Grief...again

Right now my head is a little bit all over the place. The last couple of weeks have been fairly quiet at my desk, but all of a sudden this week my work has exploded and there's plenty to do. So it's not very helpful that I'm having trouble mustering my brain this morning. But I think the main reason would be grief.

Image by Michaela 💗 from Pixabay

Sometimes it's getting hard to write here because there are themes that just keep coming up and I wonder if I've said all I can say on them? Or if I'm boring my audience?

But then I run into a new-ish missionary who asks questions about the same themes I've experienced and I remember that they are also on a journey of learning, though perhaps not as far along as me, and that perhaps I can continue to speak on these themes helpfully...

This week it's grief. On Tuesday, part of my job was to write a short obituary-like piece that was used in our mission's social media yesterday. Just doing my job, but it's about someone about my age who I knew, someone I had lunch with in Brisbane last home assignment, someone whose daughter is around the age of my kids, someone who comes from the same part of the world that I do, and who was a missionary like me. Last night we attended his funeral (online). [Link to the post I wrote is here.]

In 25+ years of service more than half-a-dozen of our missionary colleagues have died (i.e. pre-retirement age, currently in ministry when they first became ill), mostly because of cancer. It's always a shock and the questions arise: Why Lord? Why now Lord?

Even if we didn't know some of those colleagues really well, it's still a shock and a grief, and I'm often surprised by how much I get affected by each one.

But I've come to understand that the missionary life is laden with a lot of other grief, so many goodbyes and losses, many more than most people encounter this early in their lives. And that grief piles up.

This week I Googled "missionary grief" and this nine-page article came up in my browser: https://www.emsweb.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/OB_Winter_2014.pdf I've yet to steel myself to read the whole thing (I'm pretty busy this week and also not good at reading longer articles on my computer), but these points from it grabbed my attention:

"HIDDEN LOSSES are crippling many on the missionary field and they don’t even know how to identify where it all began."

The article lists typical losses missionaries experience when they first go to the field, and, I would argue, ongoing losses:

• language (the ability to communicate)
• identity
• a place in society
• life skills
• sense of safety (less in Japan)
• family (knowing the wider family and seeing them regularly, and these goodbyes happen again and again)
• friends
• intellectual and professional peers
• places (e.g. favourite places in home country)
• things (e.g. favourite foods, familiar furniture, house)
• pets
• smells (familiar scents from home country)

Many of the above are "hidden" losses, many of these we often don't identify or notice. 

The difficulty with many of the losses of a missionary life is that there is no funeral, no socially acceptable way to acknowledge our loss. And indeed, it might even seem that we don't have permission to admit that we are grieving these things.

I am attentive when a younger colleague mentions a sadness that is in the list above, because I know that it is not going to get any easier, if they continue to work as a missionary. 

Life happens at a fast pace and missionaries make massive transitions that involve multiple griefs all at once, there is often simply a lack of time and emotional energy to process. As well as that, we live life amidst other missionaries who are also experience more transition than the average person. We build a friendship with a colleague at language school and they graduate and move to another part of the country. We build another friendship with a colleague who lives near our place of service and they go on home assignment, or we do and when we get back, they have moved somewhere else. No one is having a "funeral" about these losses; we sometimes get to say goodbyes, but they are hard to do again and again and again.

Another quote from the article, sorry it's a bit long:

“Ambiguous grief” is a response to “an unclear loss that defies closure.” This barrier stems . . . hidden losses. The losses are hard to acknowledge and therefore the response of grief is muted.  The groundbreaking work of Dr. Pauline Boss in her book entitled Loss, Trauma, and Resilience; Therapeutic Work with Ambiguous Loss is very helpful in understanding this barrier. Dr. Boss explains, “…ambiguous loss is the most stressful kind of loss. It defies resolution and creates long-term confusion…. With death there is an official certification of loss, and mourning rituals allow one to say goodbye. With ambiguous loss, none of these markers exists. The persisting ambiguity blocks cognition, coping, and meaning making and freezes the grief process.” Ambiguous grief is born from a loss that is often hard to recognize, therefore it is also hard to resolve. In order to overcome this barrier to grief we must make a concerted effort to name these hidden losses so that the grief process can be experienced.

As you get older you accumulate grief. I see this in older people—they're gradually losing their friends, parents and siblings, their professions, and their strength and health—it takes a toll. Missionaries accumulate grief at a faster pace, though:

 Accumulated grief is usually a result of ignoring many small losses and allowing them to build up. . . . Although the losses many missionaries experience may seem trivial and small, much like the paper cut, their accumulated effect cannot and should not be ignored.  (also from the above linked article)

Hence, I'm writing here today about grief. Because I have accumulated a lot of small paper cuts, and larger grief-wounds over the years and a death like we experienced in our community last week hits deeply. It's easy to rush into the next thing (my work on the magazine and in social media hasn't stopped, the emails coming across my desk haven't stopped, I still have a dental check up today and a seminar to attend this evening). But I'm instead taking a moment today to stop and process my thoughts by writing.

To newer missionaries and those who are headed that way: I don't want to discourage you. This calling we've received is hard, but it's not impossible. Indeed, the text that Steve chose for his funeral was Joshua 1:1–11. These are a bunch of instructions from God to Joshua, just after the death of Moses. He uses this phrase, or similar words three number of times: "be strong and courageous". Why? Because "I [God] will never leave you nor forsake you" (said explicitly twice in the passage, but also implied in other words multiple times). Because our God is great and has promised to be with us wherever we are, because he's called us into this work—he will provide all we need, he will be all we need. Fix your eyes on him, again, and again.

To those who have been around longer and are feeling this deeply. Take some time. Reach out to someone to talk it through. Journal. Take a walk. Acknowledge this accumulated grief.

To people who pray for missionaries: Keep praying. Let them know you are praying for them. See if there's anything practical you can do to help one of them. Remember when you see them that they are carrying some accumulated grief, and ask God how you can help. Ask good questions.

Change and farewells…again

On Thursday I said another farewell. This one was a bit smaller than many, but still another farewell that stacks on top of the dozens and dozens we’ve said over the years.

Here’s a glimpse into (mostly) just the last three months:

Just three months ago I met a short-term worