Roberta Adair – A Life Overseas |

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.

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.

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.

Boundary Lines and Haikus

I spent many years wondering in the back of my head if being called to Japan was divine punishment for a flaw. To improperly use fancy Christian lingo, I wondered if God was sending me to Japan rather than other places I was willing and eager to go in order to sanctify me. I believed something like, “God loves me but needs to sandpaper and scrape a lot of Roberta away…and Japan is the sandpaper.”

In grad school I even wrote in my journal, “Lord, I’m willing to go anywhere — just not Japan,” yet now I view this country I said I’d never move to as one of the Psalmist’s “pleasant places.” I get teary as I consider God bringing me here for my good, not in a gross kale kind of way but in a warm, corner brownie kind of way.

In 2019 I attended a day of training with a more experienced missionary. She discussed some of the metaphors that people use to describe adjusting to Japan: feeling like a child, being in a dark tunnel, climbing a mountain. She talked with us about the importance and power of metaphors and led us in a few exercises to help us discover insights for ourselves. For years I had used phrases like “square peg, round hole” (not fitting well) and “like a little kid in a new school” (incompetent and unknown) to try to articulate what living here feels like.

One image that I hadn’t been able to verbalize but had felt over and over was the idea of feeling trapped and tied down – like having a rope wound around and around my arms and not being able to breathe freely, much less move. For a long time, I looked at “Japan” (written in quotation marks as I’m referring to it more as an idea than as a place or a people) as restricting, trapping, binding, and controlling.

There are so many rules: when to bow, when to use honorifics, how long to admire a business card that you received respectfully with two hands (“Always receive with two hands!”). If someone gives a gift, it is appropriate to give another gift at 30% of the estimated value of the original gift.

I found all of these rules exhausting, along with all of the formality, ceremony, and appropriateness (I generally like informal, spontaneous, and mildly-to-wildly inappropriate). There were rules about eye contact, precise expectations about what to wear to different ceremonies, and even how to laugh (many women cover their teeth when they laugh and maintain control, while I love to belly laugh with both friends and strangers). I found all of this overwhelming and exhausting and grating and tedious and irritating.

I know people who are drawn to Japan specifically for the same reasons I had prayed “anywhere but.” They like that it’s predictable, orderly, safe. They are the “learn the rules, and you’ll do well” type of people. I think perhaps this is one reason why my engineer husband adjusted to Japan years before I did.

At the training, as an exercise to start and end our sessions, we were asked to write haikus. I hadn’t written one since middle school, yet I was able to spit two out really quickly. 5-7-5…boom.

They weren’t amazing, but they were written quickly and lightly. I didn’t get bogged down with a gazillion possibilities from a more open-ended prompt like, “Write an essay. Draw a picture. Describe a situation.” The haiku was so simple. I think this exercise marked the beginning of my understanding that too many possibilities isn’t freedom; it’s exhausting.

Ever since that post-retreat time, I’ve tried to notice more of this limitation-as-freedom thing. Rather than feeling restrained, confined, and trapped in Japan, I’m trying to reframe that limitations can contribute to my freedom.

For example, the train. Although we have a car, I like to ride the train to the library. I prefer the boundaries of time with trains. There are consequences to trying to finish “just one more thing” (needing to wait for the next one), and knowing the train pulls away at a certain time helps me focus and get stuff done. It also gives me 10 minutes to check out on the ride home.

Then there’s our newsletter. I wrote freeform email updates during my three years living in another country. They were usually quite long. I didn’t like my husband’s suggestion a decade ago to pick a newsletter format and stick to it. I still occasionally struggle with the constraints of space. If anyone ever thinks, “Um, this paragraph is missing a sentence,” yes it is, but I simply deleted it to make it fit. Using this formula means we can make them faster than we could if they were more freestyle. Two articles with three to five pictures (2-3-5…boom).

Or consider our small house. I’ve seen these literal boundaries and limitations lead to freedom. I have a lot of new-to-me opinions about the lightness connected to having a small house and next-to-no yard. Perhaps this not-chosen-by-me minimalist lifestyle isn’t forever or for everyone. That said, I’ve experienced a lot of joy connected to exploring and playing that I simply wouldn’t have had time for if I had more space and stuff to manage and maintain.

Boundaries are helpful with anything related to reducing decision fatigue. I know this is a trendy topic, but it’s why I like restaurants with small menus, prefer the neighborhood veggie man over a larger grocery store, and have jumped from team self-expression to being a big fan of uniforms (very common for students and workers in Japan). It’s also why we’ve happily adjusted our wardrobes to our small closets. Our four boys share two chests of drawers with seven drawers between them. It works, and it’s (mostly) really good. I have the smallest wardrobe of my life, and (most of the time) I love it.

