Well...I've talked to some of you who still read this here thingamajigger, and realized that I haven't posted in a while. The reason for this is explainable, however, and hopefully fixable. You see, I discovered, while in Japan, several other social networking sights that are a little bit more user-friendly, and it's much faster to post on those. Therefore, sometimes, due to time constraints (or, forgetfulness), I don't manage to post those entries on this blog. My solution to this? Here is my other blog. I post to it much more frequently, and you don't need to be a user to view it. This may mean the end to my postings here, but I do post to the other one at least a few times a month (hopefully more). I hope you enjoy! www.xanga.com/horisensei

Forgotten Frills I had this dress once - I got it for Christmas. Shiny, dusy-rose crinkly material, ruffles, lace, the works. The ultimate (80's) "girl" dress. When I first pulled it from its box and tried it on at my grandparents' house, I remember it being a little bit too big - just so much that it really wasn't all that becoming - frumpy, actually. So, my mother suggested we put it toward the back of the closet until I grew into it. To the back of the closet it went. The problem was that I forgot about it...completely...for probably a whole year. Not that this was a problem, really, it was honestly a cheap party dress that would have been identified as such by anyone who might have seen me wear it. But, my point is that they didn't get much of a chance. One or two times, maybe, because by the time I remembered that it was stored in the dark corners of my clothing storage area, I had grown too much for the dress to fit me. It was too small when I finally remembered it was there. I guess you could take this as a sad story - that I never got to really wear my dress, and I guess in some ways it is a little sad. I loved that dress, and I was very, very upset that it no longer (or, really, never) fit me, entirely convinced that no other dress would ever capture my fancy like that frilly pink wonder. But, I was wrong, and eventually my attachment to the dress faded. In fact, though I still have some nostalgic sentiments connected with the garment, (I kept it for my little girl one day), as I grew older and changed, not only did I not fit in it anymore, but my desire to wear it (thank the Lord) eventually vanished entirely. I mean, really, who has worn dusty rose since 1992? So, I guess the moral of the story is we probably all have had one "pink party dress" or another in our lives. Truth is, we'll get over it. Give it time - and a few fashion trends turned over

Baby Steps

I know it's been written about countless times before, but if you've ever witnessed the process of a baby learning how to walk, I guess you'd understand why.  It's one of the most encouraging experiences, in my personal opinion.  Sophia is just to the age where she can't quite walk on her own, but she has an insatiable desire and ruthless courage to try.  Every day she screams until I come behind her with my two index fingers at her eye level so she can grasp on with all her might and use them as her "training wheels."  It was only a few weeks ago that she made her first few steps independent of outside support, and since then she's had spurts of bravery where she'll take 6-8 steps on her own.

Now, I must say, the most encouraging part of this whole process is not necessarily the skill she's picking up - I mean, really, walking is quite a common thing amongst homo sapiens, but the fact that she's overcoming personal obstacles in the process and learning how to do something that, for her, is really quite difficult.  Possibly even more impressive is the fact that these walking experiments do not come without fault and failure.  In fact, almost every time she tries, she falls.  I've not witnessed her falling flat on her face, but it's definitely possible (and likely) that she could, but she at least lands on her bum about fifty percent of the time she attempts to reach a new destination by foot.  However, despite her failures, she never stops trying.  This, to me, is really quite astounding.  She never sits on her puffy butt (she still wears a diaper, obviously) and says to the world (metaphorically, she can't talk yet either...) "Forget this stupid walking thing.  I keep messing up.  It hurts.  I'm going to stick with crawling."

Man, I want to learn that kind of perseverance.  Especially in the area of loving people.  Let's just be honest: relationships hurt.  It doesn't matter what kind of relationship it is; people will always let you down.  IT's pretty much the one thing you can count on with all of them.  But, just like learning how to walk, it's always worth it to keep loving and to open your heart up to new people.  Does this mean that we should be injudicious about with whom we share what?  No. (Sophia is learning this lesson about the top half of her body going faster than her feet...) But in the midst of our mistakes, we learn.  We have to be willing to fall and fail to have meaningful relationships.  Not every one will work out as we hope or plan, but that's no reason to give up.  Just think if we were to do that when we were learning how to walk...we'd have a lot of bruised (and frost-bitten, this time of year) knees roaming the world.  And jumping would be kinda hard, too...  No, we must keep going.  Keep being willing to fall.  And eventually, if not in all circumstances, the rewards of our investment in others will come (even though they may not be tangible at first, or even at all).  As I watch Sophia, I'm more and more convinced it is our calling to keep loving, keep risking, keep learning.  Today she walked halfway across the living room...

6 months in For some reason, lately I've been thinking quite a bit on how my transition back has gone/ is going. And after thinking on it for a little while, or maybe it's because somebody may have asked me the other day, I realized, to my surprise, that I have been back in the U.S. for nearly 6 months. Twice the dates have passed when I would have returned to Japan after a break, and I can honestly say, after half a year, I feel somewhat like I belong. Not that I have regained a sense of "home," really, but maybe just strengthened my ability to make home wherever I lay my head (which has been in 3 different beds just this week, for example, and about 3 different beds the week before...) My parents' new house isn't really "home" to me, but it's definitely a place I welcome at the end of a long day, and I'm enjoying staying there, not only because of their company, but, let's face it, they did a good job designing the thing. I definitely use my mom's jacuzzi bathtub more than she does! I think the real reasons that I feel more at peace here, however, have been more related to what I've been doing outside of the house. As most of you know, I've been working as a nanny for a family from my church with two kids. Sophia will turn one on Sunday, and P.J. three in March. Both of them are a joy to be around (most of the time ; ) in their own ways. Sophia is just learning to walk (in fact, she walked her most consecutive steps, 5, to me this morning), and her 4-toothed grin makes me giggle every time it lights up her face. I love her antics and curiosity, and, I especially love cuddling her : ). P.J. is quite a character. He has the softest heart and most inquisitive mind of almost any child I know, but it's definitely offset by a feisty personality. He always wants to know "why," and comes up with all kinds of (ingenious and absolutely ridiculous) solutions for any predicament we may face throughout the day. Probably what I enjoy the most about him is the fresh perspective he gives me of my Heavenly Father with his child-hearted faith. He says things like, "God loves it when we have fun," and I find myself often sitting back and thinking, "Yeah, P.J. you got it right, and I have so much to learn from you." We have our off-days together, too, but they are few and far between. Most days I look forward to being with the kids, even if it does mean changing a lot of diapers and reading a lot of nap-time stories : ). I also get a lot of enjoyment out of my second job, being a tutor at Sylvan learning center. I have been working there about two evenings a week, but will probably go down to one when I start school in a month (more on that later). I mostly work with beginning readers, which has its own set of joys and challenges. I love seeing the tangible progress that my students have made since I started there, and I love their contagious smiles and sassy personalities. (seriously, some of my girls are such stinkers!). They're always making me laugh or want to rip my hair out, but usually the former. : ) I usually work with about 2 students an hour, which can be difficult when you're working with beginning readers, but I enjoy the challenge, it keeps me on my toes. I also think it's good training for me to "juggle kids" if I ever become a "real" teacher, because I'm not so good at splitting my brain in two, I do much better focusing on one thing at a time - not possible when you're running a whole classroom. So I'm excited for what I'm learning there and the connections I'm making with kids. It's neat to see the difference you're making in a child's life, even if it's only in one little area. Speaking of investing in "kids," I'm also working with the youth group, especially the girls, at my church. I felt called, when I came home, to get involved in the lives of the girls, but a couple months ago I found out that my youth pastor was leaving, and now I'm loosely helping out one of my guys friends with leading the group at large, too. I have been SO challenged to work with them. There are so many wise young women that I have so much to learn from. Sometimes I feel very inadequate to act as their leader, but I feel very strongly that it's something God wants me to do right now, so I try to offer what I can. Their energy is a blast to be around - I sort-of miss it in my age group these days, not to mention in my parents! (when you work 50+ hours a week, you tend to get drained). I'm excited to see where God takes us as a group. Another group I sort-of found myself involved with is just a few friends who have decided to try to meet together to study the book of James. This has been such an answer to pray for me in SO many ways. I have really been craving fellowship and community from people my age in the last few months, and quite randomly I feel that God begun the process of answering my prayers. A lot of it has been through my wonderful friends Katie and Charlie Vidorek, who got married right before I left for Japan (yes, "The Wedding," for those of you who know what I'm talking about ; ). I'm also really excited to see where God takes this group and this study. It's incredibly refreshing to see others my age who are not only hungry for the word and a stronger relationship with the Lord, but for real, meaningful community. Yes!!! And, last but not least, in the next month I plan to....drum roll, please....start school. Yes, I finally bit the bullet and applied for a master's program in secondary English education (integrated language arts, if you want to be technical) at Mt. Vernon University, although I will be attending a Mansfield branch only about 10 minutes from my parents' house. I haven't really felt much emotion about this yet, I just decided to finally pursue something that I think I like and will pay me enough to move out of my parents' house someday : ). But, I think once I start I'll end up liking it and becoming more passionate about teaching. I will be attending classes one night a week, and I will go through the program for two years with the same group of people (which I am really excited about for the sake of community and support). I think I'll have time to work on homework during my nanny job, which is wonderful, so I hope the crammed-full schedule I keep these days won't overwhelm me once school is added. We'll see. I'm not worried about it, but am prepared to make changes if I need to. One day at a time. And so you have my life here in good old Mansfield, Ohio. Six months in I find myself thinking to myself, "I think I'm happy here." Hopefully I won't get so content that it makes moving on difficult at the end of my school program, but I think I have enough itch to move out from the roof of my folks that it won't be a problem. Plus, I'm sustaining my travel bug with random trips here and there (about which I may write more, depending on if I find the time...?), so I'm just biding my time until I can leave the country for a spell again. It will come when it comes, and until then I'll just "follow my feet." They've led me some interesting places so far, and I think that, surprisingly, and albeit differently, this leg of the journey may turn out to be just as adventurous as the ones I've spent across the sea.

