tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-112373912024-03-18T20:31:28.849-07:00Keith and CeliaCeliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.comBlogger409125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-54854202551160703572021-02-24T15:32:00.000-08:002021-02-24T15:32:39.577-08:00Kirin Is Coming<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Keith and I have a routine on Sunday nights as we wind down
to our day off on Monday. At 5:30, we watch a group of seven old men tell
jokes; if it’s a good joke, they receive a zabuton cushion, or lose one of
their cushions for telling a bad joke. At 6 there’s nothing on TV that
interests us, so it’s good timing to eat dinner and clean up. At 7:30, a show
about animals, and at 8 is the </span><i style="font-family: arial;">Taiga</i><span style="font-family: arial;">
drama: the year-long drama which follows a Japanese historical figure
throughout his or her life. These are lavish efforts by our national
broadcaster which feature first-rate actors, beautiful costumes and sets, and dramatic
swordfight choreography.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I have watched a number of these dramas now, and I think I
have found a common thread. Each year without fail, the drama’s main character longs
to build a better Japan. With pure motives, he or she fights (usually
literally) for a world without war, in which everyone is equal and the people
can live in peace. I suspect this theme reflects modern Japanese pacifistic sensibilities,
rather than the actual motives of many powerful historical figures. But it’s
easy to cheer for a plucky, altruistic protagonist, no matter which side of
what conflict he or she is on. Last year’s villain may become this year’s hero.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Akechi Mitsuhide (1528-1582), hero of the 2020 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Taiga</i> drama, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kirin ga kuru</i> (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kirin</i> Is
Coming) has played the villain’s role in many previous dramas. He is an
intriguing figure: he appears to have been a devoted husband and father (his
daughter grew up to become Lady Gracia Hosokawa, one of Japan’s most famous Christians),
a loyal vassal, and a conscientious ruler (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">daimyo</i>).
Perhaps most importantly, he was willing to speak truth to power at great cost
to himself. Why, then, did he betray Oda Nobunaga, his lord? No one knows for
sure. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The titular <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kirin</i> is
a mythical beast, said to herald the coming of a great ruler and a world free
from war. Several characters express their hope that Mitsuhide will be the one
to summon the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kirin</i> and usher in the
new era of peace, bringing an end to civil war lasting more than a century (the
Warring States period, 1457-1615). Mitsuhide therefore spends his life
searching for the one who will unite Japan; first he puts his trust in the last
Ashikaga shogun, then assists Nobunaga in his rise to power, but both leaders are
corrupted by power and lose their compassion for the common people. The shogun
is forced into exile, and then Mitsuhide loses faith in Nobunaga, who can no
longer hear wisdom from his faithful vassal. Will Mitsuhide summon the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kirin</i>? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who will save Japan?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The drama ends as Mitsuhide takes responsibility for his
part in Nobunaga’s rise (and fall) and stages a successful but short-lived coup
d'état in which Nobunaga loses his life. Mitsuhide then disappears, presumed
dead, having entrusted the future of Japan to Tokugawa Ieyasu, who would later
complete the unification of Japan. Mitsuhide’s mission has succeeded: the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kirin,</i> it seems,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>has come. The Tokugawa family ruled over two and a half centuries
of peace (Edo period, 1603-1868)—but it was an uneasy, authoritarian sort of
peace, which ended in another period of upheaval. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">As I watched the last episode, I couldn’t help but think
that Mitsuhide, like all other <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Taiga </i>drama
protagonists before him, was seeking the Kingdom of God without knowing the
King, trying to bring in God’s kingdom by his own human hands, trying to end
war by fighting endless wars. “Just one more battle, and we will have peace,”
said the well-intentioned Mitsuhide. But there was no peace for Mitsuhide or
for Japan—or for any of us who try to try to establish God’s kingdom without
its King.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">My tea ceremony teacher is also a fan of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Taiga</i> drama—last year’s drama in
particular, since Mitsuhide was a fellow tea practitioner. We frequently
discussed the drama during or after class. On one such occasion, I accidentally
put the drama’s title in past tense, calling it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kirin ga kita</i> (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kirin</i>
came), and she corrected me with a twinkle in her eye: “The drama isn’t over; the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kirin</i> hasn’t come yet.” That’s when I
realized that my language miss had a theological twist. The metaphorical <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kirin</i> came long before Mitsuhide or
Nobunaga or the Tokugawa family, proclaiming the gospel of peace and the coming
of our King.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Kingdom of God is already here, but it doesn’t look like
we expect it to look. “He has brought down the mighty from their thrones and
exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty,” sang our King’s mother (Luke 1:52-53, ESV). I grieved
for Japan, and I grieved for all of us in this world who try to find peace in
the wrong places and make peace in the wrong ways. May we have the eyes to see our
King in our midst as we wait for his Kingdom to come in all its fullness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">“A voice cries: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the
LORD; make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley
shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low… And the glory
of the LORD shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.’” (Isaiah
40:3-5, ESV)</span></p><p></p>Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-17768308414989635462020-02-26T17:44:00.002-08:002020-02-26T17:44:31.561-08:00Carols, Candles, and CookiesToday's coffee: Tokumitsu Costa Rica full city roast<br />
<br />
<i>To catch you up, if we haven't talked in a while, Keith and I now work at <a href="https://cafecoen.com/">COEN Life</a>, among various other commitments. Now that we are through our initial transition period, I am finding that I have more time to write, and more to write about, so here's hoping for more blog posts in the near future! Here is a story from Christmas Eve last year.</i><br />
<br />
“Why don’t you come to one of our Christmas events?” Keith handed a flier to a regular café customer. She sneered at it. “<i>I’m</i> not a Christian.” Keith related this exchange to Dale, our boss, later; he shook his head. “I don’t think we can expect many people to come.” Suddenly the hundreds of fliers we had printed seemed like overkill.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sneered-at flier</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It’s hard to get anyone to attend an openly religious event. We knew this. Many churches and Christian groups solve this problem by advertising a concert or other non-religious event, then, when the captive audience has been assembled, preaching an evangelistic sermon. It has not been our strategy at COEN Life to preach to captive audiences, but rather to pray and respond to opportunities when they arise.<br />
<br />
For Christmas Eve, I put together a Lessons and Carols service with well-known Christmas carols and readings from the beautifully translated Japanese edition of the Jesus Storybook Bible. I also designed the aforementioned sneered-at fliers; I think they were rather nice looking, but they honestly let the guests know that they were in for something religious.<br />
<br />
Christmas Eve fell on a Tuesday, a busy day at the café. We hoped that people would stick around for the Christmas Eve service, but maybe it would just be us. Maybe it would have been better to do “candle service,” as it’s called in Japanese, on a different day, we fretted, since Japanese people likely want to spend Christmas Eve with their families or their lovers, not at a religious event. Still, we pushed the three big tables together and began to set up. Karen fitted the candles in their holders. Keith checked to make sure he had all ten songs marked in his hymnbook. Hiromi, tasked with reading the stories, made a few last minute edits to her manuscript. I sang through the archaic Japanese translation of the carol I would sing solo. I confirmed with Dale and Karen when I wanted lights and candles lit and extinguished for dramatic (and theological) effect.<br />
<br />
A few minutes before the café closed, Hiromi and I took our places at the head of the table, Karen sat by the advent wreath, and Keith at the piano. A few café guests lingered at the table, while others headed home. Then, to our surprise, people started coming in. A few had gone home after their English classes but had decided to come back! The seats around table started to fill up. Eighteen people, nineteen… I started the service with greetings and an explanation of the Lessons and Carols tradition. Then the twentieth person came in and took the last seat at the table. I prayed for God to reveal himself to us in the telling of his story.<br />
<br />
We sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Dale turned off the lights, and a hush came over the room as Hiromi began to read the creation story. A world came into being in our minds in the darkened room. We alternated carols and stories, with the prelude from Bach’s 3rd cello suite and my debut at accompanying my own singing on the ukulele thrown in.<br />
<br />
Karen lit the Christ candle as Hiromi read the story of Jesus’ birth. At the end of the service, Karen lit her own candle from the Christ candle and we passed the light around from one person to the next, until each person held a burning candle—powerful symbolism of the power of God to change lives and turn darkness into light as each person welcomes his presence in their lives.<br />
<br />
After the service, as we feasted on Christmas cookies and hot apple cider, I talked to some of Hiromi’s English students. “I could see the story happening,” said one of them. “It was beautiful—and it was so <i>real</i>.”<br />
<br />
I have learned not to judge the success of an event by how many people come, but rather by whether those attending have become more interested, more curious, a little closer. A person who has been given something beautiful, and who feels loved and accepted, will certainly remember, even if they don’t come back.<br />
<br />
<i>Want to read another story from our work at COEN? I wrote one for the <a href="https://omf.org/blog/2020/02/25/japanese-tea-ceremony-worship/">OMF Japan blog</a>.</i>Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-24247483770093798602020-01-08T02:01:00.000-08:002020-01-08T02:01:13.331-08:00The Fragrance of DaikonIt was evening, and a light dusting of snow coated the front walk. Eager to be home, I opened the outer genkan door… and was hit with a wave of intense smell. Surprised, I looked around. A bag of plastic recycling that didn't get collected over the New Year holiday sat waiting on the floor--surely plastic hadn’t started to stink? But what else could there be? That’s when I saw a bedraggled plastic bag containing a shriveled daikon pickle balanced on the gardening cabinet, presumably an offering (or a prank?) from one of our neighbors. Keith followed me into the genkan. I pointed to the pickle. "Wow," he commented, wrinkling his nose.<br />
<br />
Confident as we were that daikon pickles are supposed to stink, and trusting our neighbors’ pickle-making ability, we immediately brought it into the kitchen, cut up a bit of it and arranged it with a tea egg on top of our traditional January 7 okayu porridge. It was delicious.<br />
<br />
We took the precaution of double wrapping the rest of the pickle before putting it away. And now there’s a bag of concentrated fart in our refrigerator.<br />
<br />
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<br />Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-12021970732176158462019-12-10T00:24:00.000-08:002019-12-10T00:24:28.061-08:00Matthew 11 for MeA couple of weeks back, I was working on Advent liturgy... and this sort of happened. I hadn't written a poem in months, and this one got written in five minutes. It was definitely meant for me, but I share it here for all my friends and colleagues during the breakneck Christmas season. May you find rest, friends.<br />
<br />
Come to me, all you who are busy and self-important,<br />
And I will make you humble.<br />
Take my work upon you and do it with me—<br />
For I have all the time in the world to help you—<br />
Stop this meaningless spinning of plates.<br />
For my work brings joy<br />
To those who lose their self-imposed burdens that they might gain eternity.<br />
<br />
全て忙しい人、そこにプライドを感じている人は私のもとに来なさい。<br />
私はあなたがたをへりくだらせたい。<br />
私の仕事だけを引き受けて、私と共にそれを果たし、、、<br />
私があなたを手伝う時間は永遠に続くから、<br />
あなたの意味のない頑張りをやめなさい。<br />
私が与える仕事が喜びに至る人は<br />
自分で背負い込んでしまった重荷を永遠を得るために手放す人です。<br />
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Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-45757749008377580702019-03-07T23:13:00.002-08:002019-03-07T23:13:50.598-08:00The Bike-Riding Crow“Caw!” said a voice. I jumped. From the depths of the garage, a crow stared out at me. This cheeky bird was perched on the handlebars of my bike.<br />
<br />
The crow cocked his head to the side; his bright eyes shone with curiosity. But I wasn’t about to go any closer. Crows had been dive-bombing us in our garden ever since we moved in, so I didn’t trust <i>this </i>one, even if he looked a bit smaller and friendlier than the others.<br />
<br />
I looked at Keith. “What do we do?” We were running late for an appointment, and since we were still searching for a car, bikes were our only mode of transportation. But I couldn’t very well take my bike out when a crow was perched on it.<br />
<br />
Keith started around to the back of the house to try to chase the crow out of the garage from behind. He didn’t get very far, because two other crows, possibly the parents of the crow in our garage, cawed angrily and swooped down around him. He came back holding a broom. “Shoo!” he called, swiping at the crow with the broom. The crow didn’t move.<br />
<br />
I stared at the crow, and the crow stared back. “What should I do? There’s a crow in my garage, and he won’t go away!” I said in Japanese to no one in particular. A group of elderly women happened to be walking by, and they stopped to see what the strange foreigner was so worked up about. “Look, he’s sitting on my bike!” I exclaimed.<br />
<br />
One of the women wordlessly grabbed the broom from Keith, turned it around, and extended the handle towards the crow. “Come on, little one! It’s okay! Come on!” she encouraged. The crow immediately hopped onto the end of the broom, allowing himself to be carried out into the street. He sat there for a moment, dazed by the bright June sun, then took a couple of hops before he flapped off.<br />
<br />
Keith and I sputtered our thanks; she gave a curt bow before continuing on her way.Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-4748330838937542552019-02-28T21:14:00.000-08:002019-02-28T21:14:07.175-08:00Hints of SpringChop, chop, chop.<br />
<br />
Birdsong is not the harbinger of spring in Ishikari. I know spring is coming when I hear the sound of my neighbors breaking up the ice on their driveways and sidewalks and even on the road in front of our houses. On sunny days after the roads are clear, they fling scoops of snow out into the road so that the warm asphalt melts it.<br />
<br />
The winter is long here—three or four solid months of snow. We are more than ready for the ice to melt and spring to come. The crocuses are also ready, waiting just beneath the earth’s surface to emerge as soon as the snow is gone, after which they bloom within days.<br />
<br />
Winter has already been defeated by the coming of spring. We feel it in the warmth of the sun, but the snow still covers our gardens, so we cannot see it yet. Our heads are filled with visions of the crocuses, daffodils, and katakuri lilies that are just waiting to be freed from their prison of ice. And so we help, my neighbors and I, spreading the snow and breaking up the ice.<br />
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<br />Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-31153772594588313792019-02-20T23:45:00.000-08:002019-02-20T23:45:44.526-08:00On Amateur PotteryThe master potter, my teacher, sat at the pottery wheel and switched it on. The mound of clay whizzed around, spitting out drops of muddy water. She stuck her thumbs into the center of the mound and gently pulled outward and upward, and a shapely bowl formed in her hands. She switched the motor off and looked up at me. “Like that. Got it?” I nodded. It looked so easy.<br />
<br />
I centered my mound of clay on the wheel and sat down. My cellist’s hands were strong and steady, so I was confident. “Ready?” asked my teacher. “Yep!” I chirped. She switched on the wheel, and I imitated her motions, sticking my thumbs in the center of the mound… except that the clay, mounted on the wheel, was stronger than I was. My hands jerked around, as the unruly clay refused to be controlled. My teacher sprinkled water on the clay and guided my hands until I had pulled a wobbly bowl. “It’s a chawan!” I exclaimed. “Great, now let go,” said my teacher.<br />
<br />
But my finger caught the edge, skewing the bowl into a not-at-all-chawan-like shape. My teacher pointed out that the bowl would still work as a modern-art sort of cream pitcher.<br />
The next week, I sat again in front of the wheel. This time, I wasn’t going to mess up. This time I was prepared for the strength of the wheel. I wasn’t going to let it jerk me around! I stuck my thumbs again into the center of the mound, and slowly pulled upward. Not enough water; I added some more. Again, I pulled upward. Still too dry. I added more water, and the clay yielded in my hands, forming a pretty cylinder. “It’s a flower vase,” I exclaimed, elated. I gingerly let go, but the edges immediately started caving in towards the center. Again, the clay defeated me. “Too much water,” explained my teacher. “It’s okay; it will still work as a vase.”<br />
<br />
Again, the next week, I sat in front of the wheel, a large mound of clay prepared for shaping. I switched on the wheel, sprinkled a little water (but not too much), inserted my thumbs, and began to pull upward and outward—slowly, carefully—and then in again, and out again. “Don’t over-work the clay,” my teacher warned. “It’s okay, I’m almost done. This time I’m making a kensui bowl!” I released the bowl, switched off the wheel… and watched in horror as the delicate bowl collapsed into something like a rumpled old boot. “No… not again… this was my last chance!”<br />
<br />
My teacher shrugged, a twinkle in her eye. “You weren’t going to master the wheel in three weeks. Don’t worry; you can still use this one to practice glazing.”<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ujs54iEi7aVWXOWxDNJwEEDx9f8pVIjgEPUgnXFyGXaC2HB-Ny0-NoDV4aYR4yvHIJH-_EZLPSc-USXhtsOrQRCx0-9pnfq4RuXDnEm4nsWASdCMuvcHuhvNjWMt-NjlXCYbCw/s1600/20151112_113253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ujs54iEi7aVWXOWxDNJwEEDx9f8pVIjgEPUgnXFyGXaC2HB-Ny0-NoDV4aYR4yvHIJH-_EZLPSc-USXhtsOrQRCx0-9pnfq4RuXDnEm4nsWASdCMuvcHuhvNjWMt-NjlXCYbCw/s400/20151112_113253.JPG" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was always coffee around at pottery class. So I tested out this bowl that my teacher shaped and I glazed. Works pretty well!</td></tr>
