Three Women

Our lovely new friends in Hyogo Prefecture

Both of my grandmothers, Daisy Hyman and Leona Johnson, have been gone for some time now. Yet I often remember them and wish I could sit down and chat with them—of course, over chocolate chip cookies that they loved to bake (and I loved to eat). This past week, I felt I had that chance, even though there were no cookies.

While visiting Kobe, we decided to drive an hour and a half into the countryside to our favorite pottery village, Tachikui. En route, we were drawn to a thatched-roof, old-style traditional Japanese home. It always spelled character from afar, though we’d never driven up the narrow road for a closer look. But this time, spontaneity took precedence over schedule. We were greeted by an older woman in customary farmer-style clothing. Her immediate smile lit up her weathered face and assured us that we were welcome. Her husband, also appropriately dressed, underscored the warm reception by inviting us inside to see the architecture of their 260-year-old home and the woodblock prints he enjoys carving in his spare time. Feigning shock that he would show off “that dirty old house,” the farmer’s wife delighted us with cute giggles and conversation about this and that, not all of which we understood. We left with their calls to “come again” ringing in our ears. It was just like I’d been at Grandma’s house.

But at Tachikui, the mood was somber when we asked about our 83-year-old potter friend. We learned he’d passed away only three weeks earlier. When his wife of many years, her back bent low by osteoporosis, came outside to greet us, I immediately embraced her and shared her tears. Both of my grandfathers had died first. Once again, I felt like I’d been with my grandmothers, comforting them in their sadness and loss.

Two days later, I went to the hospital to visit the woman we’ve always called our “Japanese Grandma.” Although her chemotherapy has caused her hair to gray and fall out, her face remains beautiful, accented with warmth, love, and a quick smile. I tried to excuse myself after an hour of chatting, but she had much more to share, so I stayed longer. I hated that deadlines kept me checking my watch, but eventually I had to leave. Grams never wanted me to leave either, but I always had some schedule I had to meet. As the elevator doors closed on the sixth floor, my last glimpse was of Baaba waving. I could see Grams in her face, and that brought a sweet smile to my own.

Since then, however, I’ve been struggling with the bittersweet as I remember these three women. As a Christian missionary, it is my fervent prayer that my Japanese friends and acquaintances will come to believe that Jesus is God’s Son, sent into our world to demonstrate God’s love and to offer forgiveness. How I long to see them open their hearts and accept the gift. But these three women, all in their 80s, are completely bound by Japanese traditions, customs, and religions, whether they believe them or not. In fact, Baaba once told us that belief has absolutely nothing to do it. Rather, she accepted her role and its responsibilities when she married, and she will do what is expected of her until she dies. In moments of reflection, I confess that it seems impossible for any of these women—and, dare I say it, most of Japan—to come to Christ.

Although I don’t understand how it is possible, I take comfort in the angel’s words to Mary who questioned how she could bear God’s Son: “For nothing is impossible with God,” (Luke 1:37). It’s the only thing I have to hold onto.