And then someone added one more vote to break the tie. So people it will be. This post is a little different, kind of an experiment if you will. It has almost no pictures, and very little to do with ministry, but it is about the missionaries who I have come to know and, in an odd way, love.  

Mr. and Mrs. Ricer go to the beach

Mr. Ricer loves to cook. He bakes, stirs, and BBQs. Mrs. Ricer loves to cook too. When the short-termers come over to her house on Friday nights she might be found in the kitchen making stovetop popcorn with olive oil. But the first Friday of July couldn't be celebrated indoors. Not by Americans. Not when the sun had decided to shine so brightly and there was a beach within driving distance. So Mr. and Mrs. Ricer picked the three girls up from the Toothy's. "Don't you want to come with us?" They asked Mr. and Mrs. Toothy. But Mr. and Mrs. Toothy just smiled and waved. Friday evenings were their date night.
Miss A, Miss I, and Mrs, B tumbled into the back seat of the Ricer's white car. "Do you know why we brought you with us?" asked Mr. Ricer from the front seat. Mr. Ricer loved to say funny things, and when he did his voice became teasing. His voice was teasing now. "We brought you to be our pack mules. Someone has to carry all the food down to the beach." The girls groaned, but they were smiling too.
"Of course, then we'd have to call you all Jenny." Mrs. Ricer commented.
"Do you know why?" Mr Ricer asked the girls.
Mrs. B hadn't the foggiest clue why they'd have to change names in order to be a pack mule. She thought it must be something like Mr. Toothy's Greece joke. But Miss I, who could talk for hours on how a chicken 'dropped' eggs, responded immediately. "Because most female Mules are called Jenny." She said, adding more information about Mules and Mollys than Mrs. B could ever have guessed. Mr Ricer had to admit she was right. By this time the white car had made it's way to the beach, and the girls found out that Mr. Ricer was only half joking about their being pack mules. Loaded down with everything from beach chairs to bug repellant the girls walked with the Ricers down to the beach and set up "camp."
Mr. Ricer had to start the coals before any cooking could be done. The girls took this as an opportunity to walk along the shore. Peals of laughter floated back up to the Ricers, for Miss I and Miss A were a continual source of amusement to Mrs. B and joined in the laughter with their own unique chimes.