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Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-17520823518960419862019-02-12T01:23:00.000-08:002019-02-12T01:23:32.606-08:00HungryI sit at your table, hungry<br />
For anything, really; it’s been a slog<br />
Through wasteland of death and destruction.<br />
<br />
“Do you want to eat?” you ask.<br />
“Yes! I’m so hungry,” I cry,<br />
And you smile, as if this<br />
Is what you’ve been waiting for.<br />
<br />
You pile plate after plate onto the table—<br />
tender roast beef and crusty fresh bread<br />
macaroni and cheese (the way my mom makes it)<br />
orange-glazed ham and ensalata caprese<br />
salmon sushi and oden and gyoza<br />
pumpkin pie with whipped cream for dessert<br />
All these my favorites; how did you know?<br />
<br />
Then I look up, and I see them—<br />
Why are <i>they</i> here? My enemies—I drop my fork<br />
And pick up my knife—but they stay where they are.<br />
<br />
They stare at the food piled up<br />
On the table, a greedy look<br />
In their eyes, but they do not eat.<br />
<br />
I look up at you. “Why are they here?<br />
Why don’t they eat?” I ask.<br />
<br />
You smile sadly and turn.<br />
“Come to the feast, friends. You are hungry—<br />
Come and eat!” but they sneer.<br />
“We are not hungry; we are fine. We do not need<br />
What you offer”—as loud growls and gurgles<br />
Denounce them as liars.<br />
<br />
“They too<br />
Have been welcomed, but they will not accept,<br />
So they watch, perhaps till they starve.”<br />
<br />
A pang of compassion. I turn<br />
With grace on my lips, and a plate in my hands—<br />
But your hand on my shoulder—“It’s enough,” you say,<br />
“You can’t make them come; you must show them<br />
My goodness. It is mine to give and theirs to accept.”<br />
<br />
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<br />Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-15708765029680424832019-01-30T02:02:00.000-08:002019-01-30T02:04:29.370-08:00Where I BelongToday’s coffee: Valentine’s blend (but I’m still drinking New Year’s blend at home)<br />
<br />
It seems like ages since New Year’s Day, and at the same time, it seems like no time has passed at all, as if I were just opening my jū-bako to show off this year’s osechi to Keith. But since it is still January, Happy New Year! 今年も宜しくお願い致します (Please be kind to me this year too.)<br />
<br />
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<br />
Osechi, the traditional Japanese New Year’s feast, is the most complicated and labor-intensive meal of the year. I spend a day planning, half a day shopping, two or three days cooking, and then about two hours arranging the food in a three-tiered lacquered box (jū-bako). There’s a word in Japanese describing an undertaking like this one: 面倒くさい (mendō-kusai), which literally means “stinks of trouble.” The benefit of all this work is that we eat it for days. Traditionally it’s three days, but with only two of us, it lasts at least a week, until we’ve had enough, but it’s still not gone. “Maybe you should make smaller batches next time,” suggested Keith.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Filling the boxes...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step by step, as each item goes in</td></tr>
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This year included, I’ve made the full-on osechi meal six times. The first time, in 2010, I could barely read Japanese; I was saved by the step-by-step instructions with pictures in my osechi cookbook. Some of the ingredients and cooking techniques didn’t even show up in my dictionary, so a lot of guesswork was involved. This year I didn’t use a dictionary at all, since my cooking obsession gave me the motivation to learn all that complicated vocabulary and more. Keith says our osechi gets better every year with practice, but he’s probably also getting accustomed to the taste.<br />
<br />
As I made grocery lists and translated recipes and shopped for expensive ingredients this year, part of me wondered why on earth I put myself through this rigmarole (almost) every year. It’s tasty, but perhaps not three-days-of-solid-work tasty. Hardly any of my Japanese friends even do this; if they eat osechi (it’s kind of old-fashioned), they order it from a department store or restaurant. So why?<br />
<br />
I suppose it’s the same reason I eat turkey and all the fixings on Thanksgiving Day, despite it not being a holiday here, and despite the trouble and expense of getting all those imported ingredients. It’s because back home, all my family and friends are eating turkey and sharing around the table what they are thankful for. When I eat the same meal and give thanks with my friends here, even in Japan, it’s like I’m affirming that even with the ocean dividing us, I still belong to my family and to the community in which I grew up.<br />
<br />
By making and eating Toshi-koshi soba (year-crossing soba) on New Year’s Eve, osechi and ozōni (soup with mochi) on New Year’s Day, nanakusa-gayu (seven-greens rice porridge) on January 7, and so on, I remind myself that I belong here too, to this place and to these people.<br />
<br />
Each of the foods in the osechi feast symbolize a hope for the coming year: red and white foods expressing the festivity of a fresh start, tiny fish for fruitfulness, beans for the ability to work hard (a wordplay in Japanese), kombu rolls for joy (also a wordplay), lotus root (which has holes) for clear-sightedness, taro root cut into turtle shape for longevity, yellow foods for prosperity, and so on. I eat these foods together with my friends here as I share their same hopes and prayers.<br />
<br />
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<br />
This is comforting, when so often I feel out of place and out of my depth, and sometimes I don’t even want to belong. But God brought me <i>here</i> and joined me to <i>this</i> community also; I affirm this by my feasting.<br />
<br />
It’s no wonder, since I also experience my deepest belonging by feasting at the Table of Tables—and this sense of belonging informs and deepens the others as heaven and earth are joined together. I belong here and everywhere God is honored.Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-19180671124331106852018-12-08T00:17:00.001-08:002018-12-08T00:17:44.307-08:00One man, set freeI saw him out of the corner of my eye. A middle aged man, wearing the ubiquitous white paper mask, backpack slung over a black pea coat. A perfectly normal-looking Japanese man, except that his eyes were closed and his hands outstretched, swaying in time with this live Gospel choir performance in the middle of Sendai station.<br />
<br />
Passersby stared at him, bemused expressions on their faces. The performers were too busy to notice; the small audience ignored him, or pretended to ignore him, hands folded, smiling placidly, tapping their feet almost imperceptibly.<br />
<br />
Standing quietly in a row with the other audience members, I glanced over at him. I wondered who he was, how he of all people had been able to defy the unspoken rule that strong emotions be tucked safely away and brought out at only a few socially approved outlets, like at sports events or in a karaoke box. I felt embarrassed for him, and yet somehow awed. How was it that he paid no mind to the stares and sneers of those around him? Was he drunk? Was he lost in the music? Did he have a mental illness that lowered his inhibitions? Or was he having some sort of transcendent worship experience, all by himself, right in the middle of Sendai station?<br />
<br />
Jealous tears welled up in my eyes as I realized that in this crowd of stoics, he was the most human of us all.Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-41274057119773723172018-12-04T15:56:00.002-08:002018-12-04T15:56:28.390-08:00(Im)PerfectionFifty hours and thirty-one minutes until my next concert—Friday morning at 10:00, at the annual women’s Christmas concert at a nearby church. The last I heard, 142 people have reserved tickets out of a possible 150.<br />
<br />
The program is a bear: the Rachmaninoff sonata, which is the most difficult piece in our repertoire by far for Shino, and the Beethoven fourth sonata, which, although not terribly difficult, takes immense concentration and precision, because the writing is sparse and every mistake can be heard.<br />
<br />
This will be our first performance of the entire Rachmaninoff sonata; we’ve been adding to it bit by bit over the last two years. We were relieved to come to the fourth movement and find it not as difficult as the first movement, although there are moments which favor the composer’s gigantic hands over Shino’s small ones, and she has to be rather creative to get all the notes—including rolling chords that come in the middle of a quickly moving melodic line. (We’ve started calling this issue “the big hands problem.”)<br />
<br />
Under normal circumstances, we might be inclined to put the Beethoven sonata first and the Rachmaninoff last in a program, but we felt it might be better to perform Rachmaninoff first, while we are fresh. I asked Shino if it was really okay to put Rachmaninoff in the program this time. “If I can play this, I can play anything,” she responded. (And, we confess, the beautiful piano at this particular church lit a fire under us to have the entire Rachmaninoff sonata ready in time.)<br />
<br />
But while practicing yesterday, I started to panic and to second-guess the wisdom of our choices for this program. <i>This transition is still rough</i>, I thought. <i>I still haven’t nailed that shift. This fast bit is messy. This melody is boring the way I play it now. If I mess up the counting during this rest, I don’t have the confidence that I’ll come in at the right time.</i> And on and on and on. As a result, I kept practicing past that sweet spot where I’m warmed up and focusing well… into the place where I started making stupid mistakes because I was tired. I was out of time.<br />
