Author: Roberta Adair

Originally from Pennsylvania (USA), Roberta lived in Kosovo for three years before getting married and moving to northern Japan in 2012. She and her husband partner with a Japanese church and have four young and energetic boys. She enjoys hiking, camping, and having friends over for average and boisterous meals.

Will You Leave, Too?

We had just finished a rowdy dinner together with a lot of belly-laughing and story-swapping from our overlapping eight years in northern Japan. I remember sitting on the floor with our youngest, still a baby, while our older kids played upstairs together, content and full. Then these dear friends looked at each other, subtly nodded, and said something along the lines of, “We don’t know how to tell you this, but we sense that God is telling us that it is time to move back to the US.”

I felt like the top of my head was being squeezed by a too-tight swimming cap, like everything around me was slowly being drained of color and going grayscale. I was caught off guard and felt devastated, lost, deflated. In the following weeks and months, I felt as if someone had died. Perhaps this is dramatic and I shouldn’t have felt this loss so strongly. But this goodbye hurt with an intensity that previous and subsequent ones didn’t. 

Perhaps this is because this departure was coming after so many other goodbyes, perhaps because this friendship required work and repair and was therefore all the more precious to me, perhaps because I ached for a family with whom we could live our missionary lives together — knowing one another’s stories, living in close proximity, bearing with one another through good and hard and all the in between. We’d weathered miscarriages, births of our babies, language study, disappointments, transitions, growth, major culture mishaps, and celebrations — together.

Their decision to leave didn’t make sense to me. They had a great relationship with their Japanese partner church, they were doing good ministry in their community, their kids were thriving, and they modeled many things I hoped to be one day: easy to laugh, ready to serve, willing to work hard yet valuing play, strong in their faith. Yet shortly after this conversation sitting together on the floor of our house, they left — and I swirled through the stages of grief poorly for, I am embarrassed to admit, a couple of years.

Writing this now, there is still a part of me whispering quietly, “But why did they leave?”

I could understand other dear friends, teammates, and fellow missionaries’ reasons for leaving: aging parents, adult children needing help launching, younger children with disabilities or mental health needs. I understand those who leave for resources, systems, support, and treatments that are not available where they live. I still grieve these departures, but I understand them.

What are more difficult to process are the departures I don’t understand. Those who excelled in language study — surpassing most people I know in a few years with humility and hard work and humor. Those who served on an easier-to-adjust-to team. (We partner primarily with local churches. I sometimes envy those who work with international churches or on mostly international teams, perceiving them as having fewer barriers to cross and having to do less cultural bending.) Those who basically got to do the ministries they wanted in the location they wanted with the teammates they wanted . . . and now they, too, have left. 

I am not an expert in missionary attrition, nor am I involved in member care in a formal capacity. Yet what I have read recently has mostly been from the perspective of those who have left their countries of service to go “home” and how difficult of an adjustment that is for many. I am thankful for people writing and sharing their experiences with reverse culture shock, rebuilding their lives, and coming to a new understanding of their identity and calling.

Yet what about the experiences of those of us who stay, who are left behind? These losses add up and break our hearts, too. I confess that I have not always responded gracefully or as well as I would have liked. When meeting people new to missions, I occasionally find myself suspicious, guarded. “Will she leave, too?” “If I get too close to them and they also decide to leave, can my heart handle being broken yet again?” 

Sometimes I want to be someone who can say, somewhat perkily, “Oh, that’s too bad. We will miss you, and God bless you in this next chapter.” And then move on, looking toward the future with my heart and the top of my squeezed head intact.

Yet the truth is that ministry (anywhere!) is hard. Missions is hard. Feeling foolish and making thousands of mistakes — hard. Misunderstanding and being misunderstood — hard. Going to and living in spiritually dark places — in our case, where maybe 0.1% of our city is Christian and 1% seems like a dream — is hard. Partnering alongside and under the vision of national leaders is (often) hard. Dying to my preferences, not being funny or finding local humor funny for a long time, missing people/places/things from my home culture, culture stress that lessens but never goes away completely — all of this is hard. But the goodbyes, for me, are a different level of hard.

Yes, missions involves adventure, new experiences, and countless ways we and our perspectives shift and grow and expand. We get to notice and enjoy the beauty of where God has placed us: the people, places, things, and even pieces of culture that reflect the kingdom of God. It is a privilege and a blessing to be entrusted with this calling, this life, these relationships.

But this life involves so many (may I say too many?) goodbyes: to our extended families and dear friends in our home countries and to fellow missionaries who become like surrogate family in the countries we serve in. How I ache to be able to control outcomes. “This person is well-trained, well-supported, mature, on a good team, and has great member care. They will thrive and stay.” But it doesn’t seem to work like that. 

We have known many people who have left. People who have excelled at language learning and those who have struggled. People who were well-trained in missions and those with minimal training. People who partner with national churches and those who work independently. People who are underfunded and those with incredible funding. People with remarkable member care structures around them and those without. People who are single and people who are married. People still in the throes of culture shock and those who have ridden the wave and come out the other side. 

Many years ago, a TCK friend who grew up here told me, “My mom eventually stopped making friends. She held people at arms length to protect herself from the inevitable revolving door of missionaries coming and going and the heartbreak of goodbyes.” While I don’t want to follow this woman’s path, I understand it. 

Although my heart may look like a patched up, scrappy quilt with a few places in need of mending, I am thankful my life has intersected with these remarkable, hilarious, sensitive, curious, faith-filled, and faithful people. I learned about celebration and finding humor in mistakes from one, that hanging laundry can be a meditation rather than drudgery from another, about gratitude and rhythms of work and rest from another. 

My life is richer from moments shared and memories made together, from watching them parent and lead and live beautiful, imperfect lives, from praying for and encouraging one another, and from walking, arms linked, in the same direction together for a season. I wouldn’t trade all of this to protect myself from the pain of goodbyes.

And so I pray:

God, give me courage to love. To welcome new people. To not fear their futures nor my own. God, help me be like my mom, who said to me when I was preparing to go on a short-term trip in my early 20s, “I want you in the center of God’s will for your life, whether He chooses to keep you safe or not.” And may I add, “Whether He chooses to keep you in my life here or not. Whether He chooses the path I want for you or not.” 

God, help me to release dearly loved friends, teammates, mentors, and mentees who have, who might, and who will move on. I don’t want to live guarded or hold people at arm’s length, so help me to trust that You will guard and uphold me. Help me to receive from You comfort, Your presence, and the reminder that someday there will be no more goodbyes. 

When Earthquakes Come

“Okay, boys. What do you do if there is a really big earthquake or a tsunami warning?” 

“We are to go to the hinanjo, our evacuation center.”

“And where is that?”

“Our elementary school.”

We have this conversation fairly regularly because, if our four boys are home alone or playing in the neighborhood with friends, we want them to know exactly what to do in an emergency. 

Years ago we memorized Psalm 46:1-2 as a family: “God is our refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble. So we will not fear when earthquakes come” (NLT). “Refuge” is not a word I used to connect with when reading Scripture, but I now think of hinanjo (evacuation centers) a lot where we live in northern coastal Japan. Signs are plentiful in low-lying areas, including our tsunami-inundated neighborhood, telling us where we can go for shelter, security, and protection.

During the summer following the 2011 earthquake and tsunami, my husband and I joined with other volunteers visiting people who were living in hinanjo. We brought fresh produce and sanitary supplies, cooked warm meals, and spent time with people whose homes (and neighborhoods, workplaces, and family members) were washed away.

Then our main focus for the next five years was connected to disaster response in partnership with a Japanese church. Fifteen years later, I am still processing what we saw, heard, smelled, and experienced during that season.

Living in a region with frequent earthquakes means we have experience cleaning up debris, setting things upright that have been knocked over, repairing (or tossing) things that are damaged, and stabilizing shelves and dressers to try to prevent future issues.

Sometimes cleanup requires steel-plated boots, masks, and special equipment. Sometimes it requires small brooms for glass shards in corners, patience for sorting puzzle pieces that fell off a top shelf, and a lot of elbow grease for cleaning up sticky sloshed pasta water all over the kitchen floor. And often it requires physical and emotional support from friends — carrying damaged furniture to disposal sites, mourning broken wedding gifts, and simply checking in on one another.

A big part of me recoils from thinking about earthquakes as a metaphor. People in my real life in my real neighborhood lost so much on 3.11. It feels disrespectful, trite. Yet when I consider seasons that rocked my figurative foundation, I felt profoundly shaken, disoriented, and off-balance.

Perhaps when confronted by figurative “earthquakes” — diagnoses, deep disappointments, divorces — we do well to respond like we would after an earthquake. Cleaning up debris and setting things upright that have been knocked over. Repairing what we can that has been damaged and tossing that which is beyond repair. And stabilizing what remains to try to prevent future damage.

But before all of that, we go to our refuge and strength. To the One who is always ready to help us in times of trouble. To the One who offers shelter, security, and protection in all situations and in all seasons.

When teammates disappoint us or when we are betrayed, lied to and lied about. When we are misrepresented or misled, when we misunderstand or are misunderstood. When dearly loved non-Christians do very non-Christlike (devastating) things. When Christ-followers like me behave in profoundly unChristlike ways. When we continue to struggle and stammer and sputter in languages learned in adulthood, aching to sound confident and competent. When trust erodes or cynicism strikes, when depression deflates or anxiety consumes.

I recently left our five-year-old in our house for a few minutes while I ran a quick errand. As I was walking home, my phone alarm went off, warning me that a large earthquake (7.7) was coming. Within seconds, the ground began shaking, sirens went off over the city loudspeakers, and I took off sprinting toward our house.

I felt scared and nauseous, watching the road wiggle and wobble, feeling like I was on an airplane during strong turbulence, the kind when the pilot says, “Everyone should be in their seats with their seatbelts securely fastened—now!” Except instead of an all-too narrow airplane aisle, I was running a 200-meter sprint on an open road with no cushy airplane seats for support.

I burst into our house, out of breath and with my heart pounding in my throat, and found our youngest sitting on the couch, completely unfazed by the shaking and the sirens. I was frizzy and frazzled, pacing around, unsure of what to do with myself. Yet I was able to recite and pray Psalm 46: “God, you are our refuge and strength. You are always ready to help in trouble. Therefore we do not fear when earthquakes come.” (But sheesh! I am afraid, God. Help me not to fear.)

Weeks after one strong earthquake, I tracked blood around the house after cutting my foot on a missed glass shard, the last remnant of a clock that hung on our wall for many years. The aftermath of literal and figurative earthquakes can be ongoing even if a lot of effort is expended to quickly and thoroughly clean up the initial mess.

I don’t know where this finds you today, but I pray you will know God as your unshakable and firm foundation, your hiding place. If you are currently sorting through debris, making repairs, and restabilizing to protect what remains, may you sense His presence, protection, and peace. If you recently discovered a hidden glass shard that sliced your tender foot, be gentle with yourself as you tend to your wound and once again try to meticulously clean up. And if you are in a season that feels disorienting and shaky, like the very ground beneath you is no longer dependable, may God be your refuge and strength—your hinanjo.

God Is Greater Than My Weakness

Sometimes I feel the weight of missions on my shoulders, as though everything were up to me. I forget that God is always working. But scenes from three friendships remind me of particular moments when God showed me a glimpse of who He is and of what He is doing. These experiences have taught me that even when I’m weak and failing, when my expectations aren’t being met, and when I’m unable to see the threads God is weaving, He is working.

Weakness

One day early into my first term in Japan, I felt particularly down and discouraged by my lack of progress in language learning. I was meeting with a friend who was interested in both English and reading the Bible together, and we had been slowly working our way through the book of Mark—me choppily, painstakingly reading a few verses in my Japanese Bible and her reading much more fluently in English.

That day I said, “Today’s reading is in Mark 5. But can you read the whole passage in Japanese while I try to follow along?” I thought but didn’t add, “Rather than once again butcher your beautiful language with my exhausted brain and fumbling tongue?”

From the moment my friend started reading, I was completely lost. I tried and failed to hear a single word I knew so that I could catch up. Because I was too embarrassed to ask her to stop and help me, she kept reading. Finally, I heard the words “eye” and “hand,” and I understood that she was in Matthew 5 rather than Mark 5. I stopped her (around verse 30!) and apologized for wasting her time reading the wrong passage. I remember feeling ashamed for being found out for pretending to follow along when I was so lost.

She then suggested that we just chat for a little while rather than read the passage in Mark. Yet after only a few rather uncomfortable minutes, she left abruptly, leaving me confused as to why she wasn’t acting like her usual warm and cheerful self. I went home feeling dumb and embarrassed—and grumpy toward the Japanese language and God and everyone and everything.

Weeks later my friend, who was in a difficult marriage, told me her side of what happened that day. She was being actively pursued by a man who wasn’t her husband and felt flattered and more and more tempted by him. Yet the Holy Spirit used the “mistake” that day of reading, “If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell” (Matthew 5:29 NIV) to convince her to do something drastic and cut off all contact with the man. She told him that she wouldn’t talk to him anymore, blocked his number, and resolved to remain faithful to her husband.

When I remember this incident many years later, I am still amazed that God used me in spite of and even because of my weakness. If my Japanese had been better, I would have realized the mix-up and stopped her much earlier. Moreover, if I had been less insecure, I would have admitted my confusion sooner. How good of God to not just accept my weaknesses but to use them. And how kind of God, in this case, to allow me a tiny peek into seeing Him convict, protect, and strengthen my friend.

Expectations

Also early into my first term here, I met a woman at weekly trash pickups at a nearby beach. Over time we started meeting together to read the miracles of Jesus from the book of John. I had a cheat sheet with the simple questions in Japanese: What does this passage say about God? What does this say about us? And how can we respond to what we read? 

I remember being particularly excited to talk with her about Jesus feeding the 5,000 in chapter 6. It’s one of my favorite passages, and I was ready with my answers to the questions even before she arrived. I was prepared to say that Jesus is not surprised or disappointed by how little we can offer because He delights in taking it and turning it into abundance. I was also eager to talk with her about the metaphor of Jesus being the bread of life—nourishing, sustaining, and delicious—and pictured her amazement.

After we read the passage together, my friend’s reaction was quite different than what I expected. She sat quietly for a moment then said, “Wow, Roberta. Jesus is so considerate and kind. He made sure they were in a grassy place” (referencing verse 6: “There was plenty of grass in that place”). Now, ten years later, I am less shocked by her reaction as I’ve learned that these qualities are noticed and appreciated by my Japanese friends. But at the time, I imagine I responded with, “Yeah, yeah, but what about the real miracle?” To which she came back with, more strongly this time, “Yes, but what about the grass?”

As I remember this moment and her quiet wonder, I think about my tendency to be overly confident about how people will respond to Scripture. In this instance, I expected that what I received from a passage would be what she would (and should) receive, too. Yet over time I am learning to be more open-handed, expecting God to work and yet aware that it will likely not be  what (or how or when or even with whom) I expect. 

This mystery is something to celebrate and anticipate: we get to see people from different cultures, families, and contexts interact with the Word of God. Hopefully our response is increasing wonder and gratitude at how we grow through getting to read Scripture together.

Confusion

Shortly after we moved into our new neighborhood, I forgot my house key and was impatiently waiting in front of our house with our two very wiggly toddlers for my husband to arrive. A young woman walked by with her dog and stopped to introduce herself. I expected small talk about pets, the weather, and language learning. She instead surprised me by asking if we could introduce her to Christians because she had recently become interested in learning more about Jesus. I remember being shocked and sputtering and stammering my excited reply.

Over the next few weeks and months, we met regularly for Bible study, but we also talked about Justin Bieber (she knew a lot more about him than I did), dads, and Anne of Green Gables. We talked about the gravity of the moon, her experience related to the tsunami in March 2011, and why it’s important that water expands when it freezes rather than contracts. I often felt like our conversations were all over the place and was certainly not connecting the dots about how these topics and conversations were somehow pointing her to Jesus. Yet within a year, she shared her testimony in front of the church and was baptized.

While I was not able to see how these topics were connected to her growing faith in Jesus, I now happily recognize that God was working, wooing, and connecting the dots. Everyone has their own journey—and God uses forgotten house keys, Justin Bieber, scientific principles, and frizzy foreigners as part of people turning to Him.

While all three of these women have made declarations of faith, they are at different stages of becoming courageous, faithful, and faith-filled followers of Jesus. Yet I’m thankful for what God did in me through their friendships, their curiosity, and their responsiveness to God. 

When we are struggling with language and other areas of weakness, God is working. When we are holding on too tightly to our agendas and wanting to control how people respond to God and His Word, He is working. When we are not seeing connections or understanding people’s processes in turning to Jesus, God is working. He was working, is working, and will continue to work—in these women and in all of us.

Willing to be Uncomfortable

Our pastor’s wife in Japan recently texted me that her son, a close friend of our four boys, is the only boy coming to church these days. She mentioned that he is a bit lonely and isn’t enjoying church as much since we left for our six-month home assignment.

I immediately thought of the churches we’ve attended since being back in the US: dozens and dozens of kids, oodles of involved parents, pastors, and volunteers, and robust children’s programs. And my heart ached, realizing that a big part of me wants this for our boys. I want them to grow up seeing many children going to church and worshiping, surrounded by moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas, neighbors and friends. I want it to be normal and not weird.

Then this thought came to mind and I jotted it down with a sigh: I’m willing to be uncomfortable for you.

When I was younger, I thought missions was about going on an adventure with God. I imagined reporting back to churches about miracles, revivals, and various ways I had been “a shining light to the nations.” I was so naive and so sincere and so self-focused.

I’ve shared this before, but when my idealistic bubble popped shortly after beginning my first term, I had a prayer time hissy fit — a full-on tantrum —- when I became aware of both my own weaknesses and the feebleness of missions. I remember praying, “This is your plan? A bunch of well-intentioned yet sincerely screwed up missionaries? Just . . . people?! If you really loved the world, you could have and should have come up with a better plan.” (And then I cried and said I was sorry.)

The years have added up, and the terms (measured in three-, four-, and five-year blocks) have too. So much beauty, so much heartbreak, so many stories (who knew being a person meant holding so many stories?), so many disappointments, and also so many blessings. Over these past twenty years, I can say that God sustains, reveals, hides, whispers — and is so, so patient and so, so merciful. 

But going does not get easier.

At the beginning of this home assignment, I read on Liturgies for a Life Abroad:

The first time I came overseas, I didn’t fully know what I was saying “yes” to, which was hard.

The second, third, fourth time I came overseas, I knew exactly what I was saying “yes” to, which was even harder.

It’s brave to go, but perhaps it’s even braver to keep going.

The longer I live in Japan, the more it feels like my home. That said, it is and will always be uncomfortable in many ways — as a gaijin (foreigner) but especially as a Christian. And I like comfort. So going back for yet another term (fourth in Japan and fifth overall), my current missionary motivation might very well be, “I am willing to be uncomfortable for you.” Because I love you. Because Jesus loves you.

Perhaps that’s enough motivation.

Yet the preposition “for” feels a little off somehow — incomplete. Over the years, I have seen missionaries come to Japan eager to do missions to Japanese people and for Japanese people and fewer people interested in doing missions with Japanese people. They may use “with” language, but their postures and behaviors show otherwise. 

I have shifted over time, too, but now strongly believe that “with” is our primary role and privilege as missionaries.1 So maybe I need to change my wording to “I am willing to be uncomfortable for you and with you.” I still need for, which recognizes that I am coming from the outside, that I am living out of my comfort zone and out of my culture. Including with means I know that the Christian life is inherently lonelier2 in Japan than in other parts of the world, and we can link arms with other Christians there as we hobble forward together.

Yet I cannot escape the fact that going back to Japan involves discomfort and going to a lonelier place for all six of us. It involves a lot of beauty, too (free range kids! forests and beaches and mountains! kind neighbors and church friends! fresh tuna! people and places and things we love!). But it also means a lot of concrete, a lot of overworked parents, fewer dads (by a wide margin), life in an aging city in an aging country, and living in the reality of less than one percent of people knowing Jesus.

This willingness to be uncomfortable for and with those across cultures is what we signed up for as missionaries. It is a holy burden we bear — both a privilege and a grief. And in some small way, it gives us a glimpse into what our incarnational God did. He crossed cultures to live among us and experienced extreme discomfort because of His love for us — and He invites us to follow His example.

 

1. Really smart people address this “with is greater than to and for” thing much more eloquently and intelligently than I can. Yet it needs to be said in short: “to” and “for” people can be part of the neocolonial model of missions, which is not best practice.

2. A lot of us who try to follow Jesus are called to go to lonely places and to lonely people. The way of Jesus is noticing, going to, and loving the shut-ins and those in jail or foster homes or lonely homes. It is noticing, going to, and loving those without families and the prickly and unlovely and even our enemies. Many do this across the street or across town; others do this across oceans or cultures. 

Hung Out to Dry

While my husband and I were paying for our meal at a favorite restaurant where we live in northern Japan, the owners sneakily handed us a bag brimming with eight beautiful persimmons. Although they suggested we let them ripen a couple of days before eating them, I taste-tested one that evening and realized with a sticky grin they were already ripe. I was glad I snuck some early as our four boys devoured them later that night.

A few days later, I was given an even bigger bag from another friend. (I don’t know how common this is in other parts of Japan, but neighbors often generously share their overflow of in-season produce with our family.) I told our boys that we would wait a day or two so we could enjoy them with friends who were coming over for dinner. 

The wait was tough, but we persevered (whew). Then, as soon as we finished clearing the table after dinner, I started peeling and slicing several. Then I got curious and concerned: these looked like the sweet kind, but what if they were the icky, astringent kind?

Within seconds of tasting a tiny sliver, I jumped up and ran to the trashcan to spit it out. It sucked all the moisture out of my mouth, along with all memories of happiness and pleasure. They tasted awful. There are many varieties of persimmon—round, oblong, hard, squishy, seeded, seedless, various shades of orange—and I assumed wrongly that these were the slice-and-eat variety.

Yet these same persimmons—this same exact variety—peeled, hung outside, and slowly dried over several weeks to months lose their gag-producing astringency and become amazingly sweet. Like two spoons full of sugar sweet. Like adding-one-whole-one-to-my-plain-yogurt-is-too-sweet-for-me sweet.

Some chemical transformation occurs that is a bit beyond my current brain power to grasp. Yet tasting the difference got me thinking: just as miso is transformed by koji, time, and darkness, dried persimmons are transformed by time and simply hanging around.

This transformation occurs passively—by remaining outside in the sun, rain, wind, and cold. The persimmons’ job is simply to hang out and to slowly, slowly, slowly age. Many weeks later, they emerge sweet and preserved (in contrast to miso, which emerges from a dark, hidden place salty and preserved).

Yet drying persimmon isn’t simply passive. They rot if they remain on trees or sit on a kitchen counter. The process is time intensive and a labor of love involving hands that pick, peel, string, wait, and harvest.

Growing up, my family dried apples and applesauce (the tastiest “fruit leather”) by our wood stove. Very occasionally, we would speed up the process in the oven at a low temperature for many hours. I tried this with a couple of persimmons as an experiment, perhaps feeling a little cocky (“people will be so impressed with my unique method and will want to learn from me”). Many hours later they emerged from the oven looking very pretty, but I discovered with yet another sprint to the trashcan that the speed-dried persimmon still tasted disgusting. They were dried to the right consistency but were still inedible.

I am thinking once again about the process of remaining and of passive perseverance. I am thinking again about people who haven’t yet “sweetened with age” and instead are pretty darn astringent. I am thinking again about a speaker on a recent retreat who said as an aside, “There’s a reason they’re ‘elders’ and not ‘young-ers.’” Age, time, experience, and maturity are needed and only happen when people have weathered the elements—remaining and emerging changed . . . transformed.

I think about other forms of waiting and transformation. The obvious “bullfrogs and butterflies” examples come to mind (as does the song from my childhood). So does pregnancy. Women go about their normal lives—planting gardens, cooking meals, teaching classes, hanging laundry, giving presentations, eating black pepper potato chips while watching Parks and Rec reruns—and somehow a tiny human grows inside of them. It’s something miraculous and is remarkably passive.

During a recent mission retreat, we celebrated two couples who are retiring. Both are quite impressive and accomplished: they’ve written books, have fancy titles and degrees, and have been involved in church planting, training pastors, music ministry, parenting ministry, mentoring, and more. Yet the main thing that comes to mind when I think about them is: they care. 

They are weight-bearing pillars who are “long obedience in the same direction” people. They have suffered and struggled—and minister with tender humility and empathy. We are better as individuals, as a family, and as a mission because our lives intersected with theirs. They worked hard (still do!), yet I imagine that a lot of what formed them over these decades of ministry was hanging on perseverance which built in them character, integrity, steadfastness, and faith. It was something holy getting to honor and celebrate them. 

Scripture is full of commands and invitations like “look at the flowers in the field who do not labor” (Matt. 6:28) and “remain in my love and remain in me” (John 15:10). There is a tension between passivity and activity, between “remain in me and I will give you rest” and “fight the good fight,” “strain toward the goal,” and “feed the hungry, visit the prisoner, clothe the naked.” There are so many passive and active verses swirling together in Scripture that my head spins a bit.

Yet this morning as I eat my plain, full-fat Greek yogurt with half of a dried persimmon, I am “considering the persimmon” and its transformation from astringent and inedible to delicious and nourishing. And I whisper, “I hope I age as well as you, dear persimmon.”

Snapshots of a Calling

I grew up loving stories about how God called people, especially into missions or other “professional Christian” careers. Often these stories involved some mystical experience – a line-in-the-sand moment that served as a turning point in people’s lives. Of course, the more dramatic and exciting the story, the better. 

I am still inspired by many of these stories, broadening as I got older to include how people in a wide variety of vocations discovered their purpose or calling. But more recently, I find myself drawn to and admiring the “boring” ones. 

Recently in a small group, a woman shared, “I was on an airplane reading a brochure from a missions agency and found out that Japan was less than one percent Christian. This surprised me and broke my heart. Now I’m preparing to come to Japan to work with a Japanese church. I want to help them reach out to their community and to remind them that they’re not alone – they might feel lonely, but they’re not alone.” She is an older, soft-spoken woman who talked without the slightest hint of dramatic flair, yet as she spoke, tears came to my eyes. I was so moved by her compelling and quiet obedience.

Another friend then said, “As a timid little girl, I was so thankful for the knowledge that I was seen and loved by my Heavenly Father. When I heard that millions of people hadn’t heard about Him, I said to Jesus, ‘If you need someone to go and tell them, even though it scares me, I know you’ll be with me, and so I am willing.’ I sensed His pleasure and affirmation, and I’ve held onto that these last 45 years.”

These stories are so sweet and so, well, not the stories that grabbed me as a child. “My father was kidnapped by guerrilla warriors and then…” “As I watched a man dying on the side of the road, I heard God say to me…” “Someone I didn’t know came up to my table at Denny’s and told me God wanted me to go to (name of country), and I knew it was the Holy Spirit speaking to me.”

Some of my personal calling is simple. Some of it is dramatic. Some of it, well, I’m still trying to understand what was the Holy Spirit and what was me looking really hard for His will (or a good story). I can be quite cynical and judgmental toward my younger self, but I also see my sincerity in seeking God’s will and asking Him, “Lord, here am I. Show me what You want from me. I want to go where You want me to go, do what You want me to do, and be who You want me to be.” 

Here are some snapshots of my calling. 

#1. Initial Exposure and Calling

When I was a kid, missions conferences at my church were more exciting than Christmas. The week included a Parade of Nations, flags all over the sanctuary, and a packed schedule with extra gatherings, activities, and potlucks. Our church sang songs at these conferences like May I Be a Shining Light to the Nations and Will You Be the One? that I found compelling, inspiring, and moving. I remember soaking up stories of God working around the world, teachings from scripture about God’s love for people from all nations, and the overall festive atmosphere.

And at some point, perhaps when I was around seven or eight years old, I wrote on a commitment card that I would give a small portion ($1) from my monthly allowance toward missions and that I was willing to be a missionary. I was caught up in the excitement, genuinely burdened for the lost around the world, and…perhaps also a bit interested in being chosen and special and sent. Perhaps I was caught up in the emotional intensity of the week. Perhaps I loved the idea of going on an exotic adventure with God. And perhaps God genuinely was inviting – calling – me into missions at this young age.

#2. Calling Confirmed

Fast forward to me as a college student. I spent a couple of years in high school enjoying throwing out phrases like, “Missions is neocolonialism! It is cultural imperialism!” (While this is sometimes true, it is also true that I liked sounding smarter than I was.) 

At that point in my life, I was no longer pursuing missions but was instead interested in joining the Peace Corps and/or working with vulnerable populations in the US. I also really wanted to know what God wanted me to do with my life and fasted for the first time. While fasting, my mom invited me to go with her to three evening meetings of a missions conference at the church where I grew up but hadn’t attended in several years. Each evening, one of the visiting missionaries spoke on the same passage I had read that morning in my quiet time, and this got my attention. 

On the third day, the missionaries joined the leadership team of my campus fellowship for an afternoon. I sat by a feisty white-haired retired missionary and talked with her about my plans to be a Peace Corps volunteer and then get a master’s and then “maybe, probably pursue missions.” 

She looked me in the eye and said, “Roberta, I don’t claim to know God’s will for your life, but if God has given you an interest and calling in missions, pursue that and don’t put it off.” And while I normally would have responded defensively, with, “Who are you to talk to me like this? You don’t know me at all,” I had been fasting and earnestly seeking God’s will for my future. Nearly twenty years later, I still consider this as one of my line-in-the-sand moments, leading me to change course and apply to be a missionary with my church’s denomination. 

#3. Calling Redirected 

Fast forward a few more years to after I had completed three wonderful, stretching, and formational years as a missionary apprentice in Kosovo. I was back in the US to fulfill an educational requirement for my agency by getting a master’s degree in intercultural studies and fully intended to go back to the Balkans.

And then I fell in love. On the first day of new student orientation, I met an interesting fellow who was very committed to going back to Japan, where he had lived for four years. One of our professors often repeated the phrase, “Hold it lightly,” while holding his hands out, palms up – almost like a mantra. Hold your theological sticking points lightly. Hold your views on non-essentials lightly. When Robert and I started dating a few months after meeting, we agreed to try to hold our preferred countries and agencies lightly. 

But we didn’t. We took turns trying to convince the other why our previous country of service had more need or our agency was a better fit. We were falling in love, but this elephant in the room was starting to squeeze out the fun in our relationship. We agreed not to talk about countries or agencies or the future for a full month (March 2010) and instead ask God to settle it for us.

I don’t know what I was expecting (other than the obvious – that Robert would realize he was to come with me). What I got: bombarded with the word, image, and idea of surrender/release/letting go. I remember almost walking out of church when the pastor began a sermon series on surrender. And turning off songs on the radio. These themes came up in conversations with friends that had nothing to do with Robert or missions. It was daily and kind of ridiculous. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was clear. 

At the end of the month, when I read David’s words, “I will not sacrifice to the Lord my God burnt offerings that cost me nothing,” I bawled. This was another line-in-the-sand moment for me – an act of obedience and worship – and it hurt a lot. I sensed God asking (gently, loudly, clearly) to release my agency and my country of preference to Him as an act of worship and trust. (This was not a matter of me fulfilling a role of submitting to my husband but of us following God together, and I personally know plenty of people for whom the story happened the other direction.)

Robert had his own journey that month. Although his calling didn’t change, he sensed a need to reorient his priorities. He articulated it later as, “Under God, Roberta/family first.” This was important for me to see as I didn’t want to compete with Japan or view it as his mistress. I knew I couldn’t compete with 125 million people or with a place and people that he had an eight-year relationship with when we had dated for only a few.

#4. Calling Reconfirmed

Out of obedience and with very weak faith, I applied to be a missionary with Robert with a new-to-me agency. Then we went on a required vision trip. I tried so hard to be open and to have a curious, hopeful, and adventurous attitude, but my first impressions were rough. I was disoriented and insecure in our marriage. Robert’s voice, posture, and humor were different in Japan. I started wondering, “Who is this guy?” He didn’t translate much for me, and I felt out of place. I had travelled before, but Japan felt extremely other in a way I hadn’t experienced. 

I remember feeling overwhelmed, wondering if we misunderstood God’s call. This was Your call for him, but how can this be Your call for us? I thought we needed to reevaluate and reconsider, so I was relieved about our mission-required meeting with a professional counselor during the retreat.

While we were meeting with the counselor on March 11, 2011, at 2:46 pm, we experienced six minutes of shaking during the 9.0 earthquake. It was terrifying. My memories are both blurry and clear – the tall cedar trees swaying overhead as the snow gently fell and watching the news on a TV in the lobby shoulder to shoulder with people I didn’t know. 

I remember feeling confused, thinking, “What is happening? How many people are impacted? Why won’t anyone explain to me what is going on in English?” And I remember feeling terrified, wondering if it was the end of the world. It was very quiet as we watched horrible scenes of destruction. I heard some intakes of breath and someone praying quietly, “God, God, God!” Then a Japanese woman standing behind me to my left let out a scream, and her legs gave out. 

That moment, I am ashamed to say, was the moment my heart broke for Japanese people. I am terrified, and she is terrified – Japanese people are not robots. They are people made in the image of God who mostly don’t know whom to call on when they are overwhelmed. I remember praying, “God, I am sorry for my lack of compassion for these people, for seeing them as too other.”

The next day, my now-teammate stood in the front of a chapel at the retreat center and read Psalm 46 to us. As he read, I felt the Lord speaking to me, inviting me, wooing me, calling me. 

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountain fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging (1-3).

I was relieved that the earthquake and tsunami imagery was paired with the reminder of who God is.

God is within her (which I understood to mean the church), she will not fall; God will help her at break of day (5).

Earlier, our newly-appointed field director stood up in front of our mission and said, “The church in Japan is small, but the love of God is great.” I felt a whisper, a nudge – that it was a privilege to stand and partner with the Japanese church in this moment – and the promise that God would help “her.”

Come and see what the Lord has done (8).

Before this, I was gritting my teeth and obeying God as my master. I was trying to be willing to go, but I felt more like a servant being commanded to do so. When I heard this verse, I felt a gentle tug: “Come, Roberta. I want you to come and see – to join me in what I am doing!”

Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth (10).

I wish I could say, “and then we lived happily ever after.” Nope. Still newlyweds, we volunteered for a hard, disorienting summer in a traumatized community. After that summer, we decided to stay, and I struggled for years with culture shock. I am now in my twelfth year in Japan and fifteenth year as a career missionary, plodding away, trying to be one who values a long obedience in the same direction. I am trying to be one who stays yet keeps my hands open – not clenched around a place or a person or even my calling but clinging only to God.  

When I meet missionaries with special or dramatic callings, I’m both a little cautious and see myself in them. I wonder if they, like me, needed something dramatic and several line-in-the-sand moments because our faith is weak and not because we are strong or special. I need my stories because, without them, I probably would have been out of here years ago. 

God uses Scripture, people, experiences, nature, giftings, burdens, circumstances, and nudges from the Holy Spirit to send us on our divine assignments. Yet it is important for us to hold even these with an open hand. While God always calls us to Himself, He may redirect us to different people and places throughout our lifetime. Our job is to listen – and then obey His call.

A Culture Shock Roadmap

I pedalled as fast as I could with one hand on the handlebars and the other raised in a fist, yelling in Albanian, “You destroyer of beauty! You destroyer of beauty!” I had just watched a driver throw garbage out of his car window, and my bottled rage exploded – a vivid memory from 15 years ago of culture shock squirting out badly.

When I arrived in Kosovo as an eager and idealistic missionary in my early 20s, my new teammates welcomed me warmly and talked with me early and often about culture shock. They taught me that it would include feelings of disorientation, uncertainty, confusion, and anxiety. While there are a variety of ways people describe the stages of culture shock, a simple version includes: honeymoon, frustration, adjustment, and acceptance. I will touch on all of these stages, not as an expert but as someone who struggled – especially in the frustration stage.

Honeymoon: When I was in this phase, it was like I was dancing around singing “Everything is Awesome” from The Lego Movie. Everything was awesome! and delicious! and clever! and fascinating! and amazing! and an adventure! For a lot of people, this stage involves a lot of gushing and positive superlatives.

But then, right on schedule, after this lovely honeymoon period, I found myself getting irritated to incredibly angry over big and little things. For the first time in my life, I developed a casual cussing habit. (Before moving overseas, the closest I came to swearing were words like “snap-dabbit!” and “drat!”) 

I remember a time when I seethed at a group of men who sat lazily drinking coffee and smoking their cigarettes, watching a minority (Roma) child getting beat up. I remember a ringing in my ears after breaking up the skirmish and marching over to the men, enraged. My nostrils flared as I fumed, “You think you are men? Just sitting there on your bums while a foreign woman did what you should have done?!” (This “righteous anger” was actually misdirected anger. I had found an outlet for my culture-shocking rage, and it felt so good.)

Fast forward a few years to when I was in the middle of my first term in Japan. Once again, the culture-shocking monster predictably reappeared. I was pregnant with our first son, waiting at a busy train station for out-of-town friends to arrive. While standing at a popular meeting place, I saw a slimy dude approach young, attractive women who were traveling alone. One by one, he handed them a card and whispered something. Woman after woman looked uncomfortable and scurried away. Beside me were several men aware of what was happening but ignoring it. 

I, with two years of (not very effectively) bottled angst and stress, squinted my eyes at the passive bystanders and marched up to the man, stood as tall as I could, and said something eloquent like, “I am watching you, Bad Man. Me – older sister. These women – like little sisters. You no good. Bad! Bad!” (Japanese has been even harder for me to learn than Albanian.) 

Then I did the ol’ point two fingers at my eyes and then point at him with a slow nod. Because nothing says “intimidating” like a frizzy-haired pregnant woman with broken Japanese. My husband and I later had a big fight about this. “Um, you’ve heard of organized crime, right? And you know there are station workers whose job is to handle stuff like this, right?” But I felt so smug, so…relieved…to have an outlet for my pent-up big feelings.

Lord, have mercy on culture shocking missionaries.

Yes, I had once again entered the Frustration stage (or, rather, flung myself into this stage with abandon). Here came the irritability, the quick temper, the anxiety. Here came the intense homesickness and loss of motivation and loss of self-confidence. Here came wanting to only hang out with (or trust) other foreigners and spending a lot of time on solo activities like scrolling or shows or sleeping. 

This stage feels awful, is normal, and is a stage. Remember that you will move through it…just breathe and keep going. Be gentle with yourself because adjusting to a new culture is hard work. Cling to God, his promises, and your call. Fight to stay curious and teachable. And hang out with people who have gone before you who have struggled and made it through while being cautious of people who have stalled in this stage or those who diminish how hard it is.

For me, this stage often involved feeling intensely about everything. As my go-to negative emotion for a lot of my life has been anger, I would feel crazy, angry, and crazy angry. I know others whose go-to emotion is sadness. So for them, this frustration phase involved feeling crazy, sad, and crazy sad. Or for the anxious types: crazy, anxious, and crazy anxious.

I have strong memories of bawling (not little eye leaks but blotchy face and streaming tears) in the church bathroom after being spoken to sharply, my good intentions interpreted very negatively. I remember shaking in anger over a difficult situation, labeling someone a chauvinist, another person dysfunctional, and uncharitably evaluating people around me. 

Although I wouldn’t (couldn’t) admit it at the time, I also thought I knew better, I thought I could do better, and deep-down I thought I was better. Things that would have been frustrating or hurtful in my own culture became rage-inducing and consumingly painful in this stage. In short, I didn’t have a dainty, lady-like adjustment.

But what I did have: older on-the-ground teammates who gave me space to feel things strongly and even have occasional big outbursts. When I interpreted situations and intentions negatively, assumed the worst about people, and came to very critical conclusions, I remember my teammates and other missionary senpai (elders) listening to me and sharing, praying, even crying with me. They didn’t say, “Everything you are seeing and perceiving is 100% accurate, your evaluations are correct, and your intensity is appropriate,” but they essentially let me ride the wave. Implied: we know this is hard, and we got through it – and we believe you will, too. They knew I was new, still learning, and deep in culture shock. 

In this stage, I also at times scape-goated my organization and my partner church. (“It’s their fault I am struggling this much! If they had… They should have…“) In short, I wanted a villain, someone to blame for how uncomfortable I was and how out-of-control I felt. It felt easier at the time to be mad at an organization or its leaders than to accept the boring fact that I was culture shocking. 

Now-me has a lot of compassion and gratitude for people who were trying to do their best. And it has taken me an embarrassingly long time to be able to recognize how much I was given – how much time and grace and life was shared with me. Slowly, slowly I was able to receive the amazing gift of my colleagues’ hard-won wisdom: their stories, confessions, examples, and vulnerable insights. Slowly, slowly I was also able to recognize the privilege of getting to worship and work alongside our Japanese partners, to share life with and live among our Japanese neighbors and friends. But getting to this place took a long time.

This is all part of the Adjustment stage, and it is most certainly not linear. It is messy and swirly, more like a colander of cooked spaghetti than a box of straight dry noodles. This stage involves holding both the adventures and challenges together. It is being less of an idealist but also less of a jerk, no longer viewing cultural differences as “amazing” or “annoying,” but (gasp!) simply cultural differences. Your understanding is more nuanced, you still at times feel profoundly homesick, but you are developing tools to live with limitations, to deal with the challenges, to notice the beautiful. The frequency and intensity from the frustration stage diminish, but they don’t (and unlikely ever will) go away completely. 

Acceptance: In this stage, more and more you are able to notice traces of the Kingdom of God in your community as well as the image of God in the people he has placed in your life. Low-grade irritation and confusion are replaced with renewed wonder, gratitude, and calling. Of course, there will still be really hard and confusing moments and relationships, but this stage involves being able to live in a new culture with empathy, love, peace, joy, contentment, and purpose. 

There will still be stressors, some related to culture stress and some related to the brokenness in yourself, others, and the world. These will and should break your heart. Each stage, including this one, will involve a thousand deaths and resurrections (my thinking here influenced by Paul Miller’s The J-Curve). 

I am profoundly thankful for my in-country teammates, for those who are far ahead and just ahead of me. They know I struggled my first several years. I missed my previous country of service (the touching! spontaneity! extroversion!), and I was probably depressed (the tragic death of someone close to me, miscarriage, sad sights and stories all around me connected to the 3.11 disaster, an exhausted partner church, and a hard case of culture shock). Even if I had trouble noticing and appreciating these remarkable people at the time, I don’t think I would still be here and for sure wouldn’t be who I am now without their wisdom and grace – and without them allowing me to ride the culture shock wave.

Yes, Lord, have mercy on culture-shocking missionaries.

And, Lord, help us, too, show your mercy to culture-shocking missionaries.

 

Advent and Poo

Last December, our son came home from preschool excited to show me his new treasure. It was a “rock” that one of his buddies gave to him. At first glance, I thought it was a clump of dirt. Upon further inspection, however, I discovered it was old, hard, and thankfully no-longer-stinky animal poo. Yet because it was so special to my son (and because it made me laugh), I allowed it to join other treasures we collected like sticks, chestnuts, acorns, pine cones, and leaves as part of our family’s annual Advent wreath.

I liked knowing that there was a small piece of poo in our Advent wreath. Perhaps I liked it because it was so irreverent. Perhaps I sneaked it onto our dinner table every evening because it felt like a secret nod to the first Christmas, which included sheep keepers and took place in a literal barn. For both baby Jesus and his earliest worshippers, poo was very much a part of that first unsanitized, yet-to-be-commercialized Christmas.

We live in Japan, a country where less than one percent of its 125 million people know Jesus. Christmas here feels imported and revolves around Santa, romance, fancy cakes, impressive light displays, and Mariah Carey. As storage space is quite limited in our snug home, I decided several years ago that rather than getting an Advent wreath like I had growing up, we would assemble a makeshift “wreath” using a cake pan and five soon-to-be-recycled glass jars. Our boys help decorate it and light candles one by one in the weeks leading up to Christmas.

I’m increasingly thankful to have grown up with the tradition of lighting candles and singing a short and simple song before dinner. The rhythm of turning out the lights and noticing how dark it is – simply sitting in that darkness for a few moments – is so helpful to me. It gives me space to acknowledge that, yes, the world is dark and broken and needs Jesus. Then we light the candles and – every night – we see light dispelling darkness.

Over the past several years, I have felt increasingly overwhelmed by the darkness in the world. Yes, the world is staggeringly beautiful and meticulously created. Yes, many people are remarkably good, brave, generous, kind, and loving.

Yet the mind-boggling, gut-punching, heart-breaking headlines of wars, natural disasters, and hurt and hungry people remind me of the darkness. Stories around me do, too. I think about a friend whose husband took his life around this time last year, another one whose marriage recently ended, and yet another single mom trying to rebuild her life after abuse. I think about people we know and their loved ones who struggle with mental illness, about neighbors with significant physical and emotional pain, and about others who continue to grieve many layers of loss connected to the March 2011 tsunami. I think about systems that are dysfunctional, problems that feel insurmountable, and issues that are huge, horrible, and hopeless.

How appropriate to have Advent during the darkest month of the year. It gives us extra time every day to feel the darkness and reminds us of what we celebrate: light is stronger than darkness. And it reminds us of who we celebrate: our Savior came, He is alive now, and we are waiting for Him to come again.

The candles in our cake pan remind me of people like me with weak, flickering faith who wonder: Is this true? Is He true? People like me with nagging questions, who look at the frequent examples of those who use Jesus’ name but have lost their way. People like me who realize, yet again, that we’ve lost our way (and our tempers and compassion and focus and nerve). Yet the candles mostly remind me of Jesus – Light of the World – the vulnerable, beautiful baby who was born in a barn who would grow up to be a gentle king on a donkey. After all, donkeys also poo.

Parable of the Workers

A few weeks ago, I was sitting across the table from our semi-retired pastor and next to a single mom friend in an old, slightly leaning house where we meet twice a month for Bible study.

The group, meeting in coastal northeast Japan, has shrunk considerably. Two elderly women aren’t able to come anymore, and a few other people have dropped off for various reasons (health, scheduling, interest). What I’m saying is that it’s not an impressive-looking group in an impressive-looking place, and it represents the opposite of church growth.

Yet here I am, weeks later, still thinking about that time.

Our pastor chose the parable of the workers from Matthew 20 to read together and discuss. At one point, I shared a memory of reading it to my grandpa (my namesake) when I was a senior in college. He wasn’t in good health, and I wasn’t sure if he was confident about what would happen to him after he died despite hearing the gospel hundreds of times in his 90+ years. I remember feeling both afraid and desperate as I said, “Grandpa, it’s never too late to come to Jesus.”

My memory is fuzzy, but I remember him repeating a prayer after me and feeling conflicted. I was happy and relieved, yet I also wondered, “Is this it?” Meaning: is God pleased with these simplistic, formulaic, repeat-after-me prayers?

Is this really what “surrendering to Jesus” looks like? God, is your grace big and broad enough for a quirky old man with all sorts of bottled and buried trauma who also has demonstrated remarkable courage, generosity, and grit? Will you accept this parroted salvation prayer from the mouth of an ornery old man who loves his granddaughter enough to humor her even while holding onto decades of deep doubt? Will you accept this half-hearted prayer from him led by half-doubting me?

Anyway, I was thinking about all of this – and probably dinner plans, too – and was only half-listening to the pastor. Then I heard him ask, “Why do you think these workers weren’t chosen earlier?”

What followed was a lovely, grace-filled discussion that reframed the passage for me from picturing some lazy bums standing around not wanting to work to picturing people who had been picked over. How have I missed considering that perhaps it wasn’t their fault for not being chosen earlier – perhaps having been considered to be too old, too weak, or too “other?” Why did I assume it was because they slept in from playing video games too late the night before?

My reaction to the passage went from, “Wow, God is so compassionate to a group of undeserving bums” to, “Wow, God is so generous to people who weren’t chosen first or seen as high-capacity.” I thought about the many times I’ve categorized people as high or low capacity, valuing people differently based on my arbitrary and inappropriate rating of them.

I remembered a season when I read this passage and marveled at God’s grace and generosity (“God, you see and know me, and you’d still include me?”). Then at some point I started to think of myself as a Group One worker – the professional Christian who has given “my best years” to this missions thing. And I even started looking down on others. Um, is that the best you can do? Is that really all you can do? (Uglier still was thinking that I deserved more. Blech.)

At the same time, I regularly wrestle with wondering if God is disappointed in me. After all, I’m from a stable, Christian home, many people have invested in me, and I’ve had lots of educational opportunities. I should be doing more, producing more, “bearing” more in a John 15 kind of way.

Yet I’m getting older, and I know I don’t have the energy I had when I was younger. I have four energetic, bouncy, emotional boys as well as a different lifestyle here in Japan with laundry, food, and life taking more time and energy than in the US. I’m not complaining about this, and I don’t think it’s better or worse. Just different.

Additionally, despite my Xena, Warrior Princess-esque fantasies, I am quite ordinary. I am rather average at Japanese. Only my mom knows how I scored on a language learning aptitude test that she monitored in 2005. Only I know how grave and concerned she was by the end.

I’m average or well-below average in all sorts of other things – math, proof-reading, controlling my temper, technology, showing grace to prickly people. More still, I have always had and likely will always have trouble focusing. Saying sternly in the mirror, “Focus and try harder, Squirrel Brain” has yet to yield positive, long-term results.

Then there’s the weight of my own losses and sadness in addition to hearing, holding, and absorbing others’ stories. This grief has lowered my capacity. I’m not trying to sound special or more sensitive, but this is part of who I am, too, and it means I’m not the high-producing 6 am worker bee I thought and hoped I’d be.

For years I had thought of myself as a strong, able-bodied, capable, and fairly high-capacity person. Now I see myself as a rapidly graying woman walking with a limp – someone who doesn’t have the capacity she thought she had. I try to picture God not being cranky or stingy toward the 12 pm or 3 pm workers who haven’t produced as much. Instead, I imagine him eager and generous, greeting his children not with a side-mouthed, “Hey, ya could have worked a little harder” but with his arms wide and saying, “I choose you! And I’m so glad you’re here!”

As I listened to our pastor, a man who is steady, kind, and thoughtful, I marveled at how he doesn’t seem to judge others’ capacity like I do. He doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest that the landowner in this parable gave all the workers the same reward. This is a man who has worked harder for God and sacrificed more for him than most people I know, and there he was with two tired moms, grinning about God’s generosity. It was like he knew this fun little secret that he wanted to share with us – that God’s grace is big and broad enough for us – no matter who we are or how hard we serve or how long we’ve been following Jesus.

Looking for Old Lady Hands

During worship sessions at a retreat for missionary women in Japan, when I normally would have been looking at the projected lyrics or closing my eyes, I was instead searching the room looking for old lady hands.

I unknowingly felt desperate to see that they were still here. These older women who have experienced more losses and griefs, challenges and setbacks, betrayals and disappointments than I have, they’re still here. They are still lifting their wrinkly, veiny, boney hands in worship, still opening well-worn Bibles and taking notes with well-worn hands, and still trusting God in some really profound ways.

Before beginning our second term in Japan, I thought a lot about Jonah. I felt jealous of the clarity of his call, of his certainty regarding what God was asking of him. I was also sad for him. He hated what God was telling him to do, and I related to the impulse of wanting to run in the opposite direction. And I was amazed (again) by the craziness of his story. I mean, really, a dude swallowed by a sea monster?! Writing poetry inside said sea monster?! Brutal enemies hearing a message from a reluctant foreigner and then repenting in sackcloth and ashes?!

But the part that I have continued to struggle with over the last several years is the part with the vine. Jonah is hot, and God gives him shade. That is so lovely, so specific, and so hospitable. And so merciful as Jonah, after being vomited out by a sea monster, gritted his teeth and obeyed God by telling his brutal, cruel enemies a message of repentance. 

Then God sends a worm to destroy this gift, this blessing. The thing that made his ministry bearable – gone.

I know that any comparison to anything I’ve done or been asked to do by God is silly. But I have my own list of “vines” – things I felt God provided that made a hard season or decision bearable. And I have another list of “worms” – ways these signs of mercy and God’s kindness were yanked away.

My very partial list of vines and worms includes people whom I saw as God’s provision in meeting my loneliness. One example is an outgoing and bilingual young woman we met at our assigned partner church when we volunteered here briefly after the earthquake and tsunami in 2011. She and I video chatted several times before moving here, and, even as I struggled to get on the plane to move my body/life/future to northeastern Japan, thinking about this potential friendship helped. Yet days after arriving, during the same worship service when my husband Robert and I were introduced to the congregation, it was also announced that it was her last Sunday. I felt confused, disoriented, and disappointed.

Another time, when we moved back to Japan after a hard (and mildly traumatic) ending to our first term, I kept thinking on repeat, “But _____ is here.” I hoped and believed that she, a friend for four years, was God’s answer to my prayers for a ministry partner. Yet as Robert and I returned to church after our furlough, she met us in the entryway to tell us it was her last day and that she was moving several hours away. I felt blindsided, crushed.

Shortly after that, one of my closest friends and a member of our small group moved to Singapore with her family. We had become moms around the same time and had made a lot of effort to meet and encourage one another over four years. I felt gutted and a bit lost.

Then another close friend moved to Israel. A sweet friend in our organization whom I pictured spending decades with moved to the US. A gentle and delightfully available Japanese friend moved south of Tokyo. Then yet another dear family in our mission (safe, fun, inspiring, wonderful) also moved to the US. And the goodbyes continue.

To different degrees, many of these losses felt like literal punches to the gut – causing pain and making it almost hard to breathe. And I went through all sorts of messy, swirling cycles in the stages of grief. Maybe some people handle change and loss daintily. Me, not so much.

I recently read in the psalms, “God, you consume like a moth what is dear” (Psalm 39:11). It sounds so accusatory, and as I read it, I inhaled sharply, wondering: Can we really talk to God like that? Even as I type this, my eyes burn and my face is getting blotchy. I have absolutely talked to God like that, calling him a vine-destroyer, accusing him of not sustaining hard-earned and highly invested-in friendships that meant so much to me.

I grew up hearing the Tozer quote: “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.” I confess that sometimes what comes to my mind is an image of him dangling a carrot. “See, here it is! You know you want it . . . Come and get it.” Then yank! . . . it’s taken away. But is God really like that? Cruel and mean?

A former teammate frequently repeated the phrase, “God is not a trickster.” I sometimes struggle to believe that God is not mean and not a trickster, that he is not one who enjoys giving and taking away blessings to test, punish, and mess with us. Yet as much as I want to picture Jesus as gentle and humble – a bearded dude who rode a donkey and made broken people whole, dirty people clean, blind people see, people in bondage free – this image of him occasionally blurs, and then he reappears, leaning back with his eyes squinted and his mouth almost mocking: “Let’s see how she’ll respond to this one. Muah hahahahaaaaa.”

Which brings me back to the wrinkly, spotted hands. A big reason why worshiping and learning with people older than me is so important is that I get to see people who keep singing, keep showing up, and keep praying. I get to see them in yearly rhythms at these conferences, see others in weekly rhythms in our church community, and see teensy snippets into their daily rhythms of meeting with Jesus and choosing to trust and love him even when a lot of evidence could tug them in different directions. And these older people, they’re not the crotchety, self-pitying, easily-irritable ones. They’re people who have suffered and are suffering, yet also bear fruit of joy, peace, humility, generosity, gentleness, service, curiosity, humor, and love.

They’re still worshiping God even though they have experienced soul-crushing disappointment, darkness, despair, and loss – in their families, ministries, marriages, kids, bodies. And they have experienced, again and again, God’s protection and presence. They have also seen, again and again, his provision and peace. Sometimes tangibly; sometimes in wisps and shadows. But they keep trusting, praying to, and seeking him.

When I glance at my own hands, I see veins and wrinkles along with a new swollen knuckle on my right pinky that reminds me of my grandmother’s arthritic hands. I’m aware that I have a long way to go in consistently thinking rightly about God. Yet I hope that someday people will say of me, “Look at that tall lady with glasses and frizzy gray hair. And look at those old lady hands. Can you believe she’s still here?”

10 Things I Used to Think About My Host Culture . . . and How I’ve Changed

Few things remind me of how much I’ve changed in the 10+ years living in Japan than sakura (Japanese cherry blossoms). I remember first-term Roberta rolling her eyes a little at the way people gushed about sakura, like they were really special or something. I remember thinking grumpily, “They are overrated and impotent. Why didn’t they plant something that actually produces fruit rather than all of this flowery nonsense?” I remember on a really rough culture stress day shaking my fist at a tree and bellowing, “You couldn’t even produce a peach, you impotent tree!”

Fast forward to now, and I’m regularly organizing mini excursions to see sakura with friends. They bloom for such a short time, and I anticipate these adventures, plan my days and meals around them, and thoroughly enjoy them. I have come to love the emphasis on beauty for beauty’s sake rather than for production and usefulness. I gush over the different varieties, the different shades of white and pink, the different shapes of blossoms and petal formation, and the different experiences viewing them when they are budding, in full bloom, and falling (“like snow!”). I love seeing gnarly, ugly trunks spouting these delicate, fragile flowers – the contrast between rugged stability with momentary beauty stuns me.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve thought of other ways I’ve changed, whether my perspective has shifted to “it’s not wrong; it’s different” or all the way to “it’s not wrong; it’s very, very good!” My list grew quite long, so here is just a sampling. In no particular order:

1. I used to think that trees in Japan were “pruned within an inch of their very lives! Let them be freeeee!” Now, I often find myself thinking, “Wow, there isn’t a lot of space here, and it’s amazing that Japanese people have found ways to add green anyway.” The art form of making trees fit a space impresses me (and reminds me of Dr. Seuss illustrations). Bonsai trees, carefully trimmed and controlled over decades, can grow in a yard that’s not quite a yard, and I have a deepening respect for people committed to this long-form, natural art.

2. I used to roll my eyes at parasols. When I first came and saw so many people carrying umbrellas in the summer, I’d think, “The sun isn’t your enemy!” and made all sorts of judgmental assumptions about people’s vanity. Now I realize that it’s more humid here. Sunscreen is both uncomfortable and sweats right off, so hats and parasols make a lot of sense. They are effective against the heat (not just sun rays), and I’m also impressed by people proactively taking care of their skin.

3. I used to think that concrete everywhere was an eyesore. There is a ton of concrete in Japan. Many, if not most, rivers have concrete along at least parts of them. (“Why can’t they be free?!” — yep, broken record.) Where we live, concrete sea walls have been built (or rebuilt higher) to help protect people along the coast from future tsunamis. Our city is really hilly, and loads of hillsides are covered in concrete. I thought it was a bit much when I arrived, but now I see it as a lot of smart science-y and engineer-y people working together to keep hillsides from collapsing and rocks from falling in this land of earthquakes and typhoons. I still don’t think it’s pretty, but I’m grateful for it now.

4. I used to think the rain and haze was a drag. I heard myself complain about the wetness and compare Japanese skies to Pennsylvanian skies All the Time (now I just do this Quite Often). I am in the process of accepting that we live in a different climate, that this isn’t Pennsylvania so stop comparing it to Pennsylvania already. I’ve also come to appreciate beauty in fog and clouds. It was pointed out to me years ago that Japanese art is rarely bright and blue-skied but is instead cloudy, misty, and nuanced. Mystery is beautiful, and Japan has helped me see this.

5. I used to think my way was (shhhh) better. One example of many is that I’d feel disoriented and defensive when I’d drop someone off at their home and they wouldn’t go inside but would wait until I drove off. In the US, the driver makes sure the person dropped off gets inside safely, whereas in Japan, the person dropped off makes sure the driver leaves well. This one is small, but it felt uncomfortable to me for years, and what was uncomfortable to me often got interpreted as wrong. Now it’s not only in the “not wrong; just different” category, but I also see it as quite lovely. I love getting our boys involved in waving people away when guests leave our house after dinner or when they are dropped off after playdates.

6. I used to struggle with the emphasis on ganbatte (persevere). Initially, I loved seeing the word on bumper stickers and spray painted on walls in post-disaster Japan. It conveyed something like, We will make it. We will overcome this together. Press on and don’t give up! Yet the longer I lived here, the more it grated on me. “Workaholism is a big deal here,” I would say to myself. “Stop persevering and rest already!” Then when I had kids, I’d prefer to say to our boys, “Have fun at school!” (or swimming lessons or the craft event) rather than joining the other moms calling after their kids, “Ganbatte!” Yet now I’m mostly thankful our boys grow up hearing that their effort matters just as much or more than their level of fun. Work hard. You can do hard things. Keep at it. Be a koi and swim upstream. Persevere. (And of course, have fun too!)

7. I used to be a little skeptical about uniforms. For middle and high schoolers, I now think there is a pretty good argument for them. Yet as a middle or high schooler 25ish years ago, boy oh boy would I have spouted off about how they cramp my individuality and make it difficult to express myself. (My mom endured years of my suspenders, fedoras, grandpa sweaters, and old bell bottoms in the name of individuality.) I’ve changed over the years, and I marvel at the dozens of uniformed high schoolers around me as I write this – collared white shirts, vests, and plaid skirts. Self-expression is a lower value here (at least in school), and I might say that this is in the “it’s not wrong; it’s very, very good” category (especially recently coming back from the Land of Self-Expression on Steroids).

8. I used to think Japanese women, particularly moms, must all be miserable. I pitied them for not having “mom’s night out,” for having to look a certain way, and for having (in my interpretation) such small lives. But I see some of my American friends trying to do it all with big, expansive lives. I see them investing in their careers, hosting Pinterest-perfect parties, living in tastefully decorated houses, working out, baking homemade bread, and taking epic family vacations — and they look exhausted. Here, I have mamatomo (mom friends) with simple, content lives, and I’m better for being around them. Their homes are small, their lives involve a lot more laundry and dishes than their American counterparts (many here don’t have dishwashers or dryers), and they aren’t rushing around. I’m thankful for the unassuming influence of several dear mamatomo on me. They’re not documenting their lives on social media or chasing some ideal they’re told by someone somewhere they’re supposed to pursue. Basically, I used to pity women around me and thought they were trapped, and I don’t think like that anymore.

9.  I used to think I would never be able to belly laugh in a country that values self-control. For years, I struggled with how women around me laughed, covering their mouths and laughing through their noses, if at all. Yet now I have a neighbor and other friends with whom I can laugh until I cry (and have). Recently I was drinking coffee with my 65-year-old neighbor across the street, and the topic turned to my eye wrinkles. I referred to them as my shima (stripes) rather than shiwa (wrinkles), and for reasons I’m forgetting now we cackled and snorted, which of course made us cackle some more. Another time this neighbor was telling me about her new hobby, crochet, and I noticed the beautiful, expertly croqueted vest she was wearing. I asked with bug eyes, “Did you make this!?!” “No,” she said perkily, “I made this.” She handed me a half-finished potholder full of mistakes, and we laughed until we cried. This is one example out of many “I’ll never get to ______ in Japan” thoughts that have proven to be untrue.

10. I used to roll my eyes at all the ceremony. Three-year-olds are expected to sit on little wooden chairs in suits for the entrance ceremony for daycare. Between our four boys, we’ve sat through eight entrance and graduation ceremonies and counting. (We have 16 more to take us to the end of middle school.) While I still sit and endure, feeling semi-lost and occasionally questioning why the emphasis is on somber, serious, and ceremonial rather than fun, light, and funny, I now think there is a lot of valuable stuff connected to these markings of time. I think my home culture is missing out on not having more ways to recognize coming-of-age moments. Other things that surprised me by how somber they were include weddings, new year celebrations, and kids’ campfire ceremonies.

I’m not sharing these items to say I’ve arrived. I still occasionally struggle, compare, and complain – yet I hope I’m also growing, learning, and changing. Being past the 10-year mark, I want to remember that I used to think one way and now I think differently. Hopefully I can be patient and kind when I hear others having similar reactions and attitudes as I did. And if I see some frizzy foreigner shaking her fist at trees, I hope I will take her on a whimsical picnic and let her bellow about peaches in peace, imagining her going from accepting to valuing to celebrating them.

Midlife in Missions

I turned 40 in February, and I think I have a new understanding of the whole “midlife crisis” thing. The completely arbitrary transition from my 30s to my 40s has felt a little (or maybe a lot) disorienting. My swirling thoughts have occasionally bubbled out in conversations (perhaps “bursting forth” is more accurate). If this happens when I’m on the phone, I picture the person I’m talking to staring straight ahead with bug eyes, nodding slowly, and thinking, “Wow, that’s a lot of emotion. She has some stuff to work through.”

More than conversations with real live people, though, I’ve been talking in spits and spurts with my younger self – more often than not defensive and preachy. Perhaps this is because I feel her judgment, her confusion, her disappointment.

After all, when I was 20, I had dreams. Oh boy, did I have dreams – wild, unrealistic, grandiose ideas for who I would be when I grew up. “I’ll volunteer for two to three years with the Peace Corps which will help pay for my master’s in public health which will help me get a noble and important job with the UN which will…” (I have a friend who did this, and I salute her.) Other jobs I remember high school and college student Roberta considering: becoming a reconstructive surgeon for war victims or a human rights lawyer working with victims of the modern slave trade.

I didn’t think then that I’d someday live in Japan. I think differently now, but I’m sure I would have thought of that as soft. I certainly didn’t anticipate getting married or having four wild, tender, ridiculous boys. I most certainly didn’t consider that the bulk of my life in this season would be setting up play dates, getting help from mom friends with my son’s second grade homework, serving a lot of simple meals to people, and doing laundry constantly. Most of all, I would not have expected that I could find contentment – happiness even – with this small, beautiful life.

Most of my family members have skills and jobs that others can easily understand. A college professor, elementary and high school teachers, a high school band director, a nurse practitioner, a dietician. I look at them and think, “Wow, well done.” And then too quickly I think again about me, wishing that I, too, could say: “I am an expert in my field. I have developed this particular skill that I use to serve my school, clients, company, or community. I have arrived. I am an adult.”

I know missionaries in other parts of the world and in Japan who are experts – drilling wells, teaching at medical hospitals and seminaries, running NPOs for displaced people, starting micro-enterprise projects, writing thoughtful, helpful books. Perhaps part of being 40 is seeing these people and cheering them on – proud and not jealous of them – and not having the same angst and internal wrestling I’ve had with wanting their lives, their impact, their skill sets, and their experiences. Perhaps “entering middle age” is about being increasingly present to the people and places in my right-now actual life.

Sometimes I picture myself making peace between my 20-year-old and 40-year-old selves. I listen to Younger Me telling Now Me that she feels a little disappointed in her for not being more impressive or important. And I picture Now Me smiling – a little sad but also nodding with understanding – and gently telling Younger Me that she’s actually pretty happy. That it’s ok that her life looks pretty much nothing like she expected it would.

I picture Now Me having compassion on Younger Me who had a gigantic savior complex. She sees the simplicity and goodness of Younger Me in wanting to be noble and brave and, with a smirk, the ridiculousness of her also wanting to be Xena Warrior Princess. (I watched one episode. Yet that didn’t stop me from wanting to be her, a tall brunette who beat up bad guys.)

I picture Now Me helping Younger Me reframe the phrase her mom said for years before going to school: “Go MAD – go make a difference” (borrowed from a Christian radio personality). I picture them talking about that and some of the messaging she received from church (“dream and do big things for God!”) and society (“you can do and be anything!”) and even from songs and slogans of much-loved missions conferences from childhood (“Let me be a shining light to the nations,” “Let me be the one to take his light into a dying world…” Woah). I see Now Me not looking down on Younger Me or feeling annoyed with or ashamed of her but accepting and even loving her.

I also picture Younger Me not really buying any of it. After all, she knows better. But I also picture her liking and wanting to be friends with Now Me, popping over for tea (of course late, disheveled, and forgetting to exchange pleasantries) and both of them talking with Big Feelings, big hand gestures, and lots and lots of words.

Hopefully we would be less focused on trying to impress one another and more interested in seeking to understand and love one another.