The Best Medicine

Laughing it up with a manikin in China

“Better to laugh than cry, says I.” It was the motto Naomi and I tried to remember as we worked together as resident assistants in a freshman dormitory during our junior year of college. It seemed like our floor of girls had more than its share of problems, taxing both our wisdom and relational skills. They also threatened our emotional well being (both the girls and their problems). The phrase, Naomi’s brainchild, helped return smiles to our faces and laughter to our hearts (if not our lips), even in the most trying of times.

If I didn’t have cancer, I might say that my urologist is one of my biggest trials these days. Don’t misunderstand me—he’s a skilled doctor and I am very grateful for his care over the past year. But bedside manner? That he is lacking in this department is an understatement of classic proportions.

Take, for example, the day in March 2009 when he discussed my surgery options. If he removed my kidney with a laparoscopic procedure, the surgical trauma would be minimized because he would be working through four holes in my left side. (Pardon my simplifying things so greatly.) If I elected for him to perform open surgery, he would be able to see better (no use of monitors) and any excessive bleeding that might suddenly occur could be dealt with more easily and quickly. The down side, however, would be a longer recovery time and more unsightly scarring, although since I’d long ago retired my bikini, I really had little reason to care. Still, I chose the more difficult procedure as I considered a swifter recovery.

“That’s good,” my doctor agreed with my decision. “I’m not sure I could cut through all your belly fat if you’d chosen open surgery.”

I was too stunned—and embarrassed—by his words to retort, though many not-too-nice thoughts about his lack of bedside manner crowded my head. I’m sure I also shot a few daggers with my eyes. They must have missed him, though, because his bedside manner never improved.

Just last week came his latest verbal faux pas as I was discussing my rising blood pressure. According to the literature on Sutent, my anti-cancer drug, heart stress is a common side effect—which makes you wonder why this doctor has never once taken my blood pressure or even asked about it during this past year! (For that matter, he’s never checked my weight, either, although remembering my inordinate belly fat, that’s probably a good thing. But that’s another story.)

In any case, I reported to my doctor in layman’s terms that my blood pressure had risen into the 150-165 range on top, with the bottom number in the 100-110 range. With hardly a flicker of interest, he assured me that this isn’t dangerous yet. “Besides,” he added nonchalantly, “elderly people tend to have higher blood pressure anyway.”

After a year of experiencing his limited bedside manner, I was ready for this jolt to my self-esteem. “Doctor,” I responded emphatically, “I am not elderly!” “Oh, excuse me,” he mumbled in reply, his sincerity definitely questionable. Still, I let it go, covering my chagrin with laughter no more truthful than his apology had been.

Since then, however, I’ve related the incident numerous times to friends and family. Each telling is more enjoyable and the laughter is genuine. In the process, I’ve relearned the truth that laughter really is the best medicine (and it costs nothing, unlike Sutent).

Realistically, Dr. M. probably won’t change his bedside manner, even if more of his patients chide him. (Of course, no polite Japanese would ever be so bold or bad-mannered as to challenge a doctor. They leave that to the foreigners.) Nevertheless, I’m feeling much better, thanks to this wonderful elixir. I think I’m due for another dose right now.

Tears of Truth

Seeing "our" babies off at Narita Airport

I 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.

The Dream

Patting Hosanna to sleep in her drawer-crib

I didn’t know where I was or who was with me, but they were clear—the woman and her two children. It was equally clear to me that they had needs I was trying to meet.

“May I talk with you?” she asked, indicating with a slight nod of her head that we could go into the other room, away from the children. I followed her there, but so did her little ones, just as if they were her shadow. But unlike that permanent fixture on a sunny day, they agreed to leave us—just for a minute—so we could speak privately.

“I need a friend,” she whispered in a voice choked with tears. It was almost as if her admission had shamed her, yet she continued, “Will you be my friend?”

My heart, overwhelmed with compassion for this unknown woman, propelled me into her arms. Now tears were dampening my own cheeks. “I need a friend, too,” I confessed, suddenly overcome with loneliness, sadness, and my own neediness. “Will you be my friend?”

Then the dream was over—at least I don’t remember any more of it. In fact, I didn’t recall this scene until the next evening. In the midst of a made-for-television movie, I randomly shared it with my family although it had absolutely nothing to do with what we were watching. I have no idea what brought it to mind, but once again my eyes welled and overflowed in two single streams down my face.

What do dreams mean? I’m not an interpreter, nor do I think there is much use in dwelling on these partial scenes that fill the nighttime and occasionally spill over into the day. But I’d been held prisoner by the loneliness that permeated my dream and I couldn’t seem to shake it. It lingered not as the fragrance of a lovely scented candle long after it’s been extinguished, but rather like a persistent headache that, despite medication, is just under the surface and ready to explode into a debilitating migraine at any time.

In the quietness of the darkened room as I patted my granddaughter to sleep last night, the Lord came to me in my thoughts and reminded me not of a dream, but of reality. “My child, have I not promised never to leave you, never to forsake you?” he asked me in the kindest, most loving voice I’ve ever heard. “Why are you so lonely?”

One after another, God then recapped for me the significant ways he had shown me his presence in the past few days alone: through e-mails of concern from many people; through lunch at the home of a friend who greeted me, “You’re looking wonderful!” when I’d been suffering with the unsmiling, tired, way-too-old, way-too-soon face that stared back at me from the mirror; through unsolicited, completely unexpected checks that had arrived to help ease the financial burdens my cancer journey has brought us; through the visit of good friends who, in the midst of their busyness, wanted to say in person, “We’re thinking of you.”

And then, snatches of scripture came to mind. Although I could not recall them fully—I’ve never excelled in Bible verse memorization—enough pieces of the Lord’s message to me were there to be woven into a loosely knit shawl that wrapped itself around my shoulders and swaddled me lovingly in comfort. In that embrace, I prayed for my three-week-old granddaughter to sleep well and soon snuggled in my own bed.

This morning, I found the rest of the message that had consoled and reassured me last night. I’m embarrassed that the words were even highlighted in my Bible:

“Do you not know? Have you not heart? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint” (Isaiah 40:28-31).

And I? The loneliness I’d not realized had vanished, like a dream at the first hint of dawn. Once again, God had proven his faithfulness.

Celebrating New

Celebrating new life in our family! Celebrating new life in Christ!

Praising the Lord
“He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God” (Psalm 40:3). At the start of another year, we have so many reasons to praise God as we celebrate new: a new year of marriage (34 on January 10); a new year of life and ministry in Japan (we’re now in our 30th year); a new life in Christ; and a new member of our family. Please praise God and “celebrate new” with us as we share about these significant events.

A baptism at Tamagawa Church
December 20 was an exciting day at Tamagawa Church. Not only did we celebrate Jesus’ birth, but we also celebrated the birth of a new sister in Christ. It was a long road for Aiko Mizushima, whom Bernie baptized that day. The daughter of a strong Christian mother, Mizushima-san attended Sunday school at Tamagawa Church in elementary school. Then she entered Tamagawa Seigakuin for junior/senior high school, spending six more years learning from the Bible at the Christian mission school where Bernie is headmaster. As a third-year junior higher, Mizushima-san made a decision to give her heart to the Lord. However, uncertainty held her back from baptism. “Maybe,” she thought, “I’ll understand more later. Then I’ll be baptized.”

But later got even later. After Mizushima-san married and became a mother, she sent both of her children to nursery school at Tamagawa Church. During these six years, she participated in a Bible class for parents. But her thought was always, “When I know more ….” Eventually she stopped attending church, pulling away from all she’d been taught and believed as she struggled with depression.

Last fall, Mizushima-san finally came full circle and returned to Tamagawa Church. One decisive factor was the yet-strong faith of her 95-year-old mother. Living in a round-the-clock care facility, Nozaki-san is not in good health. But when her mind cooperates, she continues to love to sing hymns of faith, a faith that has had a definite influence on her family. Finally coming to accept the truth that it is enough just to believe John 3:16—that God so loved the world; that God so loved Mizushima-san herself—she made the decision to be baptized. Now well into her 60s, she is both amazed that her journey to complete faith in Christ took so long and grateful that God is patient and waited for her so long. Join us in celebrating new—new life in Christ.

