Resurrection and Eternity

You can never go back. Chris and I say this from time to time. When it’s over, it’s over. When we go back to Hawaii, the kids won’t be so little. The times we had together in Europe could never strike the same combination of covid, life stage, people. Family reunions now include a bunch of smart, hilarious, wonderful kids who out-eat and tower over all the moms.

Ichi go ichi e is the focus of tea ceremony—one time, one meeting; or one lifetime, one encounter; or my favorite translation: in this moment, an opportunity. Because this moment will never come again.

We came back to Japan, but can you every really go back?

The only time I spent the night in Yokosuka prior to moving here was in the hospital when Isaac was born. I did not recognize a single thing except the Chili’s on base where Chris and I would have one final dinner before his ships sailed. I wandered the base totally lost, looking for a place I remembered so clearly in my mind but couldn’t find with my feet.

Today was a day I’ve been looking forward to since we got orders here—time to visit Life Chapel International, the church we attended over a decade ago with our best Japanese and American friends. All the American friends were long gone, like us. And of course we don’t expect anything to be the same—it can’t be. But that doesn’t stop your heart from wishing a little sometimes that it could sometimes be the same.

Since we were coming from the opposite direction nothing on the route looked familiar until we arrived at the Uniqlo that was completed shortly before Isaac was born. I’ve been shopping here with my mom and my baby! A wrong turn and some traffic, plus the hour-long drive, meant we were in danger of being late. This is very bad manners in Japan, so we were hustling. And there was Life Chapel, looking just the same. The room was oriented differently than before, but there was Pastor Paul and his wife Eri, and our friends Ryo and Yoshiko, and other faces I was happy to see as well.

Chris walked in first, just as church was about to begin, and Pastor Paul was so surprised he came over to give Chris a hug. He’d been scheduled to preach out of town this morning but a broken toe kept him local. His sermon was so timely too. He preached on the conversation between Jesus and the religious teachers where the Sadducees, who did not believe in spirits or resurrection because it wasn’t mentioned in their reading of the first five books of the Old Testament, challenge him on the hypothetical heavenly marriage situation of a woman married in turn to seven brothers. Jesus tells them their question reflects an inaccurate understanding of heaven. Pastor Paul said the Sadducees lived for life on earth, because in their thinking there was nothing else, but Jesus shows how to live in light of eternity.

He said he was feeling down and when he saw Chris arrive, he was reminded of our eternal family here on earth and in heaven. That’s something our Brussels small group talked about just days before we left. We’re from such different backgrounds, places and cultures, all over the world—but we have Christ in common, and, whether on heaven or on earth, I know I will see them again. Seeing our Japanese church family today after a decade and a world away truly felt like a glimpse of heaven.

Life Chapel has only been meeting in person since this past summer—about six months. But they recently started having lunch together again upstairs like we all used to, so we got to do that afterwards. Isaac and Eloise were shy from all the attention. Isaac said, “Everyone knew me, but I didn’t know anyone!” ha ha!

When we left, Chris needed to drive by our old house before going home, so we took the old route north. I used to teach English class every week nearby, so there were lots of places we recognized. So much looked exactly the same. We turned left at the gas station where I accidentally put diesel gas in my scooter and it wouldn’t run, then right at the intersection where we’d go straight to get to the other side of the base. Finally, we drove down the hill to our house, which we’d showed the kids on Google Maps at Christmastime. I couldn’t wait to show them the bonzai tree we decorated with Christmas lights, the balcony we could see Mt. Fuji from, the shoji beyond which was our tatami room.

Except, it wasn’t there. It…wasn’t…there…? A blue tarp snapped in the breeze where there used to be glossy blue tiles, a tile color that signifies heaven. Fresh plywood stood up from the foundation, but the old pine tree was gone, the plum tree no longer there. There was an outhouse where there used to be a shed. It was such a strong, gut-level sense of illogical loss, because what did we lose? Nothing really. But…. But.

And everything else looked exactly the same. The riverbank where we walked countless miles alone, together, with friends, with baby Isaac. The arching tree tunnels where I rode my scooter under cherry blossom snow and in a typhoon once. The bridge where I took a picture every time I walked by, in every season. It was all the same, achingly familiar, but the house was gone. We don’t live here anymore. We can never go back.

The kids were a little confused by our reaction. I told them, “Guys, this is the only place Dad and I have lived as long as Brussels. This is where we made some of the best friends of our lives, went through our first deployments, first lived overseas.” Mouse and Pounce ran around this block. I had cherry blossom tea parties under these trees. I fed the ancestors of these fish in the river.

Driving home, Chris kept saying today was surprisingly emotional for him, starting with church and then the house being gone. You can never go back, but what lasts remains. Maybe our house is waiting for us somewhere in eternity.

PS—our household goods arrive Tuesday. This could be my last entry as I may die in an avalanche of stuff that SOMEBODY wouldn’t put in storage before we moved.

PPS—I wrote this three weeks ago and yes, died in one of the quiet avalanches of “why did we bring this?”