<br />
I feel this way before almost every concert—the despair that even though I’ve done my best to prepare, once again, this concert will not be perfect. I can comfort myself all I like with the assurance that no one will notice, but <i>I</i> will notice, and so will Shino. We are both painfully aware of our shortcomings as musicians.<br />
<br />
Judith Glyde, my cello professor in college, gave me some excellent advice that I’ve never forgotten. The week before a major performance, it’s best to practice a lot early in the week, while daily reducing the amount of practice, with light practice the day before, and only warming up the day of the concert. Right before a concert, she explained, a performer is very susceptible to the effect of mistakes in practice. When you make a mistake right before a performance, even in a spot you usually get right, you panic, and hastily fix the problem… and then panic again when you get to that spot in the concert. So, although it seems counter-intuitive, it’s best to trust that you’ve done your best and practiced enough, and go into a concert well-rested and confident.<br />
<br />
My life as a musician includes a constant letting go of the lofty ideal of a perfect performance. There is no such thing. It’s a paradox: I strive for perfection, knowing I will never achieve it. I can only practice so much. At some point I will always run out of time or energy or concentration.<br />
<br />
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could play this concert, enjoying every gorgeous moment of these two exquisite sonatas, not caring one bit if we mess up, or if anyone notices?<br />
<br />
Forty-nine hours and fifteen minutes until my next concert…<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8r13rcItu-CtzrFwJbN4XnbSe6kpWQ1Zs5wHJMiwWiVr1J8si1Xpoe1CzqzMvtmZQWGwE1C03Vl7wD1y1jDBKuJn-Y-dY3JMw_0RBaIAm-PxmL4pX2_SGMVkCkMuucVZ2TrJ9Tw/s1600/1-IMG_0493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8r13rcItu-CtzrFwJbN4XnbSe6kpWQ1Zs5wHJMiwWiVr1J8si1Xpoe1CzqzMvtmZQWGwE1C03Vl7wD1y1jDBKuJn-Y-dY3JMw_0RBaIAm-PxmL4pX2_SGMVkCkMuucVZ2TrJ9Tw/s400/1-IMG_0493.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At our last concert. If you look closely, you will see that we're about to start the first movement of the Rachmaninoff sonata.</td></tr>
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Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-65551211922188584082018-11-23T20:23:00.000-08:002018-11-23T20:23:40.332-08:00The View from the PeakSipping my coffee, I stared out at fog. “God, we really want to go hiking today,” I prayed silently. “Please let us get to the top.” Another billow of cloud rolled across the deck of the little rest hut at the top of the ropeway. Our goal was Asahidake, a relatively short hike for a short autumn day, but still a significant climb to the tallest peak in Hokkaido.<br />
<br />
“Well… we could try walking around the lakes and see if it clears up?” I suggested. Keith nodded in agreement, and we zipped up our rain coats and headed out into the fog. Maybe we would keep climbing if we felt like it.<br />
<br />
At Full Moon Pond, we spotted a patch of blue sky, and by the time we got to Husband and Wife lakes, a startlingly clear view of the side of the mountain. We could almost see the peak, which reflected back out of the dark water. Just past Mountain-View Lake, a blue streak appeared between layers of clouds.<br />
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We decided to climb. I had this weird confidence it was going to be clear when we got to the top. This was going to be amazing.<br />
<br />
My confidence grew as the fog kept lifting, always just a little bit ahead of us, as we climbed. We saw a hiker with red backpack disappearing into the fog above us, then reappearing, then disappearing again. At the sixth station, a bit of sun lit up the side of the mountain, and in the valley below, the mountain shrubs’ autumn foliage flamed red.<br />
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Then, between the seventh and eighth stations, the fog stopped lifting. The strong wind came up over the ridge, pelting us with rain. “If this keeps up, we’re going to have to turn back,” warned Keith. Just before the ninth station, we passed a young woman in a rain slicker on her way down. “How was it? Did you make it to the top?” we asked. “Yeah… it was <i>cold</i>. I couldn’t see <i>anything</i>!”<br />
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But we kept going, holding out hope for a clear view from the top. Only 100 meters left to climb. We’ll make it, I thought. We can’t give up now!<br />
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We turned a corner and found snow on the ground, probably from last night. How much longer? Who knew? We stumbled on through total whiteout, with rain falling sideways. We guessed that the temperature was close to freezing.<br />
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We came over one last ridge, and the trail flattened out. Was this the top? It didn’t clear up. In fact, it started raining harder. We found the top-of-mountain signpost, took our selfies and then immediately turned around and clomped as fast as we could down the mountain. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I was sure that my knees would pay for this rough descent once they thawed.<br />
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We emerged from the fog below the sixth station, and shortly after that met a guy attempting the climb in tennis shoes and a jeans jacket. “You’ll never make it dressed like that,” we warned him. He smiled and thanked us, then kept going.<br />
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Heavy rain turned to downpour the last few hundred meters. We arrived back at the top of the ropeway, dripping wet, miserable, and chilled. What was this all about? Where had all that confidence gotten me?<br />
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I can certainly say that after all that, lunch (steaming hot curry-rice with local vegetables) tasted amazing. During the course of lunch, my legs thawed, and I discovered, as we took the stairs to exit the restaurant, that indeed, my knees had not appreciated our style of descent. We headed straight for the onsen to cure our weary muscles and joints.<br />
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By late afternoon, we were back in our hotel room, and I was already wearing pajamas. My clothes were hanging to dry in front of the heater. Keith looked out the window. “It’s sunny!” he exclaimed. “I’m going back out!” I whimpered something about wet clothes and stairs, but after seeing sunlight on the yellow maples and red Japanese rowan trees outside, I threw my clothes back on and limped down the stairs and out into the parking lot.<br />
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There was Asahidake, flaming red and glorious in the evening light, and not a single cloud.<br />
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<br />Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-18904679261189613122018-11-22T05:06:00.000-08:002018-11-22T05:07:42.974-08:00Thanksgiving Came EarlyI sighed, gazing into the empty vegetable drawer. Three days after the earthquake, the power was back on, and so was the water. The freezer was full of freezer-burned meat that needed to be eaten quickly. We had plenty of rice, a few eggs, and even a little bit of milk, but no vegetables.<br />
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I hungrily searched the garden. A few tiny leeks, a handful of herbs, an abundance of parsley, some stunted carrots; hardly enough to make a meal.<br />
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But I was not yet desperate enough to brave the lines of stern-faced housewives at the grocery store as they snapped up every scrap of fresh food before I even got through the door. What would happen, I wondered, to the people who really were desperate, who didn’t have our well-stocked pantry, or who had lost everything in their freezer? How could they compete with the others who were panic-buying simply because fresh food had become scarce?<br />
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The warm early autumn breeze carried the fragrance of yakiniku from somewhere in the neighborhood. Perhaps someone else had partially-thawed meat to use up. Our neighbor across the street stood on a ladder trimming his pine tree. Other than the grocery store, our neighborhood was a haven of peace and serenity. I sighed with regret over the beets and Swiss chard that I planted in the spring, which had been choked out by weeds in our absence over the summer. If only we had been able to plant a garden this year. I thought of our friends with large farm plots, starting to feel jealous.<br />
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Then it dawned on me that in Hokkaido in the autumn, no one needs to go hungry. The abundant vegetables in the fields don’t care one bit that there’s been an earthquake. Scarcity was an illusion that had grown in the minds of the self-sufficient. But I had no need to rely only on my own resources, and neither did anyone else. I could ask for help. What if I asked my farming friends? There was no bread in the stores, either, since there was neither milk nor eggs. I can make bread without using either. Why not make a trade?<br />
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So we asked. And our friend arrived in our genkan with a huge box of potatoes, a bag of vine-ripened tomatoes, a bundle of green beans, some eggplants, and the largest kabocha I had ever seen. “No need to return the favor,” he said, smiling. That night we ate a feast, and we continued to feast for a week.<br />
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I delivered a bag with two little loaves of fresh sourdough bread to his wife at church the following Sunday, tears in my eyes as I hugged and thanked her.<br />
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Lord of the Harvest, we give you thanks for your mercy to all of us here in Hokkaido. By your grace, the earthquake happened in autumn. No one went hungry, and no one froze. And we thank you that you welcome us to ask for help.<br />