Another new life
Join us in celebrating the birth of Hosanna Kordor Lyngdoh, Stephanie and Donald’s second child and our second grandchild (first granddaughter). Hosanna was born here in Tokyo on December 29 (one of the reasons this newsletter is so late!) and weighed in at 5 pounds, 11 ounces. We are truly rejoicing in this new miracle of life and in the privilege of sharing in her birth. By the way, Kordor means “precious” in Donald’s native tongue,
Khasi, one of the tribal languages of northeast India.

Update on Cheryl
At this writing, Cheryl is into a two-week rest period at the end of her third round of powerful anti-cancer medication. We praise God that the Sutent seems to be doing what we’d prayed and hoped for—suppress the cancer. However, we have some continuing prayer concerns. Please join us in praying about these:

●Our (former) insurance company has been very difficult to work with. Please pray that payment for the anti-cancer drug purchased last fall will be forthcoming quickly;
●As of January 1, we have a new insurance company and many new and unanswered questions. Pray we will find solutions to enable us to continue our ministry in Japan;
●We are working for Cheryl to become a patient at the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. This, too, is proving to be complicated process. Please pray that we’ll be able to navigate all the red tape and requirements as expeditiously as possible; and,
●Pray that the Sutent will continue to be effective and useable for Cheryl. Although her energy level held quite well during the holidays, some of the side effects since that time have been more difficult, especially the mouth sores and the nosebleeds. Her doctor in Japan has not shown much interest in the side effects (which seems to be a common complaint of Japanese about their doctors). Pray that she’ll be able to find some remedies to help lessen the side effects.

We cannot tell you how much we appreciate your continuing prayers on our behalf—for Cheryl’s health and for our ministry in Japan. We couldn’t be here without you.

On a Train a Few Days before Christmas

One of our favorite pastimes in Japan (indeed, in much of Asia) is reading t-shirt messages, advertising slogans, menus, and whatever else we see written in English. Here are some samples that have amused us:

*Looking for a new menu for Christmas? How about trying one of these: harb chicken salad, casserole of cow’s intestines, or cram chowder?

*Considering a new destination during the holidays? “Fry me to the moon” in a “lent a car” might be an option.

*Still need to buy one last Christmas gift? What about rice crackers (osenbi, in Japanese) —if you can figure out this advertising description: “A rice cracker of the soy sauce taste that percentage let taste soak on purpose.” Get one for 250 yen (about $2.75) or a whole bag, a real bargain, for 500 yen ($5.50).

The other day I was making fun of yet another English gaffe—this one on a Christmas card we’d received: Be a Merry and Happy Christmas—when Bernie commented, “I rather like that mistake.” Hearing my eyebrows raise, he answered my unspoken question. “More than having a merry Christmas, wouldn’t it be great to be a merry Christmas for someone else?” he asked. The more I thought about it, the more I agreed. Yes, I thought, I would like to be a merry Christmas.

But I’d certainly failed the day before on an impossibly packed commuter train. I was first in line to board when the double doors of the just-arrived train opened. Normally at Jiyugaoka Station, after a stream of people explodes out of each car, there is space for those waiting on the platform to board. But it was different that day. After all the riders wanting to exit had, there was absolutely no open space. Where in the world had they just been riding? The inside of the car appeared no different, although a whole throng of people had just been propelled by me like human cannonballs.

Since capacity limits on Tokyo commuter trains seem to be decided by how many people can force their way onto a given train rather than by any safety considerations, those of us waiting on the platform accepted the challenge of finding the invisible space inside the packed cars. Helped by the surge behind me, I made it in. So did all those behind me, although I can’t tell you how this miracle occurred. All I know is that I ended up inside, smashed in on all sides, and standing on someone else’s feet. There was no free floor space to be found anywhere. As crushed as we all were, I doubt the unfortunate host (or hosts) to my feet even noticed, but I was certainly uncomfortable. (Okay, I wouldn’t have been comfortable even if my feet had found the floor.) All in all, as I glared at the woman whose bag was poking me painfully in the scar on my left side, I was in no mood to be a merry Christmas to her or to anyone else. All I wanted was to escape, and I honestly didn’t care who I might have to insult or injure along the way to freedom.

A merry Christmas? There was nothing merry about morning—for myself or anyone else. While I couldn’t have changed the train conditions, I could have put a smile on my face and adjusted my attitude. After all, the meaning of this season cannot be tarnished or changed, no matter what. Immanuel—God with us—even on a crowded commuter train.