and an egg hunt. The cross craft and egg hunt gave us the opportunity to talk freely about Jesus' death, his burial in the tomb, and the tomb breaking open as death was defeated...

The celebration moved to Koriyama the following week...

The pictures don't quite capture the squeals, running, singing, and smiles of the kids...they were pretty excited about finding their Easter eggs. :)

Even though the eggs were pretty exciting, we were more excited by the kid's questions and comments when they heard the Easter story. Our older kids at Fukushima pondered the story thoughtfully, while our young kids at Koriyama demanded to know whether Jesus is really alive now or not. The boys at Koriyama are still talking about Jesus finding them when they went missing a few weeks ago, and I think the experience, followed by Easter, has given them new thoughts about God seeing, hearing, knowing, responding--being alive. Good stuff... :)

I'm also thankful for so many people who prepared the many eggs, messages, candy, and gifts! Many of the pieces of our Easter celebration were gathered while I was in America for my brother's wedding, and it was a blessing to be able to share that with the kids and moms as well--that part of this new life in Christ involves the mysterious "family of God" that spans continents and time.

Boundless life. Easter. :)