Crying Raina

Poor little Raina sits in the corner of the class, right in seat 8, with a sincere pout and tears rolling over her red cheeks. She is trying so hard not to cry, but even among the chaos of 27 kindergarteners, I notice. Mrs. Cloth continues teaching while I crouch beside Raina. “What’s wrong?”

“I miss my Dad.”

I’ve encountered a few criers already. For some 5 year-olds, this is the first week they’ve ever been away from home.

“Well look,” I say, pointing to my watch for this oh-so-teachable moment on how to read an analog clock, “In 15 minutes it will be 3 o’clock. Then you’ll go back to Mr. Hernandes’ class. Then at 3:45, you’ll either ride the bus or someone will pick you up. Does your mom or dad pick you up?”

Her pout grows. There is real pain in her eyes.

She sniffles. “I can’t see my Dad because he’s away for work for 5 months.”

“Oh.” My heart just breaks. “You’re Dad’s in the military.”

She nods.

“Well, just try and sing with us and have a good time, ok?”

She nods.

She does alright the rest of the lesson, continuing to hold back heart broken tears.

I understand missing parents. I really wanted to just hold her and cry with her. Boarding school to moving to the US for college. I know what heart break is. It’s not any less for little ones. It’s probably more.

In retrospect, distraction wasn’t really the best way for me to handle the situation. This one yesterday or my own over the years. No, distraction is no solution; hope is. What if I had said, “Well you know what I think might make you smile? Thinking about how excited you’ll be in 5 months when you see your dad.”

Why would that be better? Because it gives her hope. This hope is not a superficial distraction from a very real pain for this child. It is truth that she can hold onto. This joy may not make the present pain “worth it,” but what joy the thought of that reunion will evoke.

What I learned:
-Give your students hope.
-Give your students truth.

Black Stockings

With Dr. Lee Teply’s memorial service date finally set, I had to find myself a pair of black stockings.  In Japan where I come from, women wear absolutely all black to any death related service.  Even the pearls are black.  It seems there is no such expectation here, but I felt the need to wear black stockings.

My freshman year of college, I had the honor of singing with the Madrigal Singers directed by Dr. Teply.  For every concert he insisted the women wear either long black slacks or a black skirt with black stockings.  No skin was to be showing.  It was only fair I suppose.  For all of our concerts the men wore long black slacks or colorful stockings with their Renaissance costumes.  Exasperated by this stipulation, I asked him one concert why we had to wear them.  

“It’s professional!”  He seemed more exasperated than I was that I had even dared to question the dress code.

He certainly was professional in a traditional sense.

As I have performed more, I have come to realize that the black stockings thing really is a preference.  The feminist in me wants to throw them out the window and claim my right to wear what I like.  Sometimes I do.  If I want to wear red shoes with beige panty-hoes and a black dress, I will thank you very much.

Today was different though.  Today I wore black stockings.  Today was about honoring a man who taught me not only how to sing early choral music, but also about honoring a man who modeled how to care for my future students’ well being.  He cared so very much for us.  I suppose my way of honoring him today was by wearing black stockings.

May you rest in peace, Dr. Lee Teply.

My Favorite Customers

It was a busy Friday night at the restaurant.  People came in and out, oblivious to the feelings of the servers that hid so well behind that plastic smile.  When you serve, nothing can get to you.  Your pay depends on how funny, helpful, and timely you are.  Some people switch out “funny” for “quietly respectful”.  It just depends.

In the back hallway, I covered my face and stood against the wall.  Just for 5 seconds.  Table 5 needs water.  Table 2 needs their check.  Table 10 needs 3 miso soups.  My brain ran as my eyes closed- and opened.  And then I ran.

“Sute-chan!  Did you get table 2’s check?!”

“I’m doing it now.”

“Did you see table 4 added extra sushi to their order?”

“No, I’ll write it down now.”

Time slowed for the customers as it raced on for us.  Then came the blow.

“Sute-chan, don’t go to the Japanese customer’s table anymore.”

“Hai.”  I didn’t ask.

“Japanese people are very particular.  If one thing is out of sorts, they get all upset about it.”

“Hai.”  Don’t talk to me like I don’t know what Japanese people are like, I thought inwardly.

A few minutes later, a more detailed and painful explanation came.

“One of the Japanese men, he’s allergic to foreigners.”

My heart dropped to the floor.  Pain seared through my chest as my plastic smile melted.  “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t like foreigners.  We’re not like that, but some Japanese people are very particular.  You weren’t what he was expecting.  It’s just expectations, you know?  You wouldn’t like it if you went to eat sushi expecting Japanese people and some Chinese person took your order, would you?  Don’t take it personally.”