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(By the way, we saved one pie's worth of the kabocha and froze it for our Thanksgiving pie.)Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-44303062352334303102018-11-21T03:50:00.002-08:002018-11-21T03:50:51.311-08:00Winter SalsaThis recipe was inspired by a huge amount of cilantro in my garden, snow in the forecast, and the need for appetizers for Thanksgiving dinner. Also, persimmons are in season, but tomatoes are not. And persimmons look like tomatoes, so it should work out, right?<br />
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<b>Winter Salsa</b><br />
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<i>Ingredients:</i><br />
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<ul>
<li>3 persimmons</li>
<li>2 bell peppers</li>
<li>1 tablespoon avocado or olive oil</li>
<li>1 large onion, diced</li>
<li>4 cloves garlic, minced</li>
<li>3 green onions, minced</li>
<li>1 chipotle pepper in adobo sauce, minced, with additional adobo sauce added to taste</li>
<li>Large handful of cilantro, chopped</li>
<li>Juice of one lime</li>
<li>Salt to taste</li>
</ul>
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<i>Instructions:</i><br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Peel and cube the persimmons as you would do with tomatoes in “normal” salsa. </li>
<li>Fire-roast the peppers using your method of choice. I cut them in half and grilled them in my fish grill, but I am guessing most of the people who read my blog don’t have a fish grill. Allow the peppers to cool, remove as much of the skin as possible, and dice. (Or raw peppers are fine.)</li>
<li>Heat the oil in a frying pan. Fry the onions over low heat, stirring frequently, until they are caramel brown, about 15 minutes. Add the garlic and green onions and fry them for another couple of minutes. (Or, once again, you can skip this step if you like the flavor of raw onion and garlic. I don’t.)</li>
<li>Put the persimmons, peppers, and onion mixture in a large bowl, and season to taste with chipotle pepper, cilantro, lime juice, and salt. Enjoy!</li>
</ol>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVOlbtoKsBJDvBSFMDi7iwLm7GBHKQ337Cz5g9Hy-OzMP0GeRK9euBKtDELi2OaA0Jh9rT7jXLDQ2tSgxxhBjKD28CprBXrQTsok7wXeqs21GDOg92rGI_IuLg0OJrddTaQSy6ng/s1600/IMG_0672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVOlbtoKsBJDvBSFMDi7iwLm7GBHKQ337Cz5g9Hy-OzMP0GeRK9euBKtDELi2OaA0Jh9rT7jXLDQ2tSgxxhBjKD28CprBXrQTsok7wXeqs21GDOg92rGI_IuLg0OJrddTaQSy6ng/s400/IMG_0672.JPG" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On top of tonight's dinner...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_mVvkAdC2Qa9YlWJCD7nYkRjf_Nm8nIgudmi2VXpS7LoUYnCkIJteK6tzoFq1t94vDbvkwB-5ya6y0N-0xWmM_MCzMyU64m8PUJlixwFYBoJjso2vmyY6INZCDm4UGsKBfiyOQ/s1600/IMG_0663.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_mVvkAdC2Qa9YlWJCD7nYkRjf_Nm8nIgudmi2VXpS7LoUYnCkIJteK6tzoFq1t94vDbvkwB-5ya6y0N-0xWmM_MCzMyU64m8PUJlixwFYBoJjso2vmyY6INZCDm4UGsKBfiyOQ/s400/IMG_0663.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Persimmon trees lose their leaves before the fruit falls off.</td></tr>
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Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-35613208070361363772018-10-03T18:54:00.000-07:002018-10-03T18:54:30.481-07:00The Last Flight to FargoThis last July, I made a quick trip to visit some friends in Boston. My final day there, after an idyllic morning reading a novel at my favorite chocolate shop and then visiting the Museum of Fine Arts, I headed to the airport to fly to North Dakota, where Keith’s entire family (eighteen people) were gathering for the weekend.<br />
<br />
Friday night in the summer, the airport was a mob. I got one of those fun "boarding passes" where your seat is assigned at the gate. So, I went to the gate. Except it wasn’t the gate, even though the computer screen said it was. I waited in line for twenty minutes only to be told to go to customer service. No one was there. I glared at my phone, refreshing the flight information every thirty seconds. I emailed Keith. “Pray I make my flight. I don’t have a boarding pass, and there’s no gate for the flight.” “Yikes,” wrote Keith.<br />
<br />
About half an hour later, another gate was assigned. I waited in that line for twenty minutes, only to be told that that wasn’t the gate either. “So where is it?” I exclaimed, exasperated. “We were supposed to be boarding ten minutes ago, and the flight is still marked ‘on time.’” The gate agent gave me a deer-in-the-headlights look, and picked up the phone. After several minutes on hold, he set the phone down. “Actually, this is the right gate,” he said, business-like manner returned. “I just didn’t know.” Huh. “What do you suppose our chances are of leaving on time?” muttered the man behind me in line. “I’d say zero,” I muttered back. The gate agent handed me the long-awaited boarding passes and I shuffled away to search for a place to sit down and wait.<br />
<br />
I was assigned “zone 4” for boarding. Zone 4 seems to be my lot in life. It’s the last group to board the plane. The inexplicable thing is, I found my seat next to the window in the last row.<br />
<br />
The departure time passed. I began to fan myself frantically. I had a short connection time, and Minneapolis is a big airport. We pushed back from the gate… and sat. “We’re just finishing up the refueling,” said the pilot. What were they doing all that time we were sitting at the gate? Twenty minutes later, we were stuck in rush hour traffic on the tarmac. Then bad weather changed the departure pattern from the airport, so again we waited. I started biting my nails. I was scheduled to be on the last flight to Fargo that night. If I didn’t make my connection, I would be the only one of the eighteen Olson family members to be absent from this once-in-two-plus-years family gathering, and Keith’s mom would not be able to say that everyone had been there… and <i>it was all going to be my fault</i>, because I had insisted on going to Boston.<br />
<br />
My mind switched into frantic-problem-solving-mode. I could rent a car in Minneapolis and drive the rest of the way… for five hours in the middle of the night. No. Who was I kidding? Driving long distances in the daytime makes me drowsy. Someone could come pick me up? No… wouldn’t save any time, and someone else would end up missing the party too. I mumbled a half-hearted prayer, not really confident that God cared whether or not I made my connecting flight. After all, the tarmac was swarming with delayed planes. Why should I get special treatment?<br />
<br />
Once we were airborne, I used the inflight wifi to email Keith. “I’m sure I'm going to miss my connection. What should I do?” “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out,” came the response. I waited, still biting my nails. “Your connecting flight is delayed until 45 minutes after you arrive, and it leaves from gate F8. You should make it,” said the next email. 45 minutes… could still be pretty tight in the Minneapolis airport, when starting from the back row of the plane.<br />
<br />
The nice people in the seats next to me let me get out first, and I filed down the aisle, out the door, to the jetway… what gate was this? I steeled myself for a sprint through the airport. F8, F8… I walked through the door into the terminal. Where was F8? I turned around. “Fargo,” said the reader-board above the door through which I had just walked. F8. <i>This was gate F8</i>.<br />
<br />
The gate agent’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Welcome to Delta flight number 689 with service to Fargo, North Dakota. We’re experiencing a delay due to late arrival of the aircraft. There was a bit of weather on the east coast. We’ll begin boarding as soon as possible.” I laughed out loud in the middle of a crowd of grumpy North Dakotans.<br />
<br />
“お待たせしました(Sorry for making you wait),” I whispered, confident that no one would understand my apology.Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-35894910632387065082018-09-21T20:00:00.000-07:002018-09-21T20:00:23.109-07:00The Chickens Move HouseA cacophony of angry squawks and outraged clucking broke out next door. I looked up from my book. Mom, across the patio table, glanced towards our neighbor’s house.<br />
<br />
“It looks like the chickens are finally moving into their new coop,” she observed, amused.<br />
<br />
“I guess chickens don’t like moving any more than I do,” I said.<br />
<br />
This was a momentous day. Our neighbors had been talking about the new chicken coop for the entire month since our arrival in Seattle. The old coop and chicken run was dilapidated, and a steady stream of rats came in and out, attracted by the kitchen scraps on which the chickens feasted. Making a new coop, however, was a big project—especially one this nice.<br />
<br />
I went over to see the new coop. It was big, well protected from wild animals and the elements, and most importantly, <i>painted red</i>.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Gq6w7J2jyabeLMnBPQ8WVJKl-HeaKdp3UvzJgfiZHJKRZVkIz-jUKQrBWBfKFSSSDwDV3yN-2vnb2gcXMmHIza_kGo3jIh3Q6JJ6ybb47FcvaS2cigmf5ZQeNJD3VFdTrCcMNw/s1600/IMG_9925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Gq6w7J2jyabeLMnBPQ8WVJKl-HeaKdp3UvzJgfiZHJKRZVkIz-jUKQrBWBfKFSSSDwDV3yN-2vnb2gcXMmHIza_kGo3jIh3Q6JJ6ybb47FcvaS2cigmf5ZQeNJD3VFdTrCcMNw/s400/IMG_9925.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What chicken wouldn't want to live in a red coop?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3LW0Y9lYyr-hbeE3KCLkjNNIpNlDOZUq9e5bmYApTs4XFJlaRqjEDDXx3qcreyNqDHfcaCYWuk_ZOEmC39f5Ue75iBDCSYBxDXuiD9yqWPW_quU2R1zBL26e7sIDnEWcG9TRyw/s1600/IMG_9923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3LW0Y9lYyr-hbeE3KCLkjNNIpNlDOZUq9e5bmYApTs4XFJlaRqjEDDXx3qcreyNqDHfcaCYWuk_ZOEmC39f5Ue75iBDCSYBxDXuiD9yqWPW_quU2R1zBL26e7sIDnEWcG9TRyw/s400/IMG_9923.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old coop</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our neighbors had set up a fence between the two coops, and chased the chickens out of the old chicken run and into the new one. But one hen stubbornly refused to move. She clucked aggrievedly as all the other chickens were herded away. No amount of coaxing or kitchen scraps could entice her to leave the familiar comfort of the old coop.<br />