"Cuuuutte" Gushed Miss A, as she bent over a crack in the rock. Mrs. B was too used to Miss A's brand of gushing to come rushing over to take a peek, but she did spare a glance over her shoulder. It was enough, the two girls were bent over one of the funny little creatures that clung firmly to the giant rocks jagged surface. Miss A's finger was hovering over the thing, and Mrs. B surmised that she had just poked it. Turning to a her own nearby creature, she gave it a little poke and watched, amused, as it squished up its "face." Then she had to scramble to catch up to the other girls, who were already wading back to the shore, picking up sand dollars as they went. They would take them home later and dry them out on the balcony.
"I've got a third-world hunger going on here." Miss I groaned, in what Mrs. B could only surmise was an imitation of one of her friend's accents. Miss I and Miss A both seemed to have an inordinate number of friends from other countries, and it was their habit to adopt either a foreign accent or a creative interpretation of grammar while conversing. Mrs. B and Miss A were not going to argue with hunger, it was one topic that all three girls could sympathize with. The walk back up to the grill was immediately started and soon they were close enough for Mr. Ricer to gripe about how much coal he'd burned waiting for them. "We were about to start without you." He chided, but in his teasing voice. "Everybody, grab a bowl and some hashi, and lets get grilling our yakiniku." Mrs. Ricer commanded. The girls obediently picked up a plastic bowl and a pair of chopsticks and gathered around the low rectangular grill. They weren't really sure what yakiniku was, but they were sure to find out if they followed orders fast enough. Yakiniku, it turned out, was a little like a game of hot potato, with some parts of it resembling a food fight, and a few allusions to egg racing thrown in for good measure. The goal was to get perfectly grilled food off the grill, into your sauce bowl, and down your hatch before the rest of the food had shriveled into charred lumps. The real challenge was that Mr. Ricer insisted on putting more stuff on the grill before everyone was ready for it.
"Let us eat what's on it first." Mrs. B grumbled, flustered by the heat of the grill and the insistent popping of burning beef. "You've got to eat faster," Mr. Ricer replied; "Look, thats another burnt carrot."
Mrs. Ricer reached in with her chopsticks and grabbed the vegetable, letting it fall safely on to Miss A's plate. Miss A already had quite a few such 'gifts' from Mrs. Ricer, but she had been given the job of meat girl, and that, with the already heavy responsibility of eating, made her a little inattentive to her plate. Though she did notice when Mrs. Ricer plopped small hot dog on it.
"Eeahyeawv" Miss A moaned, softly. "I don't like hot dogs."
Mr. and Mrs. Ricer both stared at her, and then burst out laughing. It wasn't so much the idea that she didn't like hot dogs that tickled them, it was more her gentle whine and disgusted expression that set them to chuckling. Of course, being yakiniku pros, they were not distracted from their duty for an instant. They were plenty capable of teasing and cooking. Finally the fight with the flames was over and every last piece of food had been eaten, or else thrown into the sand as a solid lump of black. Then it was time to drag out the blanket and start preparing for the fireworks. That meant bug spray and and a few stories. Missionaries love to tell stories. They told stories of wild boar sightings ("And a big inushishi was right there in the middle of the road!"), they told stories of language goofs ("'buchi' is Yamaguchi slang for 'very', 'bochi' means 'grave.' I looked at her and said 'bochi delicious.'"), and they told stories about their life before coming to Japan ("I thought to myself, 'He looks nice, but he's really poorly dressed.' A few years later we were married.'"*). Soon the mountains were hardly visible against the night sky. Mr. Ricer proceeded to get out the fireworks. He let each of the girls take turns lighting them. There was smoke, bright lights, and shrieks of terror. Misses I and A, to the amusement of the unbelieving Ricers, insisted that there was someone out in the darkness spying on them. But then, quite suddenly, a new noise came from behind. Someone was in the tall beach bushes just as Miss I had claimed, and he was shooting fireworks at them! Mr. Ricer, ever practical, continued with his own light display, but Miss I and Miss A screamed with every mysterious bang that erupted from the darkness of the trees. After awhile the screams lessened, even though the intruder's sparks were getting closer and closer. Someone got ahold of the flashlight and shone it into the bushes. Mrs. B could hardly believe her eyes, it was Mr. Toothy! Exposed, he walked unashamedly towards the blanket. Mrs. Toothy showed up seconds later.
"It was his idea. I just watched." She explained, with her inscrutable grin.
"Mr. Toothy," Mrs. B solemnly stated, "You have forever changed my opinion of missionaries."
And with that the whole group gathered together under the starry ocean sky. A team handpicked by God, if only for a short while.



*It's a field requirement for all missionaries to be romantic. Even "retired" missionaries can not find a cure, but are always happy to tell the "how we met and fell in love" story to anyone who asks. Most couples, like the Ricers, have told it so many times that they've managed to get the story straight, right down to who was poorly dressed.

The Art of Giving

"And I have given you a land for which ye did not labour, and cities which ye built not, and ye dwell in them; of the vineyards and oliveyards which ye planted not do ye eat."

Since arriving in Japan, and even before leaving, I have found myself on the receiving end of so many wonderful things. Support, both financially and spiritually, has been showered upon me so that I'm caught between bowing under it's weight and stretching higher to reach it all.  In Japan gift giving is a huge part of the culture, we wouldn't dare go to a house without first making sure we have something to give, and out hostess wouldn't dream of letting us leave without first offering us tea of some sort. Monday, being cultural day, we got the immense privilege of visiting with the Virtuoso* sisters at Lady Adroit's house. Lady Adroit is the elder of the two sisters, and she is a spectacular artist. Everything, it seems, that she puts her hand to prospers.  Painting, pottery, sewing, all these come alive in her hands, but she is most famous for her Chigirie (pictures made from torn paper).