The "Takai Hana" Strikes Again I thought it was only in Japan that students would comment on my "tall nose." Granted, I got similar remarks in elementary school...not quite so mild and innocent, mind you, but since then I believe it was only in Japan that anyone has commented on the size and shape of my nose. Until tonight. In the middle of trying to teach her how to clap out the syllables in a word, Kiarra, the sassy, unabashed spitfire that she is, looked straight at me and asked, "Why is your nose so pointy?" Not knowing how to reply, I simply responded, "Why is yours so NOT pointy?" That got her smiling and off the topic, but sheesh. Some kids are just stinkin' bold. I only wish it was a compliment here like it was in Japan! : )

Dickens Meets Disco Having not seen my dear friend Adriane for two weeks, I practically jumped at the opportunity when she asked me to see a play with her last Saturday. she has been living with a family from her church, and the "matron" of the household had been given a part in Dickens' classic tale, "A Christmas Carol." Little did we know that the evening would bring rain and wind blasts just below the freezing point, so that every driving surface was transformed into an ice-coated "insta-hazard." Having been bed-ridden for the previous few days recovering from a horrific case of "sick all over," however, I was determined to seize the opportunity to get gussied-up, feel like a human again, and break out of my house, which had come to feel more like an infirmary. Undaunted by the slick roads, I set off to fetch Adriane and, from there, glide my way to the Playhouse if I had to. Thus, after a 30-minute crawl downtown (that would have normally been 15), we pried my ice-coated cardoors open and clung to each other for dear life as we inched our way to the box office - true to our natures, 10 minutes before the show started. Although I've crossed the threshold of Mansfield's Playhouse at least half a dozen times (mostly by the coercion of high school friends who had landed a role in the city's most recent production), somewhere between that night and the last time I had been there, I misplaced the memory of the small theater's atmosphere. It seemed fitting that we were to see a play set in the Victorian era, for as we entered, I felt as if we were stepping back into the 1800s. The wooden door creaked as it closed behind us, and even after I heard it latch, a curious breeze still seemed to continue through some unseen fissure. The lighting was dim, having been installed decades earlier, and rather reminiscent of candlelight. The wooden floors, warped from time and harsh Ohio weather, rose and fell like gentle ocean currents, and the uneven stairs to the theater itself most certainly would not have passed any current building inspection. Happy that I had chosen to go the long-johns route with my attire that evening, Adriane and I cautiously climbed the stairs (while, donning my new stiletto boots, clinging to the banister), and snuggled into two of the 100-some seats just before the curtains parted. "Marley was dead...as dead as a doornail," the narrator began as the lights came on and revealed brightly colored, hand-sewn costumes and simple, hand-painted sets. No microphones were used, and lighting was spare, giving the impression that we were viewing a quaint, living-room version of the production. With my coat pulled up over my lap and snuggled tightly beneath my chin, I basked in the sense of the "home-made" emanating from the stage and the weathered walls around us. It all seemed to fit the particular story - all about the simple, important things in life and a return to the basic lessons of the heart. The peak of this sense, however, came not from the old building, the patched costumes, nor the simple sets. It wasn't until the ghost of Christmas past entered the scene that the audience experienced low-budget ingenuity at its finest, for as the spirit took the hand of Scrooge and flew with him through time (AKA walked across the stage), I noticed a peculiar sort of light coming from the ceiling of the theater. Glancing up to see what it was, I was surprised, and amused, to behold none other than a genuine 1970's disco ball - spinning and twinkling in all its glory. Out of respect for the cast I had to stifle a chuckle at the bizarre usage of the mirrored sphere. It spun and glittered throughout Scrooge's journey to the past, adding (or attempting to add) an element of the magical to his quest for the true meaning of Christmas. Though I found its first appearance quite bizarre, the second time the ball spun, this time with the ghost of Christmas present, it didn't strike me as quite so odd, and b the time Scrooge was traveling to the future and facing what might be (save a change in his heart), I hardly the tiny-mirrored apparatus at all. It had been transformed, in my mind, to a charming element of mystical enchantment. As I left the theater, and several times throughout the following week, I thought of the disco ball and the childlike simplicity of the entire play - script, sets, lighting and all. Maybe it's because I worked in a small, lower-income country school for two years where uniforms were usually hand-me-downs, classrooms were heated by potbellied stoves, and anything decorative was handmade, but since being back in America, I have ben struck by the utter lack of imagination in U.S. kids. Books have been replaced by DVDs, self-made toys by those with flashing lights and batteries, and dolls that we once pretended talked to us by ones that actually do. Not that these technological advances are all negative, but I guess it made me appreciate the childlike simplicity of the disco-ball version of Dickens' story. It truly showed the creative ingenuity of those behind the production. And I guess I'm thankful to know that there are still some "grown up kids" left in the world not afraid to use their imaginations, and even more, not afraid to inspire others to do the same. I think at its core, the true beginning of Christmas requires a very similar childlike wonder and almost imaginative faith - for how else can we begin to grasp the astounding miracle of Christ's birth? In our adult minds truly, the first christmas - a virgin mother bringing the king of all time into the world in a smelly, animal-filled cave - could, most likely often does, seem absurd. In his preface to the book, Dickens writes, "I have endeavored in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea...May it haunt their homes pleasantly..." I pray that we have not grown to old or too caught up in the "material" to be "pleasantly haunted" by the birth of our Lord and to think on the miracle of the season with enchanted, childlike wonder.

Back to being 8 Do you remember the last time you had pink eye? For me, it seems like when I was about 8 years old. Somewhere in elementary school, I'm sure. You remember the goop you had to put in your eye that made your vision all blurry? Well, here's my story: I have been incredibly ill the last few days, with a cough the likes of which I can't remember having since, again, elementary school. I kept telling myself that I should go to the doctor, and hearing "gentle nudges" of the same sentiment from my mother, but I kept telling myself that in a couple of days I would kick it and it would have been a waste of time off work and other social duties. Well, last night as I was going to bed, I noticed that my eye was a little scratchy and, well, let's just be honest: boogery. I thought that I had gotten a piece of fuzz or something stuck in it, and sort-of complained to my dad. His reaction I was not expecting. "I bet you have pink eye," he casually replied. Not wanting to believe such a thing, I blew him off. Until this morning. This morning I awoke to a right eye very, very pink and practically swollen, not to mention sealed shut. Yep. I looked like I had either been crying all night (only just out of my right eye), or had gotten punched right in the socket, so I figured something was up. Reluctantly I called the doctor (well, my mom actually did as I went back to bed...) and made an appointment. The first thing the nurse practitioner said when she walked in the room was, "Man, honey, do you look altogether miserable!" Yep. It showed : ). She took out her little snooper, scoper thingy and looked in my ears, all the while chatting about what she was and was not finding. "Looks good here," she said as she inspected my canals. Then she stuck the thing up my right nostril. "Looks ok here." Then she moved to my left. "WHOAH! This one's NOT OK!" Slightly more curious about what she was finding, she instructed me to open my mouth. "Say aaaaah. That's good. Now let me just look in here....WHOAH, HONEY! You've got SPOTS in there!!! Girl, you've got strep!" "Figures," was my reply. "Why not add it to the list?" So, at the end of the appointment I left with two slips of paper: one for eye drops to battle the increasing puffy/gooeyness in both of my eyes, and the other for the strongest kick-butt antibiotics to get rid of whatever sort of breeding bacteria was causing spots on my throat, an incessant cough, and the reaction "Whoah!" when she looked up my left nostril. So, I ended up being quarantined to my room for 2 days. No work, no Bible study, no social outings. I can't remember the last time this happened (and no, Japan does not count, because they freak out when your nose drips.) I seriously think I was probably 8 years old. Although I'll enjoy the mandatory rest, I certainly hope my immune system kicks it up a notch, or we're going to have a looooong. winter!

First, an update on my life....I took another job last week. Believe it or not, this is something (I think) I am excited for. I'll start working at Sylvan Learning Center, an after-school tutoring program, next week. I'm a little nervous, but more excited than anything. The hours are from 4-8 PM Monday through Thursday (I won't be working all of those, but it's nice to know that I can't work anything outside of those hours, because that means a very nice weekend!). They want to train me in their writing, study skills, beginning reading, and lower-level math programs. I'm seriously pumped about this. Though the atmosphere was less than energetic when I went in for an interview (quiet as a church might be more accurate), the "vision" behind the place seems really in line with what I've come to believe about education. The focus is really on increasing the kids' self esteem, focusing more on their effort than on grades. I think the Japanese education system totally put a seed of that type of thinking in me. As much as I fought it at first, the longer I was there, I think the more it shaped my views of how a child should learn. Anyway, I'll let you all know how it goes...maybe after I settle in since I tend to hate things for at least a month after I start them : ). On another note, I was thinking about something that struck me last night. My dad and I went on our first Daddy-Daughter Date since Christmas last night. It was a lot of fun - Olive Garden food (yum, yum, yum), a glass of wine, smoothies back at home, and then a movie. I generally watch more films than my dad (if this wasn't the case, I'd be worried ; ), so I wanted to pick something he'd enjoy, even if I'd already seen it. I got into my video collection and pulled out two that he hadn't seen yet: I am Sam and Hotel Rwanda. As we were debating over which film to watch, I was surprised by the internal struggle that actually began in me over those choices. Here we had two great movies: A film about keeping your child-like view of the world - unhindered love and compassion for people, even in the face of adversity and hardship. On the other hand: A call to international awareness and action, highlighting the attrocities that happen in our world because of people's lack of it. I was torn. On the one hand, I just wanted to watch a feel-good movie. Something that made me want to love people more. On the other hand, I, seriously, felt guilty for not wanting to watch a film that showed so graphically the sufferings of others. So I ask: Which is better? To keep your child-like view of the world, openly loving and trusting others, or to view it more realistically (perhaps), constantly updating oneself on the hardships that others face in order to offer a measure of help to someone somewhere? Seriously, I ask myself: How should we live? I find myself, after almost three months of working so closely with small, light-hearted children (some children, due to their circumstances have not the chance to be so lighthearted), desiring to become more like these kids. P.J. trusts almost anybody. He willingly offers himself to people, desiring simply to make them smile. He showers me with affection: kisses, hugs, "I love you's" and "I'm so happy you're here's". I want to approach the world like that. But, on the other hand, I can't ignore what I've seen and known, either, having traveled where I have and seen pain and suffering like Americans rarely know. I was struck by a video that I saw on my favorite artist, Sara Groves' website. I don't know how to put videos on here, but here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSdP6PqsbJY And so I ask...where is the balance? Where is the link? Is there such a thing as a child-like call to action? Can one smile like a child in the face of suffering - someone else's suffering? The Word says that Jesus was a "Man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief." Do you think he still smiled a lot? Like a child? P.S. In the end we went with I am Sam...

