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.

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。

the stranger

August 23rd, O’Hare Airport, Chigaco, IL, 2:07 pm local time.  Hour 28 of August 23rd.  9 to go.

My task after clearing US immigration and customs was to go from Terminal 5 to Terminal 1 in order to catch the flight leaving for Norfolk at 4:38 pm local time.  After that, it would be a slice of toast.  Ride the plane- meet my friends.  Go home.  Try to sleep- cuz I’d only had maybe and hour so far.  There was one blockage to my goal though.  The trains weren’t working and it is not practical to walk the entire distance between terminals 5 and 1.  Great.  I sure hoped they would get the trains working or hold my plane.  Missing a plane is one of the worse nightmares I imagine encountering-

I stood there on the platform slightly bouncing from anxiety wondering who would be a great person to call right now- but I left my phone off.  I didn’t need to dump my anxiety on anyone in order to be reassured by them that I’d be fine.  I knew I’d be fine- in my head I knew anyways.

Elongated minutes stretched themselves out only increasing the strength of my anxiety.  “Why weren’t they packing the train anyways?”  One train sat on the platform, half full by my calculations, ready to go as soon as things were fixed.  Once things got moving, the trains would come every five minutes at most, but still!  I could have fit half of the crowded platform on that train!  The answer to my question is simply, “Because we’re not in Japan.  Personal space comes before the practicalities of public transportation.”  Sigh.  That really frustrates me.

Finally, some noise making devise or other screeched rudely at the platform.  No music.  Oh well.  The screaming brought relief either way.  The doors of the half empty train closed and glided away with its easy load.  A few minutes later, an empty train rolled up and I found my way to the furthest possible location from the door.  I wouldn’t be getting off until the last stop so filling up the far end of the train was the polite way to go.  Just as the first train, only half of the people capacity filled the car before the doors closed and I finally was on my way to Terminal 1.

“Yeah, in Japan, this would be jam packed.”  The American guy  next to me was talking to the woman on his other side.  He stood about 6 feet tall- blue eyes, distinct nose, well kept beard, and wavy blonde hair topped off by a red cap.  “Some of my friends who are girls sharpen their keys and tuck them right there to jab guys away.  They also have all girl cars.”

“I miss those all girl cars,” I joined in.  “Did you just come from Japan?”

“Yeah.”

“What part?”

“Fukuoka.”

“Oh yeah?  I’m from Yokohama.”

“Really?  No way!”

Two foreigners on a train in O’Hare- both residents of Japan- or, I was…

“How long have you been there?” I asked.

“Two years.  I love it.  I live out in this country town in the backwoods of Fukuoka.  This is my first time back to the states and I’m already missing it!” he exclaimed.  I was too.

It wasn’t a long train ride, but we sure found out a lot about each other.  He moved to Japan two years ago, is a doctor, and is NOT a TCK (for those of you who do not know what a TCK is, Wikipedia gives an awesome definition).

“No, I didn’t grow up over seas, but my dad’s company paid him for vacation, so we traveled a lot as a family.  Both my brother and I got careers in things that are very easy to be international with.”

I never caught his name.  “One serving friendships” are often that way.  All the same, his passion and love for Japan as a country and for its people and culture, despite the fact that he was raised in another, heated my heart like a blowtorch (a safe one that doesn’t burn you).  Refreshing was not the word.  It’s unusual to see someone so passionate about Japan.  I have that same passion in me.  It’s not activated unless the circumstances or people around me attempt to access it- but it’s there all the same- a part of my existence, my heartbeat.  Japan is a major component in my cultural makeup- and for someone to love it so much… well, it’s like I had found a brother.  I liked him.  He liked a major component of me- a major component of me that he was not born into like I was.  Yeah… I really liked him.

God, I really hope that I meet someone who’ll realize there’s a lot more to me than blonde hair and hazel eyes.  I hope there’ll be someone special who falls in love with Japan- because by doing so, they fall in love with a part of me.

23 hours later…

     Tired wasn’t sufficient to describe how I was feeling as I sat with my legs tucked under me in Narita airport, gate E, waiting for flight 2159 to Okinawa.  I was beat and wouldn’t give myself permission to sleep.  It was16:55 and my plane would take off in an hour.  If I fell asleep there was no grantee I wouldn’t miss my flight and this trip had already had an overdose of drama.  Stay awake, I told myself.  Do something to keep yourself awake.

The sun had been up the whole day for me.  I took off out of Norfolk at 10:45- on time, but I still ran to catch my 13 and a half hour flight to Narita.  Talk about a scare!  Miss this flight and it’s all over for you, concluded my subconscious.  Miss this and you’re dead.  ‘Course, I never told myself that.

I made the flight, and as usual, they delayed half an hour before we took off.  Basically, I had run for nothing.

I was freaking out on the flight over very quietly about not making the leg to Okinawa.  I had 3 hours to make the switch but now I was delayed.  I had to go through customs.  There was a potential problem there with my passport and re-entry permit.  I had to get my bag and I’ve been fortunate to get my luggage quickly maybe once in my entire solo flying life.  I had to check into a domestic airline in a different terminal.  And now we were delayed.  Yes, I internally freaked out.  There was no way I could miss this flight.

I occupied my mind by writing until we landed- then took off for immigration.  “Here’s my old passport and here’s my-“

“Here’s your new one.  Ok, got it.  Okaerinasai.  You’re good to go.”  The man rushed me through as quickly as he would a citizen.

Baggage came after waiting around for a mere 5 minutes.  Three of those minutes the luggage thing wasn’t moving.  Miraculously, my bags were at the front.

While waiting around, I checked my ticket for the connecting flight.  ANA.  I thought I was on JAL!

“Excuse me,” I addressed a woman in a uniform walking around giving announcements, “Is ANA in this terminal?”  I had thought that they moved to terminal 1 about 2 years ago.

“Yesu, taaminalu one(Yes, terminal 1),” she answered.

I walked out the exit only to find more attendants for connecting flights.  “ANA tsu Okinawa(ANA to Okinawa)?”

“Yes.”

“Puleezu gibu youru lugeju tsu himu ando you alledy habu youru boadingu pasu(Please give your luggage to him and you already have your boarding pass)?”

“Yes.”

“Zen gou tsuu za domesttiku taaminalu ando gou suruu securichi (Then go through the domestic terminal and go through security).”

This is how I ended up at my gate with time to spare and I was beat.  The sun had been up all day for me.  By all day, I mean from when it rose on Thursday morning in Virginia Beach to 3:55 am Virginia Beach time.  You do the math.  I had maybe slept 2 hours… and I had deprived myself of sleep the night before so I would sleep on the plane.  That plan didn’t work out too well for me.  Oh well.

I managed to keep my eyes open until I had boarded and we had taken off.  I wanted a good long look at Narita.  It was grayer than I remembered it.  Then again, I had thought America was SO green when I had gone there 10 months ago.

Two hours later, I woke.  I shouldn’t sleep anymore.  I need to adjust to Japan time.  With that, I opened my window to- oh my goodness!  It was so beautiful!  The sky was literally a rainbow!  Bright red showed where the sun must have set just minutes before.  Layers of ROYGBV followed and faded into a dusk sky.  I wanted so badly to share the beauty of the sky with someone but the plane full of American servicemen was dead to the world.

Landing took FOREVER.  I watched the clock tick- tick- tick- until we were on the ground.  Then my luggage.  Not as fast as I liked.

But then, I had it- and I was walking through the doors to the outside world and- Daddy.  Daddy was sneakily hiding behind a pillar.

“DADDY!” I ran and embraced him for the first time in 10 months.  Boy, it is good to be home.