         When we went over to her house we first were allowed to admire her work hanging in the hall, then we were seated and given coffee in cups more like bowls than mugs, and served on the cutest trays, with the sugar in Japanese style packets - long and thin. Then the dishes were cleared away and she produced paper and glue. Sitting down, with all five of us foreigners gathered close around her, she dove her hands into the plastic bag of rumpled scraps and, drawing paper from the sack,  proceeded to let her fingers fly. First to the glue dish, then to the postcard. Ripping and tearing and smoothing bits of paper until, before we knew it, a rose had emerged.  After that she demonstrated how to make a morning glory and set us loose.

              
     Twenty minutes later, our hands freshly washed to release them from the glue, we put away the paper and sat down to eat lunch. Yakisoba, with special green soba noodles, sushi rice with crab and avocado, salads that tasted slightly of vinegar, and salads from Misty's own kitchen, were all crowded on to the table and we commenced to eat and eat.

 When we couldn't possibly raise our hashi (chopsticks) one more time, or bring our glasses of mugicha to our lips, Lady Adroit turned on the T.V. and let us watch her daughter's wedding. Her daughter was married with a traditional shinto ceremony. The sipping of the sake, the giving of branch offerings, and the temple maiden's prayer dance highlighted the affair. The bride and groom wore the customary clothes, including the bridal hat that, as Misty told me, is worn to hide the bride's horns. After the ceremony the group goes on to the reception. This is the part of the wedding that friends can attend. Lights, music, cakes for the guest to decorate, rice for them to pound into mochi, and the sporadic entrance of the bride in a different dress characterized the evening. In Japan it is not unusual to have the bride change three or four time during the reception, Lady Adroit's daughter wore five different outfits through the course of the wedding. Three dresses and two kimonos, each with its own bouquet, and hair style.

             After the movie we had another cup of coffee and snuck up stairs to see a chigirie picture of a famous cherry tree ( or sakura tree). Then we gave our adieus with all the warmth in our heart and danced away to visit a baby girl not more than three days old. Our arms were filled with paper for us to practice chigirie with, and we each carried one of Lady Adroit's own works. Those are not the only priceless things that have been kindly given to us. A lady at church loves to bring sheets of paper, and exquisite dolls made by her friends. And even my dad has given me a gift since I've come here. He always makes me take a spare pair of glasses when I travel and a few days ago, when I broke my main pair, I was able to settle last year's model on my nose without even turning a hair. While a full list of the blessings God has showered on us would be too long and too tasteless, I hope that sharing these few with you has helped you see the wonder of His love. 

*As I'm making up names for all my new contacts they might sound a little weird, especially when preceded by a "Lady" or a "Sir." Bear with me, these two titles mark the person as Japanese and, more eternally significant, as not yet believing, giving you the opportunity to pray for them.  

** The poll results are in and it looks like a tie, so I'm casting my own vote to tip the scale. Look for another post in a week or so. 

Time Warp in Kyoto - Installment the Third

Well, I've been wanting to get this series wrapped up, and this post will do it. I'm going to be telling you a little bit of what we did in Kyoto, but the focus will be the food. I'll try to squeeze a few formal introductions into the post too, so you can start feeling as if you know these people. As is only proper, we're going to start off with Monday's breakfast. 

The morning has already been an adventure. The shower here at the inn is designed for rinsing off before bathing. The bathroom contains a huge sunken tub, which is covered most of the time, and two shower heads hanging on the wall. That's it. The other essentials that you'd expect to find in a bathroom are elsewhere. But that doesn't affect my shower, and now I'm done with my morning preparations and ready for breakfast. The ladies at the inn actually make us our breakfast, and serve it to us on a low table. I sit down across from Misty. She's the lady who picked us up from the airport last night, arranged for the bus from Osaka to Kyoto, and has opened her house up for us to live in. Next to me, on my right, is Ms. I, who I met two weeks ago at blaze. Her friend, Ms. A, sits across from her, completing our quartet. The lovely innkeeper comes in with our breakfast - fruit and yogurt, toast and jam, and an egg poached in a tomato - and we all "fall to."  