A few "P.J.-isms" for the books I'm sure there's much more where these came from, but here's a couple things that have come out of "my" 3 1/2-year-old's mouth since I started watching him: After seeing his little sister's messy diaper: "She made pumpkin pie poo!" After tasting grandma's cranberry juice, while smacking his lips: "It tastes FIESTY!" Coming up to me COVERED in sidewalk chalk: "Do I look pretty?!?!" P.J. has an obsession with garage doors. Every time mom or dad leaves, he wants to open and close the garage door for them (which requires a lot of lifting on my part...I'm starting to look like a body builder!) Anyway, he thinks garage doors are just the greatest thing that anybody could have ever come up with...even God. Here's a conversation he had with his mom. P.J.: "Where does God live?" Cynthia: "In heaven." P.J.: "Does He have a big house?" Cynthia: "Yes, he does." P.J.: "Does He have a big garage?!?!" Cynthia: "I bet he does." P.J.: "Does he have LOTS of garages?!?!" Cynthia: "Yes, he does. And if you believe in him, and you live a good life, then one day you can have your own garage door in heaven." P.J.: "That would be GREAT!" (I told her later it was the gospel message in its simplest form : ) P.J.'s version of the biblical exodus: "Moses said, 'Let my people go NOW so they can go bye bye!" And, the most recent: yesterday, after I heard his mom instruct him to "go tell Holly 'Good morning.'" (bounding around the corner): "Holly, I've been silly today because I've been putting my toothpaste in my underwear!" From the mouths of babes....or toddlers, anyway : )...and yes, he had been putting his toothpaste in his underwear...he showed me later... >: I

Making Brownies with P.J. There's nothing quite as exciting in a 3 1/2-year-old's life as snack time, and nothing even comes close when brownies are involved - especially brownies with sprinkles. A few days ago Cynthia suggested we make a box of brownies as a "going away gift" for the girl who had previously watched the kids. Apparently P.J. is an expert brownie batter stirrer (and an even better brownie batter taster, as I soon found out). I dumped the mix in, added the water, oil, and two eggs, and after 50 or so revolutions of the spoon (maybe a few more if you count P.J.'s : ), poured the batter into one of those new blue flexible pans (which are amazing, by the way), and began the sprinkle decoration process. P.J. had a hard time getting more than about 3 out of the small plastic package, so I poured some into his little hand and told him to make sure he spread them out and didn't dump them all in one place. After the sprinkles were dispersed and an official "all done" was proclaimed, the brownies headed off to the oven for their 30 minutes before they reached perfection. I slid them in and hit "start," explaining to P.J. that it would be a half hour before they would be done baking. "OK," he responded, apparently preparing himself and feeling quite confident in his ability to wait patiently. Nevertheless, 10 seconds after I shut the oven, P.J. pulled at my shirt sleeve eagerly, "Are dey done yet?!" he implored. "Not yet, P.J.," I responded. "They still have 29 1/2 minutes." "OK," he replied, seemingly content with my answer and ready, again, to resume his adventure of waiting. 30 seconds passed. "Now are da brownies done?" "No, P.J.," I answered again. This time I had an idea. "Why don't we go play with your trains while we wait?" "But how will we know when dey'wer done?" he asked, looking quite concerned. "The timer will tell us. Don't worry. We'll hear it when they're done." "OK." So off we went to play with Thomas and Trevor and imagine all kids of adventures for little tank engines to find themselves in. Before we knew it, the buzzer went off. "Guess what, P.J.?" "What?" "The buzzer went off. The brownies are done." He looked at me with and a little grin and replied, "You get 'em. I want to keep playin' wif my twains." "OK, I'll get them," I assured him. We'll eat them later when they cool off, OK?" "OK." So back he went to his boxcars and cabooses, eager appetite for the sprinkled chocolate goodness temporarily appeased by the world of toy locomotives. As much as time like this with my new playmate make me smile, as much as I hate to admit it, I think most of the time my patience level is a lot like P.J.'s. When I hear God telling me to wait for something, I often take a deep breath and sit back with a confident "I-can-do-it" "OK, God," only to jump up 3 seconds later with an eager, "OK, am I done waiting yet?!?!" I was talking with my cousin Jenny this weekend about just such things in life, and she was comforting as she related with me in my struggles with patience and waiting when God asks it of us. Before I left, she shared a song with me that I now have taped to my bedroom mirror: "While I'm waiting" by John Waller I'm waiting I'm waiting on You, Lord And I'm hopeful I'm waiting on You, Lord Though it is painful But patiently, I will wait. I will move ahead, bold and confident Taking every step in obedience. While I'm waiting...I will serve You While I'm waiting...I will worship While I'm waiting...I will not faint I'll be running the race...Even while I wait. I'm waiting I'm waiting on You, Lord And I am peaceful I'm waiting on You, Lord Though it's not easy But faithfully, I will wait Yes, I will wait. I may not have toy locomotives to distract me in the process, but I pray that God transfixes me with His presence. Makes me sit quietly beside him in perfect contentment. Fills my aching, ravenous desire for purpose. While I wait I want to serve, worship, and be satisfied. More than anything, I want to be satisfied. And He is the only One who can accomplish this in me...so I will wait...until I don't even notice the buzzer : )

A Vulture and a Child: Becoming a Window

I had an interesting 9th grade class today. Very interesting. For the past few lessons, we have been talking about a "Foster Program in Nepal." It's a made-up scenario in the book in order to teach a grammar point, but since the English teacher I work with is very good at bringing real-life scenarios into the classroom, I got to share about the foster child that I adopted from Uganda and about some of my experiences in Africa. (I don't think she had any idea how close this all is to my heart.) During class today, she passed pictures out for the students, and they had to describe them to their friends. The picture above is one of the pictures that was passed out. The picture was taken in 1993 by Kevin Carter, a South African photographer, in the Southern Sudan. He won a Pulitzer Prize for it in 1994, and shortly after, due to depression, he committed suicide.

I had a hard time with the activity at first. The students in Japan are extremely sheltered. (Not that I'm not, I know). But, as they looked at the pictures, they were giggling and laughing, trying to find the English words for them. Afterward, however, just before class finished, my head teacher asked me to share about my experiences in Africa and "what they need." I shared a little about Mozambique and how I saw so many poor people. All I could explain in simple English was that many people are hungry, don't have enough clothes, and are badly injured. What I wanted to share was that I saw children starving, a girl with one mud-formed doll as her toy, babies barely clothed, city leaders with mangled limbs and down-trodden spirits, mothers dying of AIDS, and with little hope. And how on earth could I answer the question, "What do they need?" How does a 13-year-old, in an esoteric nation, one of the wealthiest nations of the world, understand the poverty and devastation of a war-torn nation, a child without basic necessities. They need food. They need clothes. They need medicine. And, overall, just as all people in all parts of the world, they need hope. Hope that there is a God who loves them. Hope for another day. Hope that there is an end to the pain. Hope that all is not loss.

And what part do I play in this giving of hope? This I am working through. I want to fix it all. But, just as it did with Kevin Carter, I fear it would consume me. I cannot carry the burden by myself, but lift it to Christ, and follow His path for sharing hope with the world. Today I was a window. Simply a window. I pray that some of the students that heard today would dare to look through and begin to understand the need. The need for hope. Their own need for hope. And to seek it out for all they're worth, only to be satisfied in the Hope of the World. Jesus Christ, who is their (our) Advocate, Defender, Man of Sorrows, Friend, Living Water, Bread of Life...Deliverer. May we never forget to pray for our brothers and sisters in Sudan, Mozambique, Japan, all over the world, and do what we can to give hope.

One way to pray: Mr. Tajima, a friend and pastor of a church in Koriyama, is losing eyesight in one of his eyes. He is somewhat of a scholar, and invaluable to the Christian body in Koriyama. To lose his eyesight would be an extremely difficult thing. He will have a very risky surgery on July 17th to try to take care of the problem. Please pray for his complete recovery, and peace for his family. Also, his daughter was just married one month ago (I attended the wedding), and her husband was in a car accident shortly after. He is off of work now, and struggling with severe pain in his neck and shoulders. Please pray for Shigeru and the family as a whole. They are strong followers of Christ, and faithful witnesses in a dry and weary land. Please remember them in your prayers.

Going Crazy Adriane and I just finished watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I must agree with the guys who decided on its 8 Academy Awards, I was impressed. It's interesting to realize how an environment can affect you, or how people in an environment can perceive you, especially when it is isolated and/or esoteric. I was talking with Adriane with how sometimes we feel like this in our specific situations in Japan. Not that I'm comparing Japan to a mental institution, mind you, but the way we perceive our situations here. This week has been pretty crazy. 9 hours on Monday, 12 hours on Tuesday 9 hours today, 12 tomorrow, Saturday morning tutoring...the list goes on. And that doesn't include the evening planning that goes into these lessons. Anyway, I don't say this to complain, but to give the background for how easy it is to forget that a whole other world exists outside of this place. I feel like those at home and residing in other parts of the world right now are like ghosts, or, as is much joked about, "phantoms." Do these people really exist? Am I making them up in my head? Will I go back to America to something I don't really know? Believe it or not, these kinds of things plague my dreams at night. It doesn't help that since being in Japan, my parents sold their house and moved to one that they built, my dad's parents sold their farm and moved to a condo, and my grandmother died, which required that my family sell my mom's parents' double, which they just did last Friday. Every time I think of "home" I have to evaluate whether or not what I'm imagining actually exists. The three places in which I grew up are now gone. How will I pick up life when I get back? Who will remain my friend? Who will not? There is much to be seen, and I know I can't figure it out by imagining it. It will just be. Eventually, time will tell, and it will all just be.

