Snapshot from morning prayer

Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.

- Ps. 90

We stumble into the church with our pajamas and "morning head" hair, and maybe because of such authenticity--realizing clearly that we are loved in the unlovable, un-beautiful moments--there is a deep sense of awe, joy, and gladness. Hope does not disappoint us...because God's love is unfailing and deeper than we can even grasp.

Summer prayer

We were all in the car, trying to retrace our steps since the earthquake and coming up with words that spilled out in ache and fear and deep tiredness. The question was raised, "What is a joyful activity right now? What do you look forward to?"

The car was suddenly silent. I know there is joy here. Some days...many days...I choose it because I must, and because God says it's free for the taking in Him.

Later, people passing by must have wondered at our rag-tag group in the parking lot--some pajama'd, rubbing sleepy eyes...some holding landscaping tools used during the day...some whispering translations in English, some stumbling through Japanese. Bursts of laughter bringing quick light to serious faces.

The day had thrown wild punches...and it was just a reminder of all of us, trying to give our best and having our best be...not good enough.

My best English class can't bring relief from fears of radiation.

Pastor's best sermon can't free people's grasp on old wounds.

The best and most carefully planned time of prayer doesn't automatically prove God is worthy of praise for those who doubt.

Maybe it's a bad thing that I always try to give everything I can do before I just settle down and give times of prayer. Why does prayer always get put as a "last resort" on my list of job skills?

Freedom, healing, peace, faith, joy, hope...I know the Source from which they come.

So in the dark, in the parking lot, after sharing about the attempts and failures that pile up and take the breath right out of us, we decided to pray through these next weeks.

Pray thanksgiving, to lift our eyes and see the Provider.

Pray repentance, to grasp awe of His Holiness.

Pray life and hope, because the One we call Father is also the Author of Life, making streams in deserts.

Wish to join in?

6:30am (Japan time)/4:30pm (MN time), Tuesdays through Sundays for the next three weeks, following the three prayer themes listed above...or anytime, holding this place and its people up before the King and Father...

Of rings and things...

It was April of 2009, and I had just stepped into my family's kitchen after finishing my first two and a half years in Japan. My arms ached from carrying luggage, back ached from airline travel, and my heart ached from goodbyes. The familiar, warm kitchen could have been the moon for how much I felt like an alien. I had lived and grown and loved in another world for a bit, and I knew it would take awhile before I felt part of this American one that had been my home.

My mother was stepping around the luggage on the floor, chatting about life updates and news. "Hey, Eric called yesterday," she said. "He wanted to know when you were flying in and said he'd call back later."

I went from feeling alone to suddenly realizing that I had friends...and more than that, a history of friendship and shared growth. I think some deep part of my soul smiled big. And I don't think I'll ever quite forget that moment.

The phone call took place...a friendly conversation filled with updates on life changes, processing of faith and difficulties, and obscure references to CS Lewis quotes. :) And I hung up the phone with a heart-felt, "Thank you, God, for the grace you give through friendship with him..."

Fast-forward with me to another conversation almost a year later, while I was in the middle of paperwork and plans for Fukushima--a conversation about friendship and more...and could we talk about what us might mean?...and the seeming finality of the words, "But Eric, I'm going back to Japan. For a couple years."

I don't even remember Eric's response to that statement. I do remember months of asking God why He would open two different doors in front of me that seemed to go in opposite directions. Why would He call me to both travel and stay with someone?

I moved to Fukushima...and Eric and I kept talking. And the year that has passed has taught me a few things:

1. The same God that I trust in Fukushima...I can trust to lead and guide and work anywhere. And in any context. Single? God is trustworthy. Earthquake? God is trustworthy. New job? God is trustworthy. Health concerns? God is trustworthy. Married? I'm guessing that God is trustworthy. :) I am dependent on His grace.

2. The most important travel, discovery, and culture-sharing takes place in the context of relationships. (You should check out Andrew Peterson's "World Traveler"...he says it much better than I. :))

And finally, maybe, I learned over the last year...that the respect, admiration, and care in my friendship with Eric really has grown to love...that I am so blessed to somehow both receive and give.

A short visit to MN for my second brother's wedding this last week involved some time with Eric...and a ring, a question...and an answer of yes. And now I'm back in Fukushima, still not quite able to grasp it all or wipe what I'm sure is a silly smile off my face... :)

Thanks for well-wishes and prayers! It's been a blessing to share the news with people!

This kind of feels like the start of a new journey...and I'm so excited... :)

Love,

Haidee

Adult class

Six of us ladies sat around a box of kleenex and smiled at each other--real smiles, the smiles that come after tears and yells and frustrated words and whispered memories and murmured compassion.

We'd been working through bits of Montgomery Gentry's "Something to Be Proud of"--a random song pulled off my ipod that I thought would be a good springboard for discussions on pride and success and encouragement. In Japan, the comment "I'm really proud of my ____" is just not considered polite, and pride generally (it seems) has negative associations. In the midst of earthquake cleanup and the place trying to pull itself together, I thought pride discussions might be good.

For those of you unfamiliar with the song (as I was, three weeks ago!), it starts out with a father telling his son about past life experiences that he is proud of--hard work, sacrifice, risk, service, family, etc. Then the song goes on to share some of the son's processing and questions involving his own life goals and achievements, ending with the haunting question: Is my life something to be proud of?

The kleenex came out when we started sharing about what that question meant to us...what kinds of things we were proud of. Forget the test scores and skills perfected and high-ranking jobs received--we talked about times of care for others that took every particle of mustered-up energy, dark thoughts and desperation, and times when identity was crushed beyond what we thought fixable.

What were they proud of? They were proud of the breaking and dying that ended up bringing growth and refining love.

I'm thankful for God creating safe places and openness for such discussions. I'm thankful for the bravery shown in sharing. And I'm thankful for the growth and life God brings out of pain and darkness and questions.

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