The storm of the restaurant work became a storm in me- hot, red, fragmented.  The flames inside melted at the smile.  I only kept it up when speaking to customers.  I’m sick of the racism.  I could feel the hate- not just the prejudice of this man, but of all the Japanese people who had ever treated me the way he did.  Gaijin.  Foreign trash or novelty.  Either way, not a valuable person.

“God, I wish my favorite customers would come!” I prayed.  I wanted to smile genuinely towards people who appreciated my service- who would know my name and have a good time.

Miraculously, within 5 minutes, there they were.  Father and three year old, sushi loving, girl.  Mother was busy working that night, but the two of them were there. Two of my favorite customers!

And then it occurred to me.

The kingdom of heaven is like a busy restaurant.  The customers I have go there- and Jesus, the waiter there, serves all people, racist or kind, with the same focused diligence and love.  The racist man who complained to the restaurant about my imperfect Japanese presentation is His favorite customer.  The father and daughter who thank Him with every dish and enjoy joking with Him are His favorite customers.

This blew my mind.  These people are all Jesus’ favorite customers.  Wow!  Thank God!  I am not the best customer by ANY means, and yet I’m Jesus’ favorite customer!  That’s the easy reaction to the story- and although it’s true, it’s not the only proper reaction for me.

Wow.  These people are all Jesus’ favorite customers.  Jesus has called me to follow Him.  I say I follow His example.  My religious label, “Christian” means “little Christ”.  Kinda like, “Jesus wanna-be”.  Sometimes God tells us to do things or be things because He himself is that way.  (Ex.  “Be holy as I am holy.”)  For me, all this translates to this; these people are all my favorite customers.  Even if I know table 3 will only leave a 10% tip, even if I know table 6 tips based on how much I make them laugh, even though I am foreign trash to table 1, and even though table 7 loves and appreciates my service, these people are all Jesus’ favorite customers.  These people are all my favorite customers.

Many Homes

It’s been so long since I’ve flown.  Some may laugh at what I consider to be “so long”, but it’s been 22 months since the last time I packed a suitcase and weighed it, since I’ve seen a pilot with his bird wing badge or flight attendants in high heels.  It’s been 22 months since I’ve been several hours early to any event from excitement, anticipation, and fear of missing a flight.  For a 22 year-old woman who’s flown over 200 hours and spent quite a few rushing through airports to a connecting flight, 22 months is a long time not to fly.

I woke up this morning to the violent fluttering of butterflies in my stomach, screaming at me to open my mouth and sing.  Then they could fly out- and merely make space for more butterflies.  Sitting in the PHF terminal by gate B3 though, I am quieter and calmer than I’ve been in months.  In a foreign terminal full of strangers and one serving friendships, I am home.

As a TCK, when you first come to your passport country, you are acutely aware that you are not home- you don’t belong.  After 3 years of being here though, Virginia has become home to me.  I have grown close to people, gotten involved with a church family, invested heavily on the ODU campus, and even fallen in love.  Virginia is very much home to me now, but sitting here today, I am reminded of that other part of me.  I have forgotten that airports are home to me.  I have forgotten what flying to see friends and family is like.  I’ve forgotten what being with people I grew up with or places I grew up in is like- until now.  Yes, I remember now; I have many homes.

I can’t wait to get off the plane in Portland to be greeted by my long time best friend, Stacey.  I can’t wait to be a part of one of the biggest days of her life.  I can’t wait to see a friend from my Yokohama days as well as a dorm mom and yet another classmate from Faith Academy.  It’s going to be great!  Portland, here I come!

The Season of Giving

Andrew and I drove into Columbus with no travel complications, except for the difficult parting itself.  We made it into Columbus just after lunch to a warm house of my relatives.  I hadn’t seen them in 8 years or so.  It had been so long and I was so young that my memory of them was limited.

“What are your uncle and aunt like?” asked Andrew on our way in.

“I really don’t know them extremely well, but I remember they are kind and generous people.”

The two of us had a wonderful time with them as well as on our own exploring the city.  Columbus is a unique combination of “college town”, historical, classy, liberal, and traditional.  Liberal ideas circulated in urban coffee shops downtown, churches outlined the city and suburbs, and not a single tacky blowup Santa was to be seen in anyone’s lawn.

Andrew and I had budgeted well for this trip, especially for this city seeing as it was the only urban area we are visiting on this trip.  We budgeted to eat out at White Castle and Skyline Chili and of course the local coffee shops are my obsession.  Although we were not in need of provision, God showed his generosity to us through my uncle and aunt.  This is not the first time on this trip that people have given of their time, money, and gas just to bless us.  From movies in Masury to Indian food in Columbus, people have given to us at every turn.

It’s people who have given to us this trip, and perhaps it is just that this is “The Season of Giving”.  I’d like to think though that everyone who has given gave out of more than a calendar season.  I’d like to think that these generous souls have been changed by the Spirit of God to love and give like my God does.