An "Oops" or Two... Chalk this one up as one more thing I shouldn't've done while here... So, I don't know if you've ever noticed, but it seems that American dollars have more substance to them than just paper--like there may be some type of fabric-like fibers in them. This allows, or makes up for, at least, the stupidity of some Americans when they fold up money, stuff it in their pockets, and forget about it on laundry day. The bills generally come through the wash relatively unscathed. Well...Japanese money (yen) isn't quite so sturdy. Although the bills are prettier and more colorful (since being here, I've often wondered why on earth all our money is just plain green...), yen doesn't seem to possess any fabric-like fibers. How do I know this? Well, funny you should ask. I went to the beach on Saturday. In order to try to get some sun on my shoulders (which, by the way, I WAY oversucceeded in doing), I decided to put my bookbag down before Patty and I walked the beach. Although Japanese society allows for a lot more trust with leaving possessions lying around, I still didn't feel comfortable leaving the Y47,000 that I had grabbed that morning lying there for anyone to just pick up. (This is the equivalent of about $400--since everyone here operates in cash, I always make sure to have a decent amount with me when I travel anywhere). So, anyway, I pulled my wallet out of my bag, but it didn't fit into my pocket, so I decided to just fold my money up and slide it into the front pocket of my capris. No problem. My pockets were deep. No loss of money happened that day on the beach. The issue, however, came the following day. Sunday is laundry day at the Holly Keiper household. Guess who forgot about the yen in her pocket? Yeah, that would be me. I think I need my own "yen line" instead of a "clothes line" to refurbish my poor bills. You know what paper looks like when you soak it and let it dry? Yeah...an iron might be in order...I think I still operate like this stuff is Monopoly money or something. Maybe because it's not all green. Another "oops" I bore witness to, or maybe bore witness to the preceedings of, on Sunday occurred in Koriyama Station. I was stepping out of the women's restroom when I almost tripped over a little tyke scrambling through the door. I was a bit confused why he was in there by himself until I realized what he was doing--one hand in front, one hand in back, holding it in for all he was worth, waddling back and forth, I heard him plea, "Unchi!! Unchi!!" (Poop! Poop!) Poor kid! I asked him where his mom was, and he replied, "Just out there," pointing to the door. I wanted to help the little guy, but I figured his mom would entirely freak out if she walked in and saw a foreigner helping her kid use the restroom, so I wished the dude well and, compassionately snickering (if there is such a thing), returned to my waiting friends. On my way out, though, I noticed that his mom was not "just out there." I sincerely hope she found him before an "oops" happened with the "unchi"!!!

Fighting for Meaning Ok, I need some venting time. Not because I’m not grateful for what God’s doing in my life, but just because I’m at a period of transition again. To be honest, I love my kids, I love the atmosphere of my schools, I love that I can understand a lot of Japanese, but…well, I’m back to being really bored and finding little meaning in what I do. I mean, seriously, my job, when I’m not teaching or planning by myself, anyway, is not very hard. When I first came here, I found ways to make it meaningful, like by watching people, learning the culture, reading books about Japan, studying Japanese, etc. But now, well, I have two months (actually, less) left at school, and those things just seem to be kind-of a waste of time. Coming to school seems like a waste of time—especially when I have TWO THOUSAND things I could be doing outside of school that hold a lot more importance in my heart and really, really need to get done (for example, talking to people back home, preparing for our upcoming Easter program, cleaning, writing applications, working on other grad school stuff, the list goes on…) Not that the relationships at school are unimportant, but I find it ironic that today the most meaningful part of my time at school was helping my head teacher pick out a wedding dress from a catalogue. I’m not kidding. That is my wonder for the day: helping Tamaki sensei decide on a wedding dress (which was really fun). The rest of my day consisted of spending two hours dragging out making a worksheet to put verbs into past-tense and having kids repeat things like “You are happy. You look happy. You are sad. You look sad,” after me for an hour. The rest of my day? Staring off into space, thinking about whatever decided to pop into my head. Not rocket science. I need a new job. Maybe I’ll start studying Japanese again. Actually, maybe that’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll start studying Japanese again…it would keep me from dwelling on ambiguous things that make me want to go insane. Ambiguous things are not good to dwell on…EVER. Japanese is nice and concrete. So much so that it makes their system of studying English way too much like math. But…even math even sounds stimulating right now. So…Friday, I think I’ll bring my Japanese textbook. Jyaa...to not going insane: gambarimasu!

The Equipment to Serve So…spaz week is over, thank the Lord—and I think my teammates and all those in any kind of contact with me in the last 7 days would say the same thing, too. I think I’m finally caught up on everything, and I can focus on things that are important, like the Easter program. We’re having a meeting tonight to plan out the motions for a skit we’re doing. Of course, the two men in the group will be God the Father and Jesus. We have to use Trish as the Holy Spirit. I think God will forgive us if there’s any kind of gender/theological incorrectness there. J But, I’ve been processing a lot about direction in our lives from Christ. I’m reading a book called Experiencing God right now, and, although I think this guy has a lot of good things to say, I question how “always true” it is…as I do with most things in life, I guess. He seems to be saying (granted, I’m only 1/3 of the way through the book, so…) that when God calls you to something, He doesn’t base it on your gifts, but He gives you what you need to finish the assignment. I get this. It goes back to the expression, “God doesn’t call the equipped; He equips the called.” But, this guy used the example of the tabernacle—God gave the instructions for the tabernacle, and then told the Israelites to build it. The Israelites, in his illustration, didn’t come up with this idea of what they were going to do for God, God gave them the assignment and then told them how to do it. So, this guy’s saying (from what I can tell) that God never tells you to search out your gifts and then figure out what you should do for Him, it’s always the other way around. However, going back to the tabernacle example, God, yes, gave the assignment to build the tabernacle, but then skilled craftsmen got the job done. I mean, this place was awesome. Crazy architecture, crazy detailing, crazy amounts of gold, crazy tapestries and fabric work. Basically, it required people who were really good at what they did. So, God didn’t say, “Ok, take Joe Shmoe and tell him to make the curtain.” Joe Shmoe, who was really good at working with fabric, was commissioned for the job because that was his skill. So…I guess what I’m thinking here is that it’s not one way or the other. God uses both ways. He calls people who have a specific skill (for example, I wouldn’t want some random guy on the street performing surgery on me just because I had the need and he felt the call from the Lord…although, I’m sure God could work that way if He wanted to…), and He also equips people whom He calls (for example, I wouldn’t be here if this weren’t the case). So, basically, yes, we should always look for ways that God is working and join Him in that, not just asking Him to bless our own plans, but we shouldn’t ignore the path he’s led us on, either, or the skills that He’s given us to use. He’s given us talents for a reason. Basically, we can’t limit God to one way of working. Why the heck do we try to do this??? Any thoughts, oh faithful readers, would be welcomed and appreciated… P.S. Wonder of the day: Hiroaki, my wonderful, graduated buddy, came back and visited the school today. I was so excited to see him that I think I freaked him out a little bit J. He looks so grown up. It’s been great to see him go from meek, timid 8th grader to confident, leading 10th grader. And, I have to say, he’s turning into quite the little hottie, too! J

Saying Goodbye to Grandma I just came back from my grandma's house about an hour ago with my brother Chris, and he just left to go back to Toledo. It's the first time I've been alone this week (truly) and maybe even the first time I've ever been alone in this house. Being an introvert, I have been craving time alone to process, but now that it's finally here, I have to admit, I haven't felt this alone for a very, very long time. Today was really hard. Harder than I ever expected, I must say. The last couple days, seeing my grandma lying there, part of me just expected her to wake up. To me, I don't know if it's because I didn't see her sick, but she just seemed like she was sleeping. I kept, unconsciously, wanting to go up to her and hug her. I kept wanting her to grab my wrists, like she always did, and tell me how much she loved me. Every time I've been home, beyond my parents and brothers, she's been number one on my priority list of people to spend time with. And, honestly, I miss her. I really, really miss her. Like I said, I didn't expect this to be this hard, but it is. It hurts so bad. When they closed the casket today after her funeral, I just wanted to yell, "Not yet! I'm not ready!" I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. I'm not ready for that part of my life to end. I never wanted it to end. But end it must. Just like all in life. The pain will lessen. Time will heal. But right now it hurts a lot. A poem I have often thought of this week, made significant by special time spent with my dear friend Adriane: John Donne: Death Be not Proud Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Day #107 Wonder of the day: My absolutely, positively AMAZING time with Hiromi this morning/afternoon. I have missed this girl a lot while she was in the states for 4 months. It's amazing how we come from such different places and can be going through such similar things mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I truly value her friendship, and I'm so thankful that God allowed us to meet each other when he did. She's been a great encouragement, challenger, and...well...let's just be honest....shopping buddy ; ). Thanks, 'Romi! Thanks, God.

Living in Two Worlds Ok, can I just be frank for a few minutes here? Living in between two worlds just plain SUCKS sometimes. I have found myself, at various points throughout the day today, INTENSELY desiring to be home (in my parents' new house, which is actually a new thing for me...) and also INTENSELY desiring to never leave this place (particularly when, during lunch break, my new 7th grade girls spent quality time giggling with me and actually trying to CONNECT with me). It sucks. It just seems like whenever I finally start to get really connected with a place, actually start to engage with people in friendships, I LEAVE. I've been called a "gypsie heart" or a "wild heart" before (I think the term I'd use for myself would be "nomad"), but sometimes I just get so tired of it. I am so grateful for all of the experiences I've had, and God has used them to mold and shape me in ways that I'm not sure I could have been molded and shaped if I had stayed in the same place. But sometimes I just want to have a person beside me that can say, "remember when we did this and that together?" and have it be more than 2 years ago. Granted, I do have friends that have been there longer than two years, but they are few, and they're not in my life right now. I will probably never be able to look at somebody and have them understand where I'm coming from. Ever. That sucks. I just want to belong. I belong in this team. It's the first real feeling of belonging that I've had since, probably, junior high, and how much do you EVER really feel like you belong in junior high? Roamer. Will I ever be able to have real roots? I look at some of the cherry trees here, and they're so old and established, their roots travel far beyond the reaches of the branches. In fact, one that I may see tonight is like 1,200 years old. So established. Amazing. Will I ever be a tree, or just a potted plant that gets transported here and there? And how much do I REALLY desire to be planted? I don't know. It's a scary thing, but I think I want it. I don't know. Whatever God wants. He is my dwelling place. He goes with me wherever. I just sometimes wish there was somebody else who did, too. Wonder of the day (#108): God is our dwelling place. And amazing 7th grade girls who can absolutely fill my need for love and acceptance simply by sorting through my stickers.