<br />
I didn’t see how our neighbors eventually moved the last hen. But a few days later, looking at the contented chickens in their new home, I never would have guessed anything had happened had I not overheard this little drama next door.<br />
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<br />Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-23576742685695993702018-09-14T18:41:00.000-07:002018-12-08T21:56:22.402-08:00The Unexpected SabbathLast week was rather “exciting.”<br />
<br />
On Tuesday night, the most powerful typhoon to hit Japan in 25 years came through the Sapporo area. I spent much of Tuesday bringing plants inside and securing things in the garden. Then I put in my earplugs and tried to sleep. The earplugs didn’t block out the house shaking, though.<br />
<br />
Wednesday, Keith painted the living room ceiling. This had been on the to-do list for… oh, a year or so. I met a friend for dinner in Sapporo; I made my way home amidst a dramatic lightning storm as the typhoon bid us farewell. I was tired (no sleep the night before), so I went straight to bed.<br />
<br />
And… no sleep for Keith and Celia Wednesday night, either. We woke up to the house shaking again—a large earthquake—shortly after 3 a.m. Thursday morning. As my cell phone’s earthquake warning blared, I fumbled around in the dark for the light switch. We stumbled downstairs on shaky legs to have a look around; the extent of the “damage” was that a few lightweight things, such as our rice cooker scoop, fell over. Earthquakes aren’t exactly uncommon around here, but this was big by Hokkaido standards, and the biggest we’ve ever experienced. This one was about 80 kilometers away, magnitude 6.7. (And since I was half-asleep and disoriented, I can’t really remember much about the earthquake itself.)<br />
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<br />
The power blinked off, then back on again. We went back to bed, but didn’t sleep much, since the aftershocks came one after another. After one large aftershock, the fan switched off, leaving us in stifling heat, so we knew the power had gone out again.<br />
<br />
I got out of bed around 6:00, bleary eyed. I went to make coffee… and no water from the tap. I hadn’t bothered to fill up the hot water pot or top off the Brita pitcher the night before, as is my usual bedtime routine. Yikes. I checked the fridge: three jugs of water and iced tea would tide us over until the water came back on. And the gas stove worked. Coffee was back on the menu!<br />
<br />
At about 7:00, I walked over to see if I could get us some more drinks at the convenience store. Cars lined both sides of the street, and even with the lights out I could see a line of people winding all the way around the store. I gave up and went home. I took quick look around the outside of the house, and I noticed we had lost a few more bits of mortar off our chimney, but I wasn’t sure if that had been caused by the earthquake or the typhoon.<br />
<br />
Keith came downstairs into the empty living room. All the furniture had been moved into the dining room except for a tall bookshelf, earthquake supports removed for painting (the only time since we moved in). Keith looked up at the bookshelf. “That could have been bad,” he observed. But the bookshelf, and all the books, were exactly where we had left them. Seeing pictures of overturned furniture and broken roads from others on Facebook, we realized we had been extremely fortunate.<br />
<br />
I had fleeting thoughts of getting work done, except that my laptop was where I left it the night before, in my bag, unplugged. With near-dead batteries on my laptop, not to mention dead tired, I wasn’t going to be getting much work done. Traffic lights weren’t working, so going anywhere would be a pain, gas was scarce, and we heard of roads messed up by the quake in some parts of Sapporo. So I responded to messages from concerned people, checked in with some friends, and then gave up on the thought of work.<br />
<br />
It seems that most of our neighborhood came to the same conclusion I did. Plenty of people had been dispatched to help those in need closer to the epicenter, so the best thing for those of us in Ishikari to do was to help each other out and stay out of the way. Can’t work, can’t go anywhere, power’s off, nothing to do, and the weather’s great; SEIZE THE DAY. People milled around on the streets, while animated voices and laughter wafted out of open windows. Families and friends shared stories and pooled resources for meals. (It’s harvest season in Ishikari; it’s not like anyone was going to go hungry.) Children played outside, delighted at an unforeseen holiday from school. Eventually after we recovered a trickle of water, (after I filled up every jug in the house) I did some gardening, and saw others on our block doing the same. In a nearby park, amidst trees uprooted by the typhoon, Keith spotted a father and son together catching bugs. The atmosphere was altogether like a holiday, but with no TV to distract anyone from uninterrupted family time. I almost felt guilty for thoroughly enjoying the day. Almost.<br />
<br />
Keith and I ate hotdogs on the patio as we watched the sunset. One by one the stars appeared in the cloudless, moonless sky, brilliant above the dark city. Neighbors stood in the street, looking up, giving expression to their awe in hushed voices. I fiddled with my camera, trying (and failing) to get a good shot. Keith, who has been memorizing various Psalms, recited:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens. Out of the mouth of babies and infants, you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger. When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? Yet you have made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor. You have made him ruler over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet, all flocks and herds, and animals of the wild, the birds of the sky, and the fish of the sea, and all that swim the paths of the seas. O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!</blockquote>
<br />
In the midst of a disaster, we had been spared—more than spared, we were completely unscathed. Joy at this undeserved grace and the glory of God revealed in his creation welled up in my soul—but it was a joy made complicated by grief, since 80 kilometers away, people and houses were lost in landslides. Does this mean we shouldn’t rejoice and give thanks? I think not. There is so much to be thankful for.<br />
<br />
(A week on, things are mostly back to normal in Ishikari, except that milk is scarce, and the grocery store is less stocked than usual. We still have frequent aftershocks. Recovery efforts continue closer to the epicenter. Please pray for those who lost loved ones, homes, possessions, and a sense of safety. And we could all do with some uninterrupted sleep.)Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-28465929275378344732018-08-05T14:11:00.000-07:002018-09-21T20:00:58.307-07:00Daylilies, and the Art of Paying AttentionShortly after we moved into Matsu House two years ago, I discovered a mysterious plant in our garden. Its leaves looked the same as irises, and its flowers like lilies, but with five or so buds on each stalk. There were lots of them, so I cut one and brought it into the house. To my surprise, by the next morning, the flower had faded, but a second bud was starting to open. I observed the flower, fascinated, over the course of several days, until all the buds had opened and faded, one by one.<br />
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<br />
I looked up the flower in my book of Hokkaido wildflowers. It’s called Ezo-kanzo, or Nikkokisuge when it is part of a flower arrangement for tea ceremony. I realized that it was the same flower we had seen covering an entire hillside on Rebun island several years previously.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNqoaXU5lNTKen-NY0BaUbRWmxSJDbLvqgHv8puykUtLc3eRcNd_Qcg39dKx2_UJKS1sxqioTiaCz80wbMrYGYhnG6SMUzhWdY3dJFXDRRkjO8o-_8pddVomtfaVGlzogM1w18A/s1600/6-IMG_1292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNqoaXU5lNTKen-NY0BaUbRWmxSJDbLvqgHv8puykUtLc3eRcNd_Qcg39dKx2_UJKS1sxqioTiaCz80wbMrYGYhnG6SMUzhWdY3dJFXDRRkjO8o-_8pddVomtfaVGlzogM1w18A/s400/6-IMG_1292.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See all those yellow bits?</td></tr>
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I watched for it in eager anticipation at the end of May the next year, and it became one of my favorite flowers to display in my tea room.<br />
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In June this year, I said goodbye to my garden as we headed to the US for two months of home assignment. One evening at a friend’s house, while touring his garden, I saw familiar looking leaves and seed-pods. I turned to Keith. “Those look like…”<br />
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“Those are Daylilies,” our friend explained.<br />
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“Daylilies,” I repeated. “Because they bloom only for a day, and then the next bud blooms?”<br />
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“Exactly,” he confirmed.<br />
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It turns out I had seen Nikkokisuge flowers, which I now know to call Daylilies, before I ever went to Japan. I went to Boston, and found them blooming by roadsides in the suburbs. Then I went to North Dakota, and found them in the garden of almost every house, including the house where Keith grew up. They thrive even with winters colder than Sapporo’s, it seems, and they come in colors other than the orange-yellow variety native to Hokkaido.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Southborough, Massachusetts </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the garden at Keith's parents' house, after a rain storm</td></tr>