Four Days on a Retired Farm

This Saturday morning, I did not sleep in. This Saturday morning was the first day of winter vacation and I found myself rising before the sun to finish packing up to leave Norfolk for a 9 day trip with my dear Andrew. Our first stop was Yorktown for a short breakfast with Andrew’s parents- and then we were off again to Masury, Ohio.
And what a leg it was!

After 9 hours in the car, hand written directions, and atlas of the US, plenty of snacks, and an unplanned drive through the heart of Pitsburg, we arrived safely at the Taylor farm where Grandma Taylor had dinner warm on the stove.
Before the trip began, I promised my best friend out west that this trip would be blogged about daily. Well, that didn’t happen because Grandma doesn’t have need for a cellphone, much less a computer! This place is not devoid of all technology though. She has cable TV that she watches various shows on, and of course basic household appliances, electricity, and warm water- but not owning a smart phone myself, and very bad reception with T-Mobile, I effectively was cut off from the world outside the farm. The trade off? Four amazing days of exploration of hundreds of books and artifacts in the home. Time at the piano just for enjoyment. Hours upon hours of time getting to know Grandma and the uncles and aunts. Food, games, church, music, wine, Christmas cookies, books… My plans for the documentation of the Christmas travels of Andrew and Stephanie were rudely interupted- but they were so rudely interupted by simplicity.

As you count down the days until Christmas, may the simplicity of time with friends and family interupt our agenda. May the simplicity of gifts given from the heart interupt our lust for new things we don’t need. Most of all, may the simplicity of God’s solution to how we’ve messed up this world interupt your life forever.

Thankfulness

My best friend from high school has been posting the most uplifting posts on facebook.  Every day she posts something she is thankful for.  Instead of celebrating Thanksgiving for one day, she is taking the whole month to celebrate, and it is such a beautiful, encouraging thing to see.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving, my pastor showed a video at church about giving thanks.  The video said something that just slapped me; “Thanksgiving is the cure for self-pity and entitlement.”

Less than two weeks before my final exams and I find myself fighting stress, lack of sleep, and all the grumpiness that comes with that.  It’s been a week since Thanksgiving and I still can’t get that quote out of my head.  “Thanksgiving is the cure for self-pity and entitlement.”

So friends, today I choose to be thankful- to live with joy and gratitude for people who support me (emotionally and provisionally), for education, for the frost on the ground, for a warm house, for music, for commitment and truth, for family who will stay up every Sunday night to talk to me, and for a God who loves me.  What are you thankful for?

The Quiet People

I study in style when I can.  Coffeehouses are where I like to go, especially ones that aren’t chains.  Today was a day I studied in style.

I sat outside sipping on a medium coffee in the crisp fall air reading about the good society for comparative politics.  A like-minded student sat at the table across from me reading a 400 page, hardcover, black text book.  As I’d look up to take another sip of coffee, I’d see him gaze off into the distance.  We never let our gazes brush as we engrossed ourselves elegantly in our work.  We are the quiet people.

Two women walked out of the pizza place next door and strutted down the sidewalk.

“My dad uses the EMPTY COUNTRY BUTTER containers as TUPPERWARES!”

“Oh yeah, that’s funny!”

“NO!  I HATE it because I open the fridge and I open the thing thinking it’s BUTTER AND IT’S NOT!”

I began to smile.  This conversation was so ridiculous to me – along with many others.  They didn’t intend for me to hear their daily banter.

The student across from me glanced up, raised an eyebrow playfully and smiled at the Country-Butter-talkers.

Beware, ye loud talkers.  You are the melodrama us quiet people watch.

旅 (Tabi)

人生の毎日が旅。

Every day of life is a journey.

This is a realization I came to while exploring Alligator River Wild Life National Refuge with my dear Andrew and one of his good friends.  I stopped to take a photograph for the first time in a long time.  I saw something that caught my thoughts… Beauty.  I enjoyed the scene for several moments, lingering in it.  That’s when I thought the words “人生の毎日が旅。”

“What are you thinking?”  Andrew can see the thoughts move in my head like gears of a clock.

“Every day of life is a journey…  Journey?  Is that the right word?”

As I began to define the word tabi to him in English, we came to realize that “journey” was indeed the exact translation of the word, but it still didn’t mean the same thing.  It took a while to figure out what the difference was.

“I think it’s cultural,” I told him.  “When you say in English, let’s go on a journey, you never leave your sentence just at that.  It’s always, let’s go on a journey to such-and-such a place.  In Japanese, we can simply say, 旅しよう。(Literally, let’s do a journey) and it is understood that your are journeying to enjoy the adventure set before you.  It is not directionless.  It’s direction is to enjoy the moments and the surprise of a wonderful destination.

人生の毎日が旅。

Every day of life is a 旅。

Beyond the Nachos – The Underbelly of the Superbowl

Beyond the Nachos – The Underbelly of the Superbowl.