So...two more bits of wonder: Day 110 and 109: Watching my 7th graders learn the sounds of the letters. Pure fun. Pure exhaustion, too. I taught 6 classes today, playing the class jester in all of them. Whew. Bed time : ).

In Light of Tragedy I was greatly saddened this morning when I went to check my email and the news of what happened in Virginia was what flashed across my screen. I won't try to describe what I think people might be going through right now. I have no idea, except that it must be horrible. Having gone to Hiroshima and visited the peace memorial there, tragedy is something that I've been reflecting on recently, and talking/praying about with my friend Tammy. I was telling her about this CD by Steve Green that I feel reflects the light of God amidst horrid tragedies, and just happened to pull it out this past weekend. Rather than try to paraphrase, here are a few lyrics that I feel speak hope in a way that captures pain and sorrow, while still acknowledging God's love and grace--maybe somewhat similar to the book of Job. He questioned God over and over and God's only answer to Job was to meet him where he was. I don't claim to understand it. I don't try to force it on anyone who may be questioning, grieving, hurting, I just pray that the God of hope might us in our darkest hour. Just meet us. Sorrow Mixed with Light How beautiful and frail Are all the days we share How fragile is this breath of life Like mist on the field Will vanish in the wind All we’ve come to know Fades before our eyes And what tomorrow brings Who of us can say Beyond this sorrow mixed with light For somewhere in between The beauty and the tears This is where we live our lives My eyes look to You, You’re the hope of my days My eyes look to You as I cry out Your name And I wait for all things to be remade Not every earthly tear That falls is wiped away For some are like refining fire That turn my heart to You, my one desire In Brokenness You Shine When life becomes a shattered dream That’s slipping through my trembling hands I need to know that You are near To know You see each falling tear When there is no one else who understands When I can’t find the words to speak You hear the pain in each heart beat Before I even call to You In my deepest hour of need That’s when You come and pour Your mercy on me Your beauty shines Your love surrounds Where cries of brokenness are found bring hope alive Help me believe And trust You one more time In brokenness You shine In brokenness You shine Let comfort be a living thing A river flowing from my grief Where thirsty souls can drink their fill And find You their heart’s release And through my sorrow show Your freedom and hope How could I know when others said A word or two then walked away That You, the Man of Sorrows Would come near to stay You’ll always stay I want to see Your beauty one more time In brokenness you shine In brokenness you shine When the Morning Comes Here, in this fallen world there’s pain Tears and sorrow come to all the same Wounds of every kind Difficult the times and bitter the taste And yet in my barren hour Send down heaven’s shower The mystery of joy When the morning comes I will see you smile When the morning comes Though my tears may last a while You raise me up To wait for the hope of the dawn When the morning comes In my distress You call to me To come and hold Your hand when I can’t see That even in my loss The comfort of Your cross brings hope to me And the darkness of the night Magnifies the light The mystery of joy When the winds of trouble blow I run to hide in You So thank You for the storms that keep faith alive I will see you smile When the morning comes though my tears may last a while You raise me up To wait for the hope of the dawn And bathe in the warmth of the sun When the morning comes Wonder—Day #111: The mystery of joy

Day #112: The mist that covers the mountain top, making it seem enchanted, dangerous, serene, and mysteriously inviting.

5-piece Wonder Nuggets and a Scavenger Hunt Day #117’s Wonder (Yes, I’m starting to count down, but don’t worry, not to wish it away, but rather for the opposite reason): The people I work with at Segawa Jr. High. They’re actually starting to see my sense of humor, which is amazing, because I think I’ve hidden it for so long (it’s slightly “not Japanese J). Day #116’s Wonder: The people I work with at Funehiki Jr. High School. Specifically Mr. Onishi. He is such a stinking ham!!! Subtle sarcasm drips from almost every word that escapes from his mouth, and 99% of Japanese people don’t even GET sarcasm. I love it! Day #115’s Wonder: An email I got late last night from my aunt and uncle that’s still having an impact on me. I think I physically felt a burden lift off of me as I was reading it. It was a different version of I Corinthians 13, written in more modern language and slightly interpreted. I needed to “hear” it. Bad. Day #114: The feel of warm, fine, mushy sand under your feet. The ocean in general. The smell of salty air. The delicate beauty of a shell. I could go on...I love the beach, can you tell? Day #113: The fact that the God who CREATED light, spoke it into existence, even, also says "Let there be light" to our hearts. How incredibly amazing! God's light can shine in our hearts. Wow. And…I got this really random analogy in my head yesterday about my life. I said before that I feel like some people get a map of their lives, and I get bread crumbs. That’s probably a bit extreme, but I think there may be some truth to it. It seems that some people know where they’re headed—a goal, if you will. For example, going to med school to be a doctor. Becoming a counselor. Getting out of debt to become a missionary. Many people stay on this path and have the goal as a guide to keep them in line with what they believe God is calling them to. They may not know how the path will play out, but they can see where they’re headed. Like, for example, Frodo in Lord of the Rings. He knows he needs to get to Mordor to destroy the ring, but he has no idea what will lie in his way. But he has a mission. I, on the other hand, seem to be a bit different. I think for me it’s more like a scavenger hunt—if that’s the correct term. The kind of thing where you’re told you’re going on a journey, you don’t know where you’re going, but you have this clue to get to the next “station.” At that next station, you get another clue, and maybe a tool to be used along the way, or maybe even at your “goal,” but you may have no idea what the tool is going to be used for, or even what it is. But you pick up the clue and the tool at the 1st station, which leads you to the 2nd station and another clue, another tool, etc. This, my friends, is my life. Sounds a lot more purposeful than bread crumbs. God keeps giving me clues, moving me forward, providing me tools, and I keep trying to figure out what the “end” will be. I have no idea what the “end” will be. I analyze the tools, analyze the clues to try to see what the heck he’s doing with all this, but it usually only results in anxiety and worry that I’m “not going to get it.” I really need to take one clue at a time, gather the tools, and trust that I will know what they’re for and how to use them when the time comes. So…life is not a highway, at least for me. It’s a scavenger hunt. And by the way…I may have found another clue….I really want to teach. Why not get my teaching degree? I keep trying to skip this step and combine it with a master’s degree, but maybe I need the teaching degree to open doors?....Interesting. We’ll see where this clue leads….

Left Behind...well, almost Do you recall, as an elementary or junior high school student, being warned by your mother, “If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to miss the bus!” You despised those threats, those nags, but nonetheless, you benefited from them. If you actually heeded the warning, you probably made the bus, and though you were annoyed with your mother, somewhere deep inside you were thankful for her threatening words to “put a fire under it.” Usually when it snows, I receive similar warnings from my boss. (Let me remind you here, I’m 24 years old). I will be just getting out of the shower, very aware that the buses will be leaving early, when I receive a call, interrupting my actual getting ready, to tell me that “The buses will be leaving early this morning because of the snow.” Usually, in fact, I receive multiple calls of this type, because one person doesn’t communicate with another and I get warned 2 or even 3 times, each time making me stop doing my hair or eating breakfast or any other activity I’m in the midst of in order to actually get out the door on time. So, needless to say, these calls annoy me. I think, “I can see the snow outside. The buses always leave early when it snows.” Well, this morning, as I was throwing on my 8 layers, with about 5 minutes left before the buses normally leave, I opened my curtain and noticed a light dusting of snow on the rooftop beside me. “Hmmm,” thought I. “It’s not bad, though, and nobody called, so I guess the buses will leave at the normal time.” I proceeded to dry my hair…la la la…but when I turned the hair dryer off, I heard the sounds of engines running outside…and pulling away… “That can’t be the buses,” I pondered, slightly worried. “I still have five minutes.” But, just to be safe, I glanced outside anyway. Yep. You guessed it. It was the buses. I grabbed my computer, an instant cup of soup and a yogurt (lunch) and was out the door in about 15 seconds. But not before my bus pulled away. So, yes, I went chasing after it. Unfortunately the driver didn’t realize I was engaging in this activity until my boss, 4-foot tall 70ish-year old head honcho, directing traffic, saw me streaking across the driveway and into the street. With one wave of his powerful, fuzzy leather-clad hand, the bus halted and he ushered me, like a little kindergartener, onto the bus (now stopped, sideways, in the middle of the street). Everyone was bowing profusely and apologetic and trying to make it all better by making as much of a fuss as possible. They tried. But they couldn’t erase the memories replaying in my mind of similar situations back in fifth grade. Unfortunately, back then I didn’t have any 4-foot man with powerful fuzzy leather-clad hands to come to my aid…

A Farewell Beyond Words I’ve thought about a lot of ways to take what happened yesterday, throw it in a blender for a few minutes, and then pour it out and shape it in such a way that the events and feelings might come off as humorous, to make it seem that I was/am detached from them. But I decided not to. Because truth is, I am feeling pretty melancholy over it all. As irrational as it may seem, and as much as I can’t really understand it, I am really pretty sad that Segawa’s 3 nen sei class, as of 1:00 yesterday afternoon, is now gone. The frustrating part is, it’s so hard to explain why. I feel like somehow they were my spirit’s most poignant link to this place. Less academic than most classes, many of them wore their hearts on their sleeves—whether consciously or unconsciously—which allowed me to know them on a level that I don’t think anyone probably realized I did. I think that’s why it’s so hard to explain why I am sad. Did I ever have a truly deep conversation with many of these kids? No. Did I ever help them out with any emotional struggles they were going through? No. Did I ever tell them the secrets of my heart? No. Not really. But in a sense, I could probably answer “yes” to all of those questions. Though I never had a deep conversation with many of them, I could hear some of their hearts—like Ryo’s—when they refused to participate in class. When their eyes lit up when I told them they did something well. When I observed the wonder on their faces while they watched “E.T.” or listened to “Green Eggs and Ham.” I never helped them through any emotional struggles in person, but as I’ve seen their needs, like Kazuma’s directionless, empty gaze when his mother left, I’ve asked God to be there. I haven’t known much of what they’ve gone through, but where I’ve seen pain and joy, I’ve tried to do my best to enter in and implore the one who understands better than anyone to be near and somehow speak to them. I’ve never told them the secrets of my heart, but, really, in order to know, all they had to do was look at me. Just being here is one of the biggest dreams I’ve ever had. They’ve lived the secret with me. But will any of them understand this? Did anyone feel as impacted as I did? I doubt it. In fact, I don’t think any of the other teachers, and probably not really the students, understood why I was emotional yesterday. Why I teared up when Hiroaki assured the teachers “We won’t forget you,” knowing how much I will treasure the unique memory of him. Why I was so touched that Kazuma wept during the parting song, realizing that at times, the school was probably his family. Why, when Aoi, the last in the goodbye line-up, didn’t let go of my hand, I shed new tears, remembering her bold self-introduction a year and half ago, long before most of the students would even look at me. And so, at some level, if not as deeply as other teachers, I grieve. I don’t claim to have the same profound ache that others may experience, but I testify that this spirit of melancholy, too, is real. San nen sei, sayonara. Honto ni wasuremasen. Deai wa takara deshita. (9th grade class, farewell. Sincerely, I will not forget. Our encounter was a treasure.)

