The Tunnel

Two of Japan's myriad tunnels

I know something about tunnels. I’m no engineer, nor have I ever joined a construction crew in boring through a mountainside to create a water supply or electricity path or a transportation route. (Each of the world’s 67 longest tunnels was created for one of those reasons.) But I live in Japan. Enough said.

Here one learns as if by osmosis many lessons in geography. Among others: a part of the Pacific Ring of Fire, Japan experiences frequent—if not daily—earthquakes, and volcanoes are to be watched and studied intently because some mountain somewhere is always threatening to blow (nearly four-fifths of Japan is mountain-covered); in this nation of 3,000-plus islands, bridges are vital connectors (actual land space is only 15 percent of its total territory; the remaining 85 percent is in the ocean); with 127 .7 million people, Japan is one of the most densely populated countries in the world (something like half the population of the United States lives in land space roughly the size of California).

And one learns about tunnels since it is difficult to go many places without passing through at least one. Most commonly, we drive under Tokyo Bay via tunnel on our way to the airport. We also make regular trips to Kobe, about 275 miles away. These are characterized by three different kinds of scenery: alongside the ocean, through the mountains, or in tunnels deep within the mountains.

Should you choose to travel by rail, the tunnels you will pass through are even more impressive. In fact, the longest railway tunnel in world is the 33.5-mile Seikan Tunnel, connecting Japan’s two largest islands, Honshu and Hokkaido. Additionally, 12 of its railway tunnels are included among the world’s 67 longest, each at least 8 miles in length. (Seikan Tunnel is the world’s fifth longest tunnel and its longest undersea passageway.)

But perhaps you don’t care at all about tunnels. Frankly, even with tunnels a routine part of life in Japan, I didn’t think much about them, either—although I must admit that I was quite impressed in 1995 when, with toppled bridges, crushed buildings, and all the other destruction of the 7.2 magnitude Kobe earthquake, no area tunnels sustained damage.

But my ho-hum attitude about tunnels has been challenged by a vision—a vision I believe was sent from God. It was back in March during the two weeks of waiting between first hearing of the possibility of cancer and having the doctor’s suspicion confirmed. Of course, we prayed earnestly that no cancer would be found. Yet one evening, even as I prayed, I felt the Lord preparing me for the news no one wants to hear. It was a surprisingly comforting message, considering that I longed to hear the words, “It’s not cancer.” As God revealed his plan to me, I envisioned a tunnel—a very long tunnel. Explicitly I knew that, while God can and does heal any way he chooses, my path to healing and wholeness was not going to be a quick flight across that tree-covered mountain range. Instead, God was going to take me through the mountains.

Momentarily, I found myself in a tunnel, one defying description because it was too dark to see anything around me. Although I should have been frightened—at least confused—by all the unknown in which I was standing, I was strangely at peace in that unfamiliar place. Realizing I was not alone, I had no reason to fear. While I couldn’t see Him, I knew He was there and that we were walking together, hand-in-hand. At times, I would stumble as we moved along the long pathway that rose and then dipped without warning, but that would only cause me to grip His hand more securely. And when I suddenly squeezed tightly, He always squeezed back reassuringly, reminding me silently that although I didn’t know the road ahead, He did; I would be fine as long as I trusted him.

He also pointed out the light at the extreme far end of the tunnel. If I kept my hand in his and my eyes on the light in the distance, we would pass safely through this never-before-traveled passageway through the mountain called cancer. Although I sensed that the road ahead would be long and difficult, I felt confident and assured about what was to come.

“I suspect your cancer has returned,” the doctor told me in early September. Admittedly, upon hearing his words, my shoulders slumped and my head fell forward into my hands, as if the news was simply too heavy a burden to bear. But it was only a fleeting response. Almost as quickly as the weariness set in, it was gone as I remembered the tunnel and Jesus’ comforting presence and peace. Yes, I was still in the tunnel, and actually, the light ahead didn’t seem any closer than it had in March. But my hand was still in His as we continued through the tunnel together.

While I wasn’t with the disciples when Jesus, in his last days on earth, comforted these closest followers and tried to prepare them for his return to heaven, it seems I’ve also heard his encouraging words: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). In fact, I hear them often in this tunnel, and I know without doubt that all is well.