Breakfast conquered, we file outside and mount our bicycles. We're off to the Imperial palace to reserve spots for the different English tours we'll be taking, and then we are off again to the Nishijin Textile Center to see a kimono fashion show and drool over the beautiful clothes. Passing school children on the sometimes-narrow sidewalks sure gives one an appetite. This is a replica of what I had for lunch. Having plastic replicas of the menu for customers to look at is a common practice here in Japan, and very useful for us gaijen (foreigners). 

Tuesday dawns a little cloudy, and we place umbrellas and  raincoats in our bicycles' baskets. It's quite a bike to the  station, where we board a train to take us to the Imperial  Villa. We leave with visions of bridges and tea houses still in our  heads, and enter a train bound toward Nara, home of incorrigible  deer and the Todaji Temple. We eat lunch on the train, a variety of things  bought at the station: rice wrapped in fried tofu, assorted onigiri (rice balls), and sushi.  Back in Kyoto we've still a bit more sightseeing to do, but it's all worth it when we sit down to an entertaining night at Zoronpa, where the yakisoba and okonomiyaki is cooked at the bar and then brought to our own personal stovetop to keep it warm while we eat. 

Tomorrow, Wednesday, we will travel halfway  across Kyoto on bicycles in search of recommended shops; we'll  see the five story pagoda temple called Toji, and the extravagant Kinkakuji (golden temple); however, the most wonderful event of all will be when we make a complicated journey by shinkazen (bullet train) to our new home, Hikari. 

In Which the Cast is Offhandedly Mentioned

Well, I still need to do a post about Kyoto's food, but keeping you up to date takes precedence (and I've been given some very strong hints about my ten day delay). We've already passed my first two Sundays in Hikari, my trip to Yanai, and even the first week of English classes. So this post is going to be busy, busy, busy. Lets get going!

 (A letter from a friend brightens a rainy Saturday)

Sunday starts with breakfast. Then the house goes under a transformation as we turn a home into a church. Almost as soon as we are done praying for the service people start arriving. We take seats and wait as one of the ladies leads us in worship and prayer. I stumble along  in the singing, my hirigana isn't good enough for me to keep up. Pastor (Mr. Toothy)  gives us his message, and I can sort of  follow it because Misty ( Mrs. Toothy) took the time to explain it to us before hand. After service we have tea and lots of talk. Sometimes we have a curry lunch instead of the mugicha and mochi. Mmm, things taste so good here. Oishii! That first Sunday afternoon we went with the Toothys to the church in Hirao, but this week they went by themselves. They want to keep the foreigner level down. 

English classes started last week. Technically  they were kengaku (trial classes). We have classes in Hirao on Tuesday; they're held in the church there, which doubles as an apartment for the youngest member of the team, Mr. Cove. For the past year Mr. Cove has been away on different internships, but that doesn't mean the place goes unused. We have three classes there in the morning, one in the afternoon, and, at the moment, one at night. On Wednesdays we stay in Nijigaoka for our classes. We also have our Japanese lessons that day. If the schedule doesn't change then I'll only be teaching one night class on Wednesday, but there other classes going on all day.  Last Thursday was a real treat, we went to Shunan and taught a group of women at the church there. Instead of dividing them up into small, level classes we kept them in one group and just talked and played games. Because people were at different levels we'd often have the more adapt English users translating our instructions, or helping someone form sentences. It won't stay like that,  because we want English class not English club, but it was a fun way to meet everybody.  

As to the actual teaching, it is like nothing else in the world. When I teach, it is as if someone has switched on the autopilot. Or as if someone Greater has reached down and taken the controls out of my hand. It isn't at all like public speaking, which makes you more aware then ever of yourself. It's more like dreaming, or breathing. An inexplicable instinct; an automated response. But that was the first week, when I was running on nerves. Maybe today will be different.