Don’t Cry in Your Miso Soup
I’ve met the neighbor a few times. He’s a very kind gentleman who always gives the family omiyage when he comes back from a trip or just for fun. Takae has told me he’s a Christian and attends a church…somewhere. He lost his wife a few years ago and lives by himself in the suburban neighborhood. Active in a group for retired-age people he has some friends and stays busy. He also cooks for himself since his wife passed away which made everyone nervous when he invited us over for dinner. Okaasan made a casserole dish to bring…just in case.
We rang the doorbell and he invited us in warmly as we exchanged our shoes for house slippers in the genkan. He had place settings all around a large table and some food ready to eat. Everything looked delicious! Then the secret weapon came out: a woman from his active group offered to come and help him cook for the occasion! Aha. Looks like Okaasan didn’t need to make that casserole after all.
There was plenty of food to go around, course after course, and I couldn’t eat all of it. The fellows were drinking beer and sake to achieve the weekend mood; Otoosan’s face quickly turned bright red and Grandpa (Ojiichan) was talking livelier by the minute, hardly stopping for anyone’s input. I couldn’t understand most of what they were talking about but I enjoyed the uplifting atmosphere. That was, until, I noticed a change of pace in conversation. The kind neighbor who had invited us over was telling a story, using his hands to draw pictures in the air and punctuate his sentences. Everyone was listening respectfully and I caught a few words I recognized.
Radiation.
Bomb.
Boat.
Island.
Family.
Takae translated the story for me and I listened with two ears: one in Japanese for the emotion, and one in English for the meaning.
This kind man who invited us over watched his entire family die in Hiroshima. He was just a kid in first grade when the officials started evacuating the children, herding them onto large ferry boats to an island offshore for safety. His mother, father, and older siblings did not merit a ride, nor did any of his extended family of aunts, uncles, or grandparents. Just him, riding away across the inlet sea, turning around to see the mushroom cloud rise far up into the sky. He returned to the ashes of his family.
Someone asked how well he remembered it.
“Like it was yesterday. I remember everything.”
America did that. My ancestors did that. We killed his family, left him orphaned at age 7. Here he was sharing his dinner with me and looking at me with friendly, loving eyes, proud to have me as a guest in his house. I have never been so humbled in my life; I started crying into my miso soup with my head down. That kind of forgiveness is something I can’t even fathom except by the grace of God.
Essentially that is what the story of Jesus is all about: I did something terrible against God, betrayed him and turned my back on Him. I followed evil people and did wrong things like lying and cheating. These things against God can’t be allowed and I had to be separated from Him since His perfectness can’t be in the same place as evil. A price had to be paid for my mistakes. A high price: death. Only blood of a truly innocent person could save me from this penalty. But where can you find an innocent person willing to die for you? It’s not like there are sinless people just lining the streets looking for a one-way ticket to death for a crime they didn’t commit. Jesus did though; He volunteered to take my place. He died for me and forgave me of the sins that made Him die in the first place.
Sitting at the dining room table with this incredible man made me think of the sacrifice and forgiveness of Jesus Christ and I can’t help but tell both stories at the same time. They are just that powerful.
You can read history books all you want about WWII and why America dropped two atomic bombs on Japanese citizens. You can read about the horrors of the war from both sides and the how’s and why’s of men’s actions, explanations and strategies and excuses of the rules of engagement. What you can’t read about and what you’ll never truly understand is the forgiveness that comes with pure love unless you experience it.
I’ve met the neighbor a few times. He’s a very kind gentleman who always gives the family omiyage when he comes back from a trip or just for fun. Takae has told me he’s a Christian and attends a church…somewhere. He lost his wife a few years ago and lives by himself in the suburban neighborhood. Active in a group for retired-age people he has some friends and stays busy. He also cooks for himself since his wife passed away which made everyone nervous when he invited us over for dinner. Okaasan made a casserole dish to bring…just in case.
We rang the doorbell and he invited us in warmly as we exchanged our shoes for house slippers in the genkan. He had place settings all around a large table and some food ready to eat. Everything looked delicious! Then the secret weapon came out: a woman from his active group offered to come and help him cook for the occasion! Aha. Looks like Okaasan didn’t need to make that casserole after all.
There was plenty of food to go around, course after course, and I couldn’t eat all of it. The fellows were drinking beer and sake to achieve the weekend mood; Otoosan’s face quickly turned bright red and Grandpa (Ojiichan) was talking livelier by the minute, hardly stopping for anyone’s input. I couldn’t understand most of what they were talking about but I enjoyed the uplifting atmosphere. That was, until, I noticed a change of pace in conversation. The kind neighbor who had invited us over was telling a story, using his hands to draw pictures in the air and punctuate his sentences. Everyone was listening respectfully and I caught a few words I recognized.
Radiation.
Bomb.
Boat.
Island.
Family.
Takae translated the story for me and I listened with two ears: one in Japanese for the emotion, and one in English for the meaning.
This kind man who invited us over watched his entire family die in Hiroshima. He was just a kid in first grade when the officials started evacuating the children, herding them onto large ferry boats to an island offshore for safety. His mother, father, and older siblings did not merit a ride, nor did any of his extended family of aunts, uncles, or grandparents. Just him, riding away across the inlet sea, turning around to see the mushroom cloud rise far up into the sky. He returned to the ashes of his family.
Someone asked how well he remembered it.
“Like it was yesterday. I remember everything.”
America did that. My ancestors did that. We killed his family, left him orphaned at age 7. Here he was sharing his dinner with me and looking at me with friendly, loving eyes, proud to have me as a guest in his house. I have never been so humbled in my life; I started crying into my miso soup with my head down. That kind of forgiveness is something I can’t even fathom except by the grace of God.
Essentially that is what the story of Jesus is all about: I did something terrible against God, betrayed him and turned my back on Him. I followed evil people and did wrong things like lying and cheating. These things against God can’t be allowed and I had to be separated from Him since His perfectness can’t be in the same place as evil. A price had to be paid for my mistakes. A high price: death. Only blood of a truly innocent person could save me from this penalty. But where can you find an innocent person willing to die for you? It’s not like there are sinless people just lining the streets looking for a one-way ticket to death for a crime they didn’t commit. Jesus did though; He volunteered to take my place. He died for me and forgave me of the sins that made Him die in the first place.
Sitting at the dining room table with this incredible man made me think of the sacrifice and forgiveness of Jesus Christ and I can’t help but tell both stories at the same time. They are just that powerful.
You can read history books all you want about WWII and why America dropped two atomic bombs on Japanese citizens. You can read about the horrors of the war from both sides and the how’s and why’s of men’s actions, explanations and strategies and excuses of the rules of engagement. What you can’t read about and what you’ll never truly understand is the forgiveness that comes with pure love unless you experience it.
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