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I had seen Daylilies, but I never noticed them. How many other lovely things am I missing because I’m not paying attention?Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-47089569899706629932018-08-03T12:11:00.000-07:002018-09-21T20:00:58.368-07:00Parable of the Apple TreesThere is an apple tree in the backyard of the house where Keith grew up in North Dakota. He tells me that it’s about 20 years old, rarely pruned or cared for, allowed to grow wild.<br />
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Defying the wisdom that says pruning will make a tree bear more fruit, its branches are so loaded with ripening apples that they nearly touch the ground. No pesticides or fertilizers have touched this tree, but not an insect in sight.<br />
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How beautiful it must have looked in the spring, covered with pinky white blossoms! Even now, pale red of ripening fruit bursts against a backdrop of vibrant sage green leaves.<br />
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Apple growing in Japan, on the other hand, is an arduous process. Each apple is covered with a mesh bag to protect it from insects, and carefully turned to ensure even ripening. Thinned to only a few apples per branch, each large, shapely apple is intensely sweet with a perfect crunch.<br />
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Our apple tree in Ishikari is a spindly little thing, currently experiencing its second summer. Who knows when we will eat its fruit? We’re told it will take five, maybe seven years. We watched nervously this spring as one branch came close to breaking in the strong wind. Insects plague our poor tree, and torrential rains produce orange spots on its leaves.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our tree, just starting to put out leaves this spring. It looked lonely, so we gave it some daffodils and shibazakura (moss phlox) to keep it company.</td></tr>
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North Dakota apples, crisp and tart, can be had for free, in large quantities. In this town, even if you don’t have a tree yourself, surely you know someone who does. Japanese apples often cost more than 100 yen (about a dollar) each, even when they are in season. While in North Dakota or Washington, a person might eat apples every day, in Japan they are a special treat, to be eaten only when someone gives you one as a gift. Keith doesn’t like me to buy them, because he can’t stomach paying for something which has always been free.<br />
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I gaze longingly at the apples on this overgrown tree. If only our little tree could grow up to be like this one.<br />
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But it won’t. The climate, the soil, everything is different. Japanese apples are costly, hard-won, precious. But oh, are they ever sweet.Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-58189774791041988132018-07-02T13:54:00.001-07:002018-07-02T13:54:45.453-07:00You're invited: Storytelling and Preaching at Westside PresFor those of you Seattle-area friends who missed our lunch event at Newport Covenant yesterday, we're doing the same sort of thing again:<br />
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Sunday, July 15<br />
<a href="http://wspc.org/">Westside Presbyterian Church</a> in West Seattle, 3601 California Avenue SW, Seattle<br />
We will be telling stories and showing pictures during Sunday School at 9 a.m., and Celia will be preaching from James 5. The service is at 10 a.m.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blast from the past picture with the lovely cherry tree at Westside Pres.</td></tr>
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We hope you can come!Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-40154976012518808112018-06-27T11:02:00.000-07:002018-06-27T11:02:14.156-07:00You're invited: Lunch and Stories at NCCDear Seattle-area friends,<br />
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We are having an event at our home church, <a href="http://www.newportcov.com/">Newport Covenant Church</a>, on Sunday, July 1! We will tell stories, show pictures of our work and life, and there will be a game and a cultural demonstration. And you even get to experience the traditional Japanese after-church-lunch, curry rice.<br />
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Lunch will start at around 11:45.<br />
If you are also interested in coming to the service, it's at 10:00. Celia will play cello for prelude and offertory.<br />
The church address is 12800 Coal Creek Parkway SE • Bellevue, WA 98006<br />
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Feel free to email if you need more information. See you on Sunday!<br />
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Here's a few pictures from the last time we did this:<br />
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<br />Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-41518007955866166322018-06-27T10:25:00.000-07:002018-07-02T13:58:00.429-07:00Save the date!We're on home assignment! We decided to try out the quick-and-painless(?) short home assignment, in which we only had to prepare our house for house-sitters, rather than pack up everything for storage.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One last camellia was waiting for us at Celia's parents' house.</td></tr>
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For those of you who are interested in connecting with us or attending a presentation (stories, slideshow, etc.), here is our schedule. We will be putting more details of the events on the blog, or feel free to email for more information. Looking forward to seeing you!<br />
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July 1 <a href="http://www.newportcov.com/">Newport Covenant Church</a>: cello offertory and <a href="http://keithandcelia.blogspot.com/2018/06/youre-invited-lunch-and-stories-at-ncc.html">presentation of our ministry over lunch</a><br />
July 6-7 Attending symposium (<a href="https://www.regent-college.edu/lifelong-learning/conferences/the-tears-of-christ-and-the-silence-of-god">The Tears of Christ and the Silence of God</a>) at Regent College (Vancouver, BC)<br />
July 8 Keith preaches at <a href="http://www.van1crc.org/">Vancouver First CRC</a><br />
July 13 Sharing at <a href="https://www.covenantshores.org/index">Covenant Shores</a> (Mercer Island, WA)<br />
July 15 <a href="http://keithandcelia.blogspot.com/2018/07/youre-invited-storytelling-and.html">Adult Sunday School presentation</a> and Celia preaches at <a href="http://wspc.org/">Westside Presbyterian</a> (Seattle)<br />
July 22 Sharing at the home of a supporter in Portland, OR<br />
July 23-27 Celia visits friends and supporters in Boston<br />
July 24-August 7 Keith visits family and friends in Grand Forks, ND; Celia joins him July 27th<br />
August 12 Attending Newport Covenant<br />
August 13 Sharing at OMF Seattle prayer meetingCeliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-70056891395878233732018-05-07T22:29:00.000-07:002018-05-07T22:29:31.187-07:00Beautiful ScarsI like going to the beach. Not so much for the swimming, although I like doing that too, when the weather is right and the conditions are good. (Definitely not for sunbathing.) I think my favorite beach activity is looking at stuff and picking stuff up. My senses become so attuned to finding beauty in the tiny objects mixed in with the sand that I can only think of those things, or perhaps the things they remind me of.<br />
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We are at the beach this week, not on vacation, but to have time without distractions to reflect and write and prepare for our home assignment this summer.<br />
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Beautiful scenery and fresh air and exercise are aids to creativity, so I went out for a walk this morning between essays. Last time we came here, I was drawn to smooth rocks and moon-snail shells. This time, I have been collecting beach glass.<br />
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Beach glass is often used as a metaphor for the process of maturing through adversity: continually tossed by waves with sand and salt, the sharp edges are worn down.<br />
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I couldn’t help but remember, though, my Dad’s warning to me when I got my first camera: never let your camera come into contact with sand. The sand will scratch the lens, and it then the camera will be worthless.<br />
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The beautiful opaque surface of beach glass is actually made up of scratches and scars that will never “heal.” Until the glass is recycled, those scars will remain. These shards are indeed worthless for their original purpose, but not ultimately worthless: re-purposed, they could become something far more sublime than a beer bottle.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCr3ej8cdFY_ilUiLchbcoUeqTqEBF50T2WOZkPc205h0_vyhypk4qFsaKw321cOom6BHY4MDn22Jed8cNMEIkypSjPzcrXP8Hs8BfdRG6gA80uptvzkL3K9By2r2h9BHTFc9Seg/s1600/IMG_8967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCr3ej8cdFY_ilUiLchbcoUeqTqEBF50T2WOZkPc205h0_vyhypk4qFsaKw321cOom6BHY4MDn22Jed8cNMEIkypSjPzcrXP8Hs8BfdRG6gA80uptvzkL3K9By2r2h9BHTFc9Seg/s400/IMG_8967.JPG" width="223" /></a></div>
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As I look back over these last two years, I’ve struggled to remember the encouraging things that happened, and even more so things that will be meaningful to anyone other than me. But this walk on the beach has made me hopeful that eventually I will see some beauty and purpose even in my own brokenness… maybe even this week as I write!<br />
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How will God use my scars to show his glory? I’m looking forward to finding out.<br />
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<i>Which brings me to an important announcement:</i><br />
Mid-June through mid-August we will be in North America on a short home assignment, based in Seattle. We are in the process of working out our schedule, so we will have more details soon. We’re looking forward to seeing many of you this summer, and sharing the stories we’re writing this week!Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-30905228783496095912018-02-19T20:58:00.000-08:002019-02-12T01:31:06.381-08:00And above all these put on love“Sit up straight,” said the Voice.<br />
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“Really? Is that all you want to tell me?” I responded, a bit nonplussed. “Are you my ballet teacher?” I still remember the comments on my bad posture and a particular piece of “art” on the wall of my dance studio as a child: the slogan, “You are what you eat” illustrated by a drawing of a slob holding a piece of pizza. This never stopped me from wolfing down a huge plate of Mexican food, slathered in cheese, every week after dance class. I guess that’s not the same as pizza, so it doesn’t count, right? Exercise increases one’s appetite. But I digress.<br />
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The previous day, I had gone for onsen and a massage, having strained my back clearing snow from in front of our house to make a space for tea-party guests to park their cars. (Lifting while twisting seems <i>not</i> to be the right way to haul snow around.) I didn’t realized how slouchy I had become until the massage therapist stuck her knee into my back and then pulled back on my shoulders… and my shoulders didn’t want to cooperate. Ouch.<br />
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With those thoughts in mind, I set aside my irritation and sat up straight, or as straight as I could. I noticed that the strain in my lower back eased a bit. I thought back to the previously mentioned tea party; of course I had been wearing a kimono. While I had it on, I completely forgot about my strained back. An obi, properly tied firmly but not too tight, is a wonderful support. I can’t slouch even if I want to.<br />
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A friend once asked me if wearing a kimono changed the way I think or act. At the time, I said no, but as I consider that question again, I think the answer is probably yes. There’s something about being forced to sit up straight, to take small steps, to move slowly, carefully, gracefully, deliberately. People who feel shame, I read recently, are likely to slouch, perhaps as a self-defending sign of submission. By straightening me up, my kimono restores my dignity, or at least the appearance of it.<br />
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Obi (帯) is an interesting word, and an interesting garment. It is several meters long, made of stiff brocade fabric. It is the sash that holds the kimono together; a kimono has no buttons or strings or snaps, so without the obi, the kimono cannot be worn. To wear an obi, you wrap it twice around your waist, and then tie it in an elaborate bow, completed with several other decorative strings.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A friend from my kimono circle practices tying an obi in a particularly festive way</td></tr>
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When I was preaching from Colossians 3 last spring, I came across the word “obi” in my passage. Here is Colossians 3:14, in English and Japanese:<br />
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“And above all these put on love, which <b>binds everything together</b> in perfect harmony” (ESV).<br />
<br />
「そして、これらすべての上に、愛を着けなさい。愛は<b>結びの帯として</b>完全なものです。」 (新改訳聖書第三版) (Taking a stab at a literal translation of this, I would suggest “And then, over all of this, put on love. Love is, <b>as a binding obi</b>, a perfect thing.”)<br />
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God’s love, wrapped tightly around me, is what keeps me from falling apart. God’s love holds me up straight and restores my dignity when I am bent over with shame and despair. God’s love, supporting me, reminds me that I am not alone; the battle is his to fight, not mine. God’s love wrapped around us holds us together as his people even when separation seems like the better option.<br />
<br />
“Sit up straight” turned out to be quite a good suggestion, after I unraveled what it meant.<br />
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“Thank you,” I whispered.Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11237391.post-89143055558940301142017-12-27T22:23:00.001-08:002017-12-27T22:23:45.798-08:00Snow, and Our Neighborhood SportsToday’s coffee: New Year’s Blend<br />
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There was finally a break in the snow storm, so I ventured out of my cozy nest. I hadn’t been outside in three days, since Christmas morning, when we went out for breakfast at our usual Monday breakfast spot. The blizzard started that afternoon; I don’t think we had wind like that even during typhoons over the summer. Our trash can blew several blocks away (even when filled with pickle-weights) and somehow the lid of one of our compost bins unscrewed itself, blew away, and went missing. On the bright side, the tile on our chimney that looked like it was ready to fall has also disappeared. No more worries about having a tile fall on my head while walking around in the garden.<br />
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Although we have plenty of leftovers to eat, we ran out of milk, and our stocks of coffee and mikan (mandarin oranges) were dangerously low, so I headed out to the store. (The important things, you know.) Also, the compost pail was full.<br />
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But first, the snow had to be dealt with. It had drifted up in front of the door.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLPKv5z6VaX80dvs34y1FnK9VlkOU1wzR8OGNfz1b7O2B5Zja4v3UDSLPrbtJ09mruR2jKoCMGIe1rNPXQqJx2w-vg3dPmMaBQ15ARua12bz88tfh8yxSKwVInBx7clvK57wz8A/s1600/IMG_7971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="986" data-original-width="1600" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLPKv5z6VaX80dvs34y1FnK9VlkOU1wzR8OGNfz1b7O2B5Zja4v3UDSLPrbtJ09mruR2jKoCMGIe1rNPXQqJx2w-vg3dPmMaBQ15ARua12bz88tfh8yxSKwVInBx7clvK57wz8A/s400/IMG_7971.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I took these pictures back in November... but it looks about the same now (except more snow)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQo3cS6QXv9zU5hjRKgmvEz1d9O-37ktP2NO_0IfQYlxy84fduJTDatimtJbIV_xne5CWWg63svOVDOXyObsO6VTYz9hhWX-Ba7n8alzTc5zA4xW8SRx4EeEwTxsee0GHAcV5Pg/s1600/IMG_7965.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQo3cS6QXv9zU5hjRKgmvEz1d9O-37ktP2NO_0IfQYlxy84fduJTDatimtJbIV_xne5CWWg63svOVDOXyObsO6VTYz9hhWX-Ba7n8alzTc5zA4xW8SRx4EeEwTxsee0GHAcV5Pg/s400/IMG_7965.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking on unplowed sidewalk...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7JmWG_gfUtHbOvewn0c3dIwuroYKcFvzdTN76NS8Lf_McNY6UdPOiU_vhh2o97bUAs1k9I281YJU8sGIGCrRPt4QWxIfjooWm_PL_7W4m-qZcd3btHtPxnvvkPOS6_kIJDwgsbA/s1600/IMG_7974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1600" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7JmWG_gfUtHbOvewn0c3dIwuroYKcFvzdTN76NS8Lf_McNY6UdPOiU_vhh2o97bUAs1k9I281YJU8sGIGCrRPt4QWxIfjooWm_PL_7W4m-qZcd3btHtPxnvvkPOS6_kIJDwgsbA/s400/IMG_7974.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When it's blowing really hard, snow gets stuck to the windows. Definitely don't want to go outside when it looks like this.</td></tr>
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Our neighborhood has two sports in which everyone participates, like it or not. One is snow shovelling. Recently there was a “snow shoveling for exercise” class advertised in the neighborhood news. I am not making this up.<br />
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I seriously don’t know how my neighbors live with their boredom over the summer when there’s no snow to shovel. At first snowfall, everyone is out there with their shovels, moving the dusting of snow into tidy piles. Then, on warm days, they dump the snow back into the street so that it melts faster and break up chunks of ice with pickaxes.<br />
<br />
We are not quite as diligent about snow clearing as our neighbors, so they worry about us; we often open the front door and discover that the front walk has already been cleared by a friendly neighbor who got bored after they were done clearing their own snow.<br />
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The other neighborhood sport, of course, is complaining about snow shovelling. Even though our neighbors are bright-eyed and smiling as they clear snow, they are just as energetic in their complaints. For example:<br />
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<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Neighbor A: There’s so much snow this year!<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Neighbor B: I’ve lived here all my life, but I’ve never gotten used to it.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Neighbor A: I shovelled snow two hours this morning! Living in Ishikari is hard, isn’t it?<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Neighbor B: Isn’t it? But there was so much more snow when I was a child…<br />
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And on and on it goes, multiplied by the number of people you meet in a given day.<br />
<br />
In our neighborhood, we put out different types of trash for collection several days a week, but in the winter, you can also request that a truck come and take away your snow once a week. This is really helpful, since the snow plow dumps all the snow from the road right in front of our house, and then we have to move it somewhere if we want to get the car out. Today was snow-removal day, which means we have to pile up all the snow one shovel’s width out from the garden wall. Then, a snowblower truck blows our snow pile into a truck in the space of about 30 seconds, and then off it goes to the snow dump.<br />
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Now I’m done drinking my coffee, so I’ll head home and see if there’s any more snow to clear off the front walk, or any neighbors to commiserate with.Celiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02795698568850924976noreply@blogger.com0