“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.