I think about limitations when I think about having kids. Oh, the laundry, dishes, cooking, time constraints, and adjusting so much of my life and schedule around them. Yet these little balls of Big Energy and Big Feelings also bring so many possibilities. They’ve opened the door to many deep friendships, and they’ve expanded my understanding of the world, people, and God.

These are just a few examples of the ways I experience the expansiveness of limitation. I’m finding that the boundary lines aren’t confining or trapping but instead have allowed me to more fully experience “pleasant places.” And for that, I’m grateful.

Miso and Lent

A few days ago, I opened up the cool crawlspace under our dining room table and pulled out a big pot of miso I put there ten months ago. Miso is squashed fermented soybeans and is used in a lot of Japanese cooking – most famously miso soup, but also in stir fries, marinades, and vegetable dips.

Until two years ago, I simply bought it in small plastic tubs at our neighborhood grocery store, but then a friend invited me to join her and a few other women for a miso-making class.

I plopped the pot on the counter and gingerly took off the lid. Will the top layer be as slimy and funky as the year before? (It was.) Will it have worked – meaning will the kōji (fermenting bacteria) have done its job with the smashed up beans and transformed the mush into miso? (Also yes.)

After scraping off the top and putting the rest into several containers, I wiped up a little bit I dropped onto the counter with my finger and tasted it. It was salty, tangy, grainy, fermented, and familiar. It was also something quite different than what I put in the pot last year. It had transformed.

Ten months earlier, a professional miso maker gave me dried beans with instructions on how to soak and boil them the day before we were to meet together. Then when we all gathered in a small room in a community center, she walked us through the process of smashing the beans, mixing in the salt and kōji, and squashing the mixture some more.

My favorite step was to make small balls and SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! them into a container to get rid of air bubbles. It was loud and felt almost violent – and oh so satisfying.

As I consider the different steps in the process, I keep thinking about miso as a metaphor for the Christian life, one I get to regularly touch, see, taste, and smell.

Soaking the beans reminds me of being immersed in a safe community. It’s comfortable. I’m not yet required to change, but I’m in an environment preparing me for change. It’s the least painful part of the process but is still important.

Boiling is the next step, which is a process that involves purification and pain. The result is softening (“humbling”) and is necessary for a big transformation.

Squashing follows and involves the beans changing shape but their essence remaining the same. Starting as beans and ending as paste, they are then mixed with salt and kōji to preserve the mixture and start the ten-month process of transformation. Koji works like “yeast in the bean paste” (bacteria in the miso) just as the Holy Spirit works in us.

The beans then sit in a dark, undisturbed place. This is where fermentation takes place and where simple beans that would otherwise rot become nourishing and delicious. A weight is placed on top—a “burden” that makes it more difficult for air to enter and allow mold to grow too quickly.

This process is a picture (albeit imperfect) of sanctification: being made into something better over time. After sitting in the cool crawlspace under our dining room table for ten months, the beans underwent a chemical transformation, and squashed beans—voila!—became miso. The process involved breaking, smashing, mixing, and splatting. And it involved waiting, literally being hidden underground, and not being disturbed for a long season.

Now, as I use my “labor of love” to make miso soup, miso chicken, and miso salad dressing, I think about . . .

Phases in my life when I was overly comfortable and didn’t feel pressured to change or grow.
Hard seasons in friends’ lives that are lonely, unseen, and exhausting. They are seeking to trust God in the dark without seeing a whole lot of fruit or answers to prayer.
Tragic revelations in the lives of public Christians who missed out on the fermenting phase and peaked while still raw beans. As their rottenness is revealed and they give off a big stink, the result is broken families, fractured churches, and disoriented followers.
Those who have submitted to and practiced the way of Christ who are in turn nourishing those around them, providing a richness and complexity to their families and communities. To paraphrase Matthew 5:13, they are “the umami of the world.”
The fact that the process can’t be sped up through more effort. More squeezing, more pounding, more splatting, or more salt and kōji won’t help. Maturity – Christlikeness – can only happen over time, in darkness, and through waiting.

Miso-making typically coincides with the season of Lent, and I find myself thinking about the way of Jesus being dying and resurrection. His invitation to transforming us, to transforming me, requires some kind of breaking and pain.

Even as I write this, I’m making plans with friends to make miso again in late February. What started as a one-time thing is becoming a yearly habit and (may I say it?) something like a spiritual practice. And I’m thankful.