I taught my last 9th grade class today by myself (I hope), and I only have one more class with them at all…sad day. So today I thought we could do something fun. I gave a few words about Easter and then described how we dye Easter eggs, showing real examples that I spent, oh, at least an hour, preparing last night. Then I handed out green-sprinkle-decorated egg-shaped cookies for a snack. To me, this sounded like it would be fun. I guess I was wrong. They were bored out of their minds. And then I wanted them to describe, on a worksheet it took a good 45 minutes to make (I don’t even want to think about how long the cookies took to make…) how to make a Japanese food. The problem is, all the materials have been cleared out of their classroom. Including dictionaries. Urgh. So, Hiroaki, my dear friend, offered to help me retrieve some from the library. By this time, any class momentum that I had going totally fizzled out, and I got a bunch of half-hearted responses by the time I got dictionaries into their hands. However, some of them, half-hearted or not, are rather humorous. And so, in order to redeem at least some part of today’s insanely prepared-for class, I give you some of my 9th graders’ versions of how to make various Japanese foods: Dashimaki Egg By Sagiri Okawara Ingredients: Egg Konbu (sea weed) First, hot water in konbu make soup stok. Second, mix egg. Third, mixtuce konbu water and egg. Fourth mixtuce is fry. Riceball (Onigiri) By Yuka Okawara Ingredients: Rice Nori (sheets of dried seaweed) Salt Ume (pickled mini plums) First, make rice! Second, ume in the rice. Third, rice is grip. Fourth, salt is pour. Fifth, on the nori. Miso Soup By Ai Sato Ingredients: Water Miso Wakame (seaweed leaves) Welsh (long onion) First…….boil the water……. Second, make soup stock. Third, into the wakame. Fourth, into the miso. Fifth, into the a welsh. Sushi By Hiroyuki Honda Ingredients: Rice Tuna Steam lobster Vinegar Other food First, rice and vinegar mix—sumeshi. Second, sumeshi a grip other food. Maybe I’ll try some of these sometime…I just don’t know where to find “other food.” Any suggestions?J And in other news…you know you work at a country hick school-in-the-bondocks when…in the middle of group cleaning time, a stray cow runs out onto the baseball field, and the principle, vice principle, social studies teacher, secretary, and one of the 9th grade students—armed with a broom—go chasing after it. Yeah. That’s all I have to say about that.

Would somebody PLEASE shut the cupboard doors? Lately there's been a lot going on. That's an understatement in every sense. Life's been insane. Not so much busy, but as my brother put it, when he has a lot of classes or tests, he feels like his brain's a kitchen and there are too many cupboard doors open at the same time. I feel this way, too. As a lot of you know, I've been teaching all of Tamaki sensei's classes in the last two weeks, and I got a surprise the last two days when I taught more classes for her when she wasn't there. So, I've taught a total of 14 of her classes by myself. Sounds like it's not so bad, but when the kids are used to a certain style of teaching (as in EXTREMELY structured), and used to everything being explain in Japanese, my teaching can throw them for a loop. It did yesterday when I tried to switch some kids around for work groups. All of the "smart" kids were in one group (put together by another teacher), so I asked one kid to switch with another kid so that the groups would be more even and they could help each other better. Bad move. He was really hurt, and looked at me quite crestfallen, and asked, "Sensei, why move?" That's not all that's going on, though. I'm also studying for the GRE, and since this whole shebang is going to cost about $300 (that's without the shopping afterward ; ), I want to do well so I don't have to take the stinking thing again. Which means a lot of studying. A LOT of studying. I will be glad when it's over. Saturday 4:00, come quickly--but not quickly while I'm actually taking the thing, cause then it would be even more stressful... On top of all this, my parents called on Saturday and said that my dad's work project got switched again. Date this time: May 1st. Pretty much this means that the trip they rescheduled from March/April to April/May is now out. After crying for 4 hours, Tammy and I had a brainstorm, and discovered that if he can (basically) beg his boss to let him re-switch it to March/April, my family could piggyback on Tammy's family's plans. "Just don't think about it," says my mother, "while we wait for an answer." You'd think she'd know me better than that. My brain (and, yes, sadly, usually worry) don't have an "off" button. I just want an answer. If you read this, please pray for the situation, I can't express how much I want them to come in March. It's been a very hard winter. And...this weekend, the 3rd person directly related to teachers in my school passed away--this time, my principle's father. Earlier this year, a teacher friend's father, and before that, an actual teacher (she had been out a couple months on sick leave). Besides the obvious reasons that this is not a desirable situation, this makes for a not-so-fun atmosphere at school. All of the teachers take turns going to the funeral, and I sorta get left behind. In such a family-oriented school, sometimes I kinda feel like the dog. Fun when you have time for me, but left behind usually, and doesn't understand everything that's going on. Thankfully, there are a few people who stop and pat my head every once in a while... So, yeah. Those are just some of the things. On a lighter note, though, today my 1 nen sei stinker, Ryo, was messing around, threw his shoe, and it went through a window. A closed window. Woops. I had a hard time stifling my giggles while the vice-principle was lecturing him this afternoon. Ah, I love that kid. Oari desu.

Identifying with Aliens Today we talked about E.T. in class. I'm starting to realize how much I have in common with this extraterrestrial. The book says that "E.T. wants to go home. But his home is far, far away." I won't get into other stuff about saying goodbye forever and such (that will come later...), but I do understand what it's like to be the town "freak" that everyone wants to do "tests" on. At least mine don't involve straight jackets or other people requiring radiation suits to interact with me. But sometimes I feel like it. In three classes today I was called "wild" for telling them that I had broken my weekend 12:00 curfew and was grounded for it as a high schooler. Even the "bad" kids were shocked at my "reckless" behavior. The head teacher brought everything back into perspective, though, when he reminded them (in Japanese, of course), "Remember, she's an American. She's a foreigner. She's different. Always remember she's a foreigner. He seriously said the word "foreigner" like 5 times. Needless to say, I have gained a new understanding of certain scripture from living here: Ephesians 2:11-14, 19: Remember that...you were separate from Christ, excluded from citizenship in Israel and foreigners to the covenants of the promise, without hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near through the blood of Christ. For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility...Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God's people and members of God's household. Very cool. Amen.

Adventures and Accidents in Attempts to Articulate English and Japanese are very different. This we have established. Some words that sound like nonsense hold very potent meaning in the other language (the F--- word is a good example of this). Here are some, he hem, "incidents" I've been a part of in the last few weeks and months. I was trying to remember how to say the days of the month (like 1st, 2nd, 3rd,) etc., and remembered that most of the words ended with "ka". I was with a high school friend, and she was enthusiastically trying to jog my memory and encourage me that "I could do it!" So I began...Tsuitachi (first), Futsuka, (second), Mikka, (third) Yokka (fourth), Itsuka (fifth)...here I stopped. "I can't remember," I told her. "Muika. Sixth is muika." "Ok," I resumed, "Muika...." Now here I paused again, but only shortly, for something in the back of my head told me that the next one should start with "s". Every other language I've ever heard has a "seventh" that starts with "s." Spanish, English, Portuguese, German...and on and on. Unfortunately, Japanese is an exception, as I quickly found out when I blurted out, logically following the previous word's pattern, "Suika!" Yeah. Wrong. Not seventh. Watermelon. It means watermelon. On Saturday, one of my friends and her sister came over to my apartment to watch a movie. After it was over, her sister asked me if she could, "Borrow the toilet." That one doesn't translate so literally from Japanese... Two words that are very important to know when you are teaching junior high kids English are, "opposite" (hantai in Japanese) and "pervert"--they're junior high kids, remember (hentai in Japanese). A couple weeks ago, some of my ninth grade boys were working on a review sheet that included a bunch of opposites. I leaned down to tell him that all he needed to look for was "the word's opposite." I'll give you one guess as to what I actually said. Another important word to know is the Japanese word "chin chin" or "chim chim" (the equivalent of the English word "weiner"--and I don't mean hot dog). Unfortunately, this sometimes slips our minds when we're sorta "in teacher mode" in an elementary school class. We often teach parts of the face...and often say them twice, in funny voices, so the kids can remember them. The part below the mouth usually excites a barrage of giggles... There are other problems with this one, too, we've noticed. Again, in elementary schools. We often teach fun songs or English stories. Particular ones to avoid: Mary Poppins' chimney sweep song ("Chim chiminy, chim chiminy, chim chim cher ree...) And ESPECIALLY The Three Little Pigs ("Little pig, little pig, let me in!" "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!") Hey, I didn't make the language OR the story. Today I was grading tests in the teachers' (group) office, and I took a break for snack time. I was tasting some interesting jelly-type things made from bean curds when a teacher came up to me and asked "Dou desu ka?" (How are they?) "Oishii desu yo!" (They're delicious!) I replied. I didn't realize she was talking about the tests. And last but not least, though this is more cultural than language-oriented, while Tammy, Jeni, and I were on our evening run, one of the town's 4 cops (I'm serious) drove by. When he saw us, he picked up his microphone and blared over the loud speaker--for the whole town to hear--"Faito, Faito! Gambare!" A rough translation..."Looks like you're pushing it! Keep it up! Kick some butt!"

Coming back to Japan was hard this time. Actually being here is hard, too. In my last two trips home, I really wanted to "experience" my home country again. I made schedules to see people, ate all the foods that I missed, went to the places I love, etc. But this time, we had two extra days--enough time to not just experience America, but to actually become an American again. I had a little bit of reverse culture shock in my first week--being surprised at how different people looked, saying "sumimasen" instead of "excuse me" when I bumped into someone, looking for a cash basket to put my money in when I bought coffee, and one big emotional explosion over direct vs. indirect communication and individual vs. community mentality, but by the end, I felt like (if I had a car, of course), I should be going back to work (in Mansfield) and living life as usual. My brother Nathan and I were acting like goofballs--hiding and scaring the other person when the other person came out of the bathroom (this effected a pillow being smothered into my face at one point = ), dancing like hunchbacks to some good old Louis Armstrong, making up words while playing boggle, and just generally laughing a lot. This is something I don't do much in my day-to-day life here (excepting with my teammates, of course), mainly because people are so serious. Thus, after Tammy and I finished catching up in the first two hours of the flight, for the rest of its duration, I was pretty serious and down. It only worsened when I reached the airport and I was assaulted with Japanese (ok, so the guy was just asking if I had anything to declare, but I couldn't understand him and it felt very much like an attack after not sleeping for 30ish hours). I couldn't even remember my phone number when I went to the place to ship my luggage. I couldn't remember how to ask to buy a train ticket to Koriyama, the crowdedness and pushiness of Tokyo station seemed foreign, and this morning when the 10:00 "alarm" went off, I was really confused. I guess the good part about all this is that it probably wouldn't take me long to get reacclimated in America. The bad part is that it wouldn't take long for the last two years of my life to feel like a dream. There are good parts about being back, of course, and those are mostly related to my team. Adriane came over this morning, and we processed together and shared our hearts--a beautiful thing, let me tell you. Then we had leftover Christmas cookies, kick-butt coffee, and heart-attack omelettes. Yum. Dear friends and God through them make even the hardest things in life bearable, ne? I'm thankful, as I've said many, many times before, for my team here. I missed them in America. It will be hard to leave them. One day while I was doing my devotions in the US, I turned to Psalm 62 (specifically in the New American Standard edition). It talks about how we can put hope in nothing and no one but God only. Something to remember no matter where we are in life. Nothing is for certain except God, and in him and his promises we always have hope. Good to know and trust in. And this part is for me (and maybe family and those I saw) mostly because others might find it boring, but here are some highlights from my trip...ok, probably a lot of highlights from my trip once I start writing, but anyway: Seeing my family--the good, the bad and the ugly (though it was mostly good ; ). We are a lot closer than we ever used to be, and genuinely dedicated to making things work as a unit and a support system. That was amazing to realize over the two weeks I was home. Catching up with friends--both super close and those I hadn't seen or talked to for quite a while. I realized that I have been blessed SO much in my life to have such genuine people to call friends. I also realized that these people came from many different periods in my life--from junior high, high school, Huntington, Africa, Ohio State, Youth For Christ, Bible studies, jobs, church, camp, Japan, and random events in between. God has been so good to bring such people into my life. Food. Aaaaah. Fatty, sugary, American food. Feeling like a woman. This may sound strange, but it was so nice to have doors opened for me, to be told I looked nice, to wear less than 6 layers, and other little and not so little things that I never, ever get here. Very refreshing = ). Seeing movies. I saw THREE movies in the theater. Yes! Seeing how much my family has grown. I mentioned this already, but I specifically noticed it in my brother, Chris. If he reads this he'll probably be ticked, but I was so blessed by him keeping a level head and being willing to be a "go-between" in some issues that we had. I've seen that we've all matured a lot in the last year and half (yes, my parents, too), which was really, really encouraging. God works in us even when we're apart. Going wedding dress shopping with Trish. So fun. Sleeping in and not feeling guilty about it. Hanging out with my mom and my almost-sister Stephanie. Just hanging out. Having the time to say, "hey, you want to go to lunch or catch a movie?" My last trips were so rushed and scheduled that this wasn't very possible. Going to church. I don't agree with everyone all the time that goes to my home church, but as someone else told me over break, it was nice to have people wrap their arms around you and genuinely make you feel like you're loved. Coffee. And lots of it. ; ) Quiet. Peace and quiet. No small children waking me up at 8:00 on a Saturday morning. No community alarms, no school buses outside, no politicians petitioning for your vote over a loud speaker, no torrential winds, no shrine gongs, no giggly junior high girls. Now some of this stuff I don't mind so much, and sometimes even love, but it was nice to have a 2-week respite. People genuinely concerned for how I am doing and who I am. Not being labeled for "being an American" or even "living in Japan", but being seen for me. Just me. Playing piano. I pulled out some of my old music and had fun letting my fingers remember what they used to do for 12 hours a week a few years ago. Sometimes I can't believe music was such a huge part of my life and now how much it really isn't... Driving. This wasn't all good. I got lost like 3,000 times, and 99 percent of the time I couldn't get my dad's car to start because of a spare key issue, but it was definitely memorable. And I think I finally figured out the roads near my parents' new house...after a lot of "scenic detours". The generally more relaxed pace of life. My neck actually got to the point of not hurting. It was amazing. A cell phone. Not having to separate trash into 7 different categories. Sure, this means that we're totally destroying the environment somewhere, but let's just be honest. It was nice. And so many more things that I'm sure I'll recollect over the next week or so. There were many difficult moments, mostly related to attachment and detachment, reverse culture shock, and the uncertain state of my future, but I'd rather not remember those, so I'll leave them out of this entry. It was a good trip home. A really good one. And I'll remember it for a long time.

The Case of the Mysterious Pink Lava I knew the night would be memorable. Little did I know… It was a dark and stormy night. Ok, not really. It was dark—nights usually are—but it wasn’t stormy. Just cold. Really cold. It had been cold all day, or week, for that matter, and every heater in the city was running at its full capacity. In the schools, especially. Japanese junior high schools don’t have the same heating systems that I’m used to—only specific rooms are heated, some more than others, and the hallways remain the same temperature as the outside air—therefore I am thankful for the heaters that we do have. Especially when I have to sit still for an hour or so—I always place myself as close to the heater as possible. Yesterday was no exception. When we had to give a speaking test to 30 7th graders, I chose the seat closest to the blazing furnace as I could. I noticed afterwards that I was a little itchy, but didn’t think much of it. During cleaning time after school, however, the itching seemed to intensify, and, thinking maybe my sequin-adorned scarf was irritating my neck, I removed it before helping a class broom and mop their classroom. That seemed to help lessen the tickly feeling, so I didn’t notice the tiny bumps until later in the evening, when I was getting ready for the long-anticipated concert. I had been looking forward to this event for about 4 months—an evening of shamisen, a traditional Japanese stringed instrument, played by the world-renown Yoshida brothers (They're even in our textbooks!). I wanted to look extra-special for the evening, so I traded in my snow-suit-resembling get-up for a more sophisticated look, and took extra time straightening my hair. As I was arranging my new satin headband, though (compliments of Lis), I noticed a few bumps on my hands and forearms. “That’s odd,” I thought. “Probably from the dry air. My skin doesn’t like this dry winter thing very much.” So, hoping for a quick solution, I lathered on some lotion before running out the door and hopping into Tamaki sensei’s toasty car. “Good evening. Sure is cold, isn’t it?” she remarked as she fidgeted with the heater and turned the nob all the way into the “red” section. “Sure is,” I replied. I sank into her cushion-covered passenger seat and soon we were absorbed in a conversation involving Japanese traditional music, boys, and anything else that happened to cross our minds on the 30-minute drive to Koriyama. But as the little pink car wound through the narrow, serpentine streets, I couldn’t help but notice that the warmer the air (and, therefore, I) got, the more the raised little dots on my wrists seemed to itch. By the time we reached the concert hall and found our seats, I was grateful for a chance to take my coat off and roll up my sleeves to allow the increasingly tingly bumps, and now splotches, to cool down. The concert began with a man—clad in a leather vest-like shirt and traditional baggy Japanese pants, back to the audience—raising his brawny arms high over head, and with two thick, foot-long rods, “Bouuuuuum,” striking the elevated, side-turned taiko with his full strength. I have a weakness for Japanese drumming, and I find it entirely captivating to watch, so although I enjoyed the Yoshida brothers’ skillful fingers rapidly plucking out both traditional and modern melodies, it was the dynamic, almost dance-like strokes of the drummer that held my attention most of the night. But even watching live taiko couldn’t entirely remove from my awareness the itching, and the sensation that although it originally contained itself to my hands and wrists, it might be spreading up my arms…and may have traveled to my legs as well. I kept my sleeves rolled up through most of the concert, hoping that cooling them off a bit might decrease the bumpage. After about 2 hours of an absolutely breathtaking performance, we left the concert in quite high spirits, discussing music tastes and various Japanese traditional instruments. It was chilly outside, but I was grateful for the cool air. Apparently, though, Tamaki sensei wasn’t so grateful for it, or maybe she was being sensitive, aware that I am always cold, but either way, on the way home, she turned the heat up as far as it could go, and we drove home in a sauna of a car. “Let’s go to dinner,” she suggested. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, especially since she had planned and paid for the whole evening, I agreed, hoping that I’d be able to hide any visible red splotches or (now) bulges. A few minutes, later, though, she accidentally made a wrong turn, and changed her mind, a decision for which I will be grateful for a very long time. For, as we drove, I knew the rash was spreading rapidly, and all I could think about was finding relief as soon as I got back. I thought about different solutions to the problem, and the most logical one that I could think of was to find Adriane. She always has anti-allergy medicine with her because she’s allergic to fish—not exactly the best thing to be allergic to when you live on an island (in fact, it’s amazing she’s still alive…). As soon as we reached the apartments, I said a hurried goodbye to Tamaki sensei, and, despite my toothpick heels, ran to the nearest apartment to find Adriane. I reached Tammy and Lis’ first. Bursting through the door and tripping over piles of shoes in the genkan, I feverishly beseeched the group Bible study meeting, “Does ANYBODY have Benadryl?!!! I need it NOW!!!” I pulled up my right shirt sleeve to reveal the splotches that now covered at least half of my skin between elbow and hand. Tammy jumped up, grabbing a little bottle from her cupboard, and rushed over to dump a pile of tiny pink and white pills into my hand. “Thank you! Thank you so much!” I ran back out to go to my own apartment, sleeve still rolled up, and it wasn’t until then that I really saw what was torturing me. Tammy and Lis’ apartment had been rather dark, but outside under the hall’s florescent lights, I could see the reddening inflammation. The bumps and splotches had begun to swell so much that they were running together, and now looked like a pinkish lava slowly oozing its way around my arm. An involuntary exclamation of shock escaped my lips as I ran up the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, not knowing what else to do, I changed into a tank top and shorts so that my limbs could cool off. Then I looked in the mirror. All down my entire arms and legs, tingling pink lava oozed. Up my shoulders, down my back, everywhere the rash had spread, causing agony everywhere it went. I grabbed my phone. “Tammy, can you bring some girls up here to pray for me? Uh…this is pretty bad.” Within two minutes Carrie, Tammy and Lis were upstairs, and after I popped two Benadryl, following Lis’ home remedy instructions to coat the blotches with a mixture of baking soda and water. When we were through, looking like an Aborigine covered in white mud, I tiptoed my way to the bed, dropping chunks of baking soda paste in a mini white trail behind me. Then the girls prayed for me. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciated it. By all accounts, the rash seemed to be some sort of allergic reaction, but I hadn’t eaten anything out of the ordinary all day. I hadn’t even had seafood (quite amazing for an entire day). As they were praying, it came out that other people on the team have been feeling strangely ill recently too, and it was suspected that maybe what I and maybe other people on the team were facing was a spiritual attack. I don’t claim to know when and where I can call something a “spiritual attack,” but I do know that I can’t link the rash to anything except possibly heat rash…and if it was heat rash, it was a WOPPING case of it. Our group has been involved in a lot of community activities—“ministry” and “non-ministry” alike, and it’s possible that our enemy isn’t too happy about it right now. I’m not definitely saying it was brought on by evil forces, but I certainly think it’s a possibility. After praying, calling my doctor in America, another coat of baking soda paste, waking up our resident allergy specialist (Adriane), considering a shot with an Epipen, and me popping another Benadryl, Tammy generously offered to spend the night on my floor as an “on call nurse.” By this time I could hardly keep my eyes open (for those of you who have taken Benadryl—especially THREE—know what I’m talking about), so after I saw that some of the swelling was subsiding, at 12:15 we crashed. This morning I’m glad to say, I woke up better, with only a few red spots on my arms and knees. I went to school, hoping it would get progressively better, but, to be honest, it (the rash, that is) seems that it wants to stick around—popping up here and there—even on the palms of my hands, and then disappearing just as mysteriously as it showed up. My tricep-area is the presently tortured locale, which is particularly frustrating when you are wearing 3 long underwear shirts and a thick wool sweater (remember what I said about Japanese school building heat…). And…I still have no idea what caused it all. If you think of it, I’d ask for your prayers—that if it is something spiritual, that it would be ousted, and if not, that we’d be able to solve… ...The Case of the Mysterious Pink Lava

