Seeing "our" babies off at Narita AirportI don’t usually cry at airports. Goings and comings are such a part of the lives of missionaries that you get used to it. Kind of. Not that we aren’t sad to see someone leave or to go ourselves, but you just can’t cry at every departure. What a reputation you’d get, not to mention the headaches you’d have to endure and all the tissues you’d have to buy. My kids don’t allow me to cry quietly at movies or TV shows in the privacy of my own home. Can you imagine the scene they’d create in an airport?
All of which is to say that I was truly surprised at my tears the other day when we saw off our daughter and her two children at Narita Airport. I was completely unprepared when the tears welled up in my eyes as I kissed our grandchildren.
“Mama, don’t start that,” Stephanie warned me, as if I had some control and could turn the spigot on and off at will. But it was too late anyway; there was no holding the tears back. Poor Little Ben. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with his Coco; he was obviously worried about me. Still, I couldn’t bite my lip and force the tears back inside. Trying to smile through tears, I waved at them as they disappeared into the security area. Even after I could see them no longer, my cheeks were wet with the parting.
Although this time my tears were fewer and more controlled, the scene reminded me of the first time we left Japan 30 years ago. During our three years of living in Japan, we’d made many friends and had become very comfortable. Now we were headed “home” to America and I didn’t expect to see Japan and our friends here ever again. After saying farewell to about 20 people who’d accompanied us to the airport and managing to keep smiling through it all, I started down the jet way. Suddenly the tears were as evident as the carry on bag I was wrestling to control. By the time we were seated, a few tears had multiplied into a torrent and I couldn’t stop crying.
But last Saturday? What was that all about? After all, our plans are to see Stephanie’s family again in May. That’s less than four months away—hardly an eternity. Considering all that is packed into the weeks between now and then, our next time together will be here before I know it. Why was I crying like this?
Pondering my unexpected display of emotion, I fished in my coat pocket for a tissue and found a used one to recycle; it was better than nothing. And suddenly I understood. What had happened really had much less to do with Stephanie and our grandchildren than with the uncertainties of living with cancer. No one has any guarantee that plans they make will come to pass, that they will live beyond the present moment. It’s a certainty we all know if we stop to think about it. But unless one is quite old—I’m not there yet, no matter what anybody says—it takes a catastrophic illness like cancer or a disastrous natural calamity like the Haiti earthquake to remind us of the truth we’d rather deny: life is a fragile gift that we hold only tentatively in our hands.
It’s irresponsible not to make plans and preparations for the future. In fact, I’m eagerly looking forward to May as I check date books, get airplane reservations, and take care of other related details to make it all happen. But the truth of the matter—and the attitude I want to live by—is best expressed by David in Psalm 31:14-15: “I trust in you, O Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hands.” Indeed.