On Knowledge

CT scans, MRIs, x-rays, blood tests, urinalyses, PET scan, bone scan, ultrasounds, even a test for H1N1 new strain influenza—which caused me to knock the nurse’s hand away from my face, flipping the offending long-stick swab she was wielding across the room. (Yes, the test had to be repeated, and no, I didn’t have the flu.) Surely I’ve had every possible medical test related to any organs from my neck to my lower abdomen—most of these in the last month. (By the way, it’s amazing that my hospital gives a 50% deduction on the cost of multiple exams of the same kind conducted within one month.)

It’s also amazing to think how well my urologist knows me—at least in terms of what he’s seen of my insides projected on the computer monitor in his examination room. But I’ve been thinking: as much as he knows, however, there is so much he doesn’t. For example, why can a persistent cough point to kidney cancer? (Actually, the urologist didn’t believe it at first; it was the respiratory doctor who suggested it. However, when the cough returned, the urologist also took note both of my case and of the fact that the Tokyo Cancer Research Institute is, among other things, investigating this very link.)

He also doesn’t know whether my cancer is genetic (my mother had kidney cancer twelve years ago) or only a fluke (after all, she’s had no recurrence since her kidney was removed). He also can’t answer whether the return of my voice to full strength is because I cut milk from my diet, or because the treatment is working, or because God is working—or because of all three. (I don’t need to know why to thank God as I again enjoy a normal voice after four months of sounding like the world’s worst case of laryngitis.)

And how about the medicine? It is still too early to say whether or not I’ll be in the 30% group for whom Sutent is effective. For that matter, even if it does shrink my tumors and scare the cancer into remission, what will be its long-term effectiveness? It’s just not that old and common of a treatment for such data to be available. And besides, data never considers Almighty God who does what he will do whenever he desires to accomplish it.

For all that my doctor does know, and no matter how skillful and educated he is, his understanding is still so very limited. I am comforted in affirming that God is the author of all true knowledge. Psalm 139:13-16 praises his omniscience and affirms that he alone truly knows me:

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

Once again, my spirit is stilled and my heart rejoices. Known and loved this well, what have I to fear?

Different

Little Ben enjoys the talking bathtub.

I want to write about something different today. No cancer stories (although I’ve only scratched the surface), no deep insights (although my heart longs for more), nothing heavy this afternoon (I need a break). Just something different.

Jumping back several years ago, we were on home assignment in the States one summer. While I don’t remember why Stephanie needed to go to the doctor, I do recall the drug store experience when we went to fill her prescription. “What’s your address?” the pharmacist asked me dully. I wasn’t prepared for the question—what does that have to do with buying medicine anyhow? Consequently, I wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Well,” I answered tentatively, “I can give you my parents’ address here in town or I can give you our real address in Japan.”

The pharmacist looked up, suddenly interested and paying attention to us. “You live in Japan?” he deduced. “Wow! That must be really different.”

This time it was Stephanie who answered. “No,” she declared adamantly, “it’s different here.”

And so it was. After all, although American by nationality and passport, she was growing up in Japan and it was the country she knew best. America was different; Japan was normal.

Since I mostly grew up in the United States, I look in at Japan with eyes that first focused there. While I know what is normal in America (although the longer we’re here, the less I truly know my home country), I also understand what is absolutely ordinary—but different—about life in Japan. Such things as . . . .

The tofu vendor. Returning home this week, I came upon him as he pulled his two-wheeled cart behind him on a street near our apartment. Headband around his head, dressed in the traditional hapi coat of vendors and festival dancers, his feet protected by tabi, two-toed style shoes, he was playing a two-note, rather mournful tune on a bamboo flute as he announced his presence in the neighborhood. Except for the thoroughly modern city through which he slowly proceeded, hawking tofu in a friendly, door-to-door fashion, one could have imagined an earlier, simpler Japan, a Japan before refrigeration and state-of-the-art, gleaming grocery stores with plenteous imported products from around the world. The tofu vendor strolls through our streets regularly, a normal part of life in Japan, but certainly different to fully American eyes.