I had a dream last night… I was going back to Ohio for Christmas. Only somehow, the leaders for my trip to Africa 4 years ago were organizing it all. I was told I cold come back to Japan after Christmas, or somehow I believed I could, but when I got to the States, somehow I was forced into starting school again. At first this didn’t bother me, but after a day or two of classes, I realized that it was all in place to keep me from returning to Japan. I was devastated. Though it seemed that none of my team had any intention of returning, I felt I was being held captive, kept from being where my heart knew I needed to be. I remember weeping over and over in my dream—trying to accept my situation, adjust to American life again, but I was repeatedly washed over by memories of a “home” to which I was being kept from returning. I remembered specific students who I wanted to see, friends I wanted to spend time with, things I wanted to convey to those whom I loved in that quaint, close-knit town nestled in the rice fields. I just kept weeping… It all seemed so real. Vivid, and almost tragic. What disturbed me is that when I woke up, I realized, though somewhat altered, the situations in the dream really are real. And so are the faces, vaguely haunting, of students, teachers, friends…

Taming Tongue-Torturing Tentacles (and the stuff inside) I keep wondering…was there a way out that I didn’t perceive? Could I have avoided such a traumatic experience? Could the foulness have been evaded, prevented, at least reduced? But there was no other way. I had to suck it up, and, as the popular athletic apparel motto goes, “Just do it”…and then endure with dignity the unpleasant repercussions. Tuesday was a good day for the most part. I had the opportunity to teach three classes, which on cold days (we just turned the heat on today for the first time) is a marvelous blessing—I can move around as opposed to thinking about how frostbitten my toes are probably getting in the teachers’ room. Nevertheless, as always, I was excited for lunch, and being, as usual, ravenous by 12:30, I devoured my lunch with eager delight. In fact, I consumed it so quickly, I wasn’t quite feeling full when the last bight of banana went down, and I secretly wished that I had either packed more, or that one of the teachers would pass around a post-lunchtime snack, as they sometimes do. I’ve heard it said, “Be careful what you wish for”… I returned to the teachers room still savoring the sweet banana-y aftertaste on my tongue only to find a surprise—no, actually, TWO surprises, waiting for me on my desk. I use the word “waiting” purposefully, for these surprises looked rather, well, alive-ish—or like they had been alive in the very, very recent past. Two mini cuttlefish lay on a napkin, a “kind” offering by a fellow teacher wanting to share her afternoon munchies. There they sat, two deep-bruise-purple mini light bulbs with tentacles portentously jutting from the socket ends. I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t hide my terror. I stood in front of my desk, eyes fixed on the menacing sea creatures before me…unable to move. Or speak. Or maybe even breathe. “Dozo! Please eat!” cried the teacher whose desk sits directly in front of mine. “Pu-re-se-n-to desu!” I kept staring. “Ika desu. Do-rah-eed Su-kuwi-d!” I attempted a smile, but I’m certain it was more of a grimace. I feigned confusion. “Squid desu! Like octopus. Do-rah-eed. Please eat!” I tried to feign confusion again, but my fear began to seep through my fading smile. “Kowakunai yo! (Trust me, it’s not scary.)” “Not scary, my foot!” I thought, but kept on grin-grimacing, face contorting more and more the longer I gazed on the hardened tentacles. I stalled. “Nan de tabemasu ka? (How do you eat it?)” I asked with slightly quivering voice. The Kyoto sensei (vice principle) grinned mischievously and replied, “Zen bun de (AKA stuff the whole thing in your mouth.)” The present-giving teacher, wanting to be taken seriously, blurted out a scolding, “eeeeeeeeh!” toward his direction, and answered me sincerely, “Hambun. (Eat half first).” By this point, all attempts at appearing pleased about my fishy delicacies had completely vanished, and the secretary across the room began to catch on…quite verbally. “She thinks it’s scary!” I heard her say in Japanese, “And she doesn’t want to eat it!” Her cheerful face-filling smile rang out a jolly chuckle, which evolved into a chorus of laughter…soon joined by other teachers. Soon the whole room was focused on me and how desperately I did NOT want to eat my dried cuttlefish. I had no choice. Slowly I picked one up, raised it to my lips, and bit smack into the middle of the light bulb… I find it difficult to express the torture I experienced in the next few moments. My teeth had to grind through the beef-jerky textured bruise-purple outside before they reached the stale-pumpkin-pie texture of the diarrhea-green innards. I’ve never tried eating a fish that has been sitting out in the sun for three days on a filth-infested pier, but that’s all I could think of as several tentacles lodged themselves between my teeth and the pungent mushy ooze of cuttlefish guts assailed every taste bud on my tongue. The nice thing about raw fish is that after about two bites, whatever you’re eating can slide right down—which is the method I had employed the previous two times I had been presented with cuttlefish. Unfortunately, dried sea creatures allow for no such luxury. In fact, not only can the chewing not end quickly, but it must continue into what feels like an eternity—on and on, until you feel that the plastic-like substance of the tentacles will never admit defeat and finally break down. And…when you finally DO reach the point where you feel the tentacles are macerated enough to not cause significant damage to your esophagus, try as you might, it’s nearly impossible to work up the courage to swallow. I did ok with the first two bites, “hambun” turned out to not require as much chewing as I thought, and after counting (to myself) to 5, I psyched myself into letting the stuff go down, but after finishing the first squid, I couldn’t get myself to extend the experience to two more bites, and decided the “zenbun” method might be worth a try for the second one. Bad idea. The abominable taste, first of all, was twice as strong, and secondly, the need for chewing, it seemed, was multiplied times 10. I tried holding my breath, but I had to move my teeth up and down so many times, I ran out of air. I’m glad that by the second guy, the teachers had found other things to occupy their attention, because halfway through, my eyes began watering, and my gag reflex kicked in. I prayed furiously that I wouldn’t involuntarily eject my recently consumed meal, and even more furiously that I would be able to force the contents of my mouth into my stomach where I couldn’t taste it anymore. I tried my tried-and-true count-to-five method. Nothing happened. I couldn’t do it. I tried again. Again, it stuck there. So I counted to ten….Nope. It wouldn’t go down. I panicked. Three minutes after I popped the second squid into my mouth, I was still chewing. Finally, on a last-ditch effort, I told myself, “it’s either this, or you’re gonna end up throwing up!” Once again, I counted to five and…with all the strength I had in me, I forced the mush down, wiping tears from my eyes, and wondering how long would be polite and “normal” to wait to go brush my teeth (or, more accurately, my entire mouth for an extended period of time). I’d like to say that after the hunk of foul fishiness went down, it was all over. But I was not so lucky. I had a stomach ache for the rest of the day, and every time the thought of my after-lunch snack crossed my mind, I got queasy. Which is why I waited until today to write the post. Even with 72 hours in between, I’m still slightly nauseated now. Just a word of advise—if you’re ever offered anything bruise-colored with tentacles, I say forget the giver’s feelings. Just say no! Save your tastebuds! Save your stomachs! Long live cuttlefish-free digestive systems!