Mortality, Life and Falling Cherry Blossoms

We said goodbye to my parents yesterday and explained to the kids that they would be getting on a plane and going home. There was something so unnatural about that. How do you explain to a 4 year old and 2 year old twins that their grandparents are leaving? Our four year old is just starting to understand differences of location and time. We returned from a trip to Nagano last weekend and she said, "We're back in Japan now!" The twins are entirely in the moment. As we all hugged and said the words, I had a pain in the pit of my stomach that intensified each time one of the kids' faces lit up again with a smile at my father or mother.

I think I began to face my own mortality for the first time in the weeks leading up to my marriage. I didn't want the fickleness of life to cut short the journey we had begun. I realized in the face of great happiness that I was helpless to guarantee it would continue. The second time I experienced mortality so intensely was prior to the birth of the twins. Hitomi was in the hospital on bed rest; Reia and I were staying with my in-laws in their house. At that time, on the news they were saying an earthquake could be imminent on the major fault that passed nearby. Furthermore, I knew that an engineer had declared that the house would completely collapse if that happened. I had a hard time sleeping at nights. I didn't want to miss seeing my daughters and watching them grow up. No wonder sometimes we're afraid of even good things, because they make us so vulnerable.

These past three weeks it's been wonderful watching my parents interact with the girls. My kids are so happy with them. Yet I wonder how many more times we'll all have such times together. My parents are amazing. My father quit his medical practice when he was nearing sixty and they moved to a village in Africa for four years to work in a hospital there. They have lived with remarkable energy. The fact that they seem to have less energy now is disturbing. But it points to the heart of my faith, which says I must lose my life to find it (in Christ). My hope doesn't come from what I can hold onto (my own life, my parents, my culture or control). This may seem intense; I'm just trying to be real though.

I'm sure many of you reading this realize that the falling cherry blossoms represent death. Cherry blossoms appear briefly, for about a week, and then disappear just as fast. Their brief, bright life speaks to the heart's of many Japanese people who think about such things. Put simply, they are a reminder to live life fully and in the now.

By the way, another reason for this intensity is that I've been reading an autobiography by Ayako Miura. This remarkable woman suffered from tuberculosis for many years following World War II. I never imagined how terrible it was to have TB. But the book isn't about her disease. It's an amazing story of her life and an incredible love story. I admit to having a sentimental streak, but her story explodes mere sentiment. She went on to become an important novelist here. As I read this story of her life, I encounter such passion and realize I've hardly tasted suffering (passion and suffering are closely related words). Her story reveals heights of love (and despair) that I also have yet to experience. The title is "The Wind is Howling" (the title of the English version). Reading her story makes me want to be a better writer, and, more importantly, to live and love more fully -- and put that on paper and on the computer screen.