The mass transit system. In Japan, one could get along easily without a car—and with many fewer hassles—thanks to the amazing system of trains and buses and the use of bicycles more for transportation than for recreation. Although things are changing slowly and grudgingly in the United States, it will be a long time before most people can make that claim. Of course, things screeched to a halt yesterday when an approaching typhoon shut down the train lines. But that came as a much needed, appreciated, and unexpected holiday for many people, and who doesn’t love that occasionally?

The language. Here’s an example of just how different Japanese and English are. If you have trouble spelling in English, consider this: Japanese has three distinct “alphabets,” one of which is made up of thousands of word pictures. No sounding out spellings to come up with something relatively close that a reader will figure out somehow. It’s memory entirely. You either know it or you don’t (and mostly I don’t). The more one knows Japanese, the more one sees that the contrasts between the 26-letter English alphabet and Japanese are nothing less than astounding.

And, speaking of language, how about a talking bathtub? Two nights ago, I filled ours for a good soak on the first really chilly evening of fall. I’d forgotten the great talent our tub displays when the water has filled to the programmed (by us) level and heated to our desired temperature. Preceded by great musical fanfare, as if announcing the entry of a king, a lovely female voice emits from the bathtub control box that comes complete with speakers to announce, in Japanese of course, that all bath preparations are complete. If you didn’t know what was happening, you’d be more than startled; you’d surely gasp as you grabbed for a towel to avoid the eyes of a Peeping Tom (or, rather, Tommi) at the window. While fully enjoying the soak, I couldn’t help but smile at the imaginary scene. Different, definitely. But comfortable, too. After all, this is our home.

Being There, Here

Skype--almost like being there in person

I’ve been eating a whole bunch of vegetables and fruits lately—all that good cancer-fighting stuff—and one thing is certain: my grandma bragging rights have been nourished and are in top form. Yes, it’s another Little Ben story, but please don’t hold that against either of us, and please do keep reading.

Thanks to the computer and Skype, we’re watching our grandson grow up even though we’re separated by oceans and nations. Amazing! During our early time in Japan more than thirty years ago, we had a two-color television (purple and green, and even those colors were iffy on the set we’d retrieved from the trash); no telephone in our two-room apartment (and cell phones didn’t yet exist); and a pit toilet in an attached building. We wrote letters by hand that took seven days to reach America. If someone on the other end was an eager letter-writer (unfortunately, most of our friends and many of our family were not), we received a reply in another week on top of that. When Bernie’s grandmother died unexpectedly of a heart attack, a telegram brought the sad news in choppy sentences written to conserve words and money while still conveying the essential message. The thought of making an international telephone call was akin to dialing the moon or even going there; it just wasn’t done. Today we call our children and grandson at least daily.

And when we do, we hear a cute little voice, “Coco? Papaw?” (Little Ben’s names for us.) We may hear this numerous times and with growing insistence and impatience until our computers finally get in sync. Then suddenly, when Little Ben sees our faces, his voice rises with excitement as he rejoices, nearly singing, “Hiiiiiiiii.” It’s as if he’s been waiting to see us for an eternity—which, in the time understanding of a 20-month-old, it may be. His longing to see us quickly satisfied, Little Ben scoots down off his mother’s lap and is gone in an instant to other more pressing matters.

In the meantime, our hearts have melted yet again. How could we be so lucky as to be there (in China) while we are yet here (in Japan)? We’d love to run next door for a hug—if he lived that close—but considering our own experience of thirty years ago and how wonderfully different it is today, we have no complaints at all about this arrangement that allows us to be there, here.

We’re also rejoicing as we experience being here, there. What an incredible year this has been for us as the word cancer has morphed from being someone else’s encounter to being ours, up close and personal. We have obeyed the instructions of James 5:15, “Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up.”

We’ve learned that people all over the world also are obeying James’ directions on our behalf. Though proxies who have stood in our place, we have continued being here as we are there, being anointed and prayed for countless times for healing. With Little Ben, it’s technology that makes it possible to be there, here. As amazing as that is, it is nothing in comparison to the incredible family of God as it unifies to pray, keeping us here, where God has placed us, while allowing us to be there where we are supported and comforted by the loving embrace of the family. Why would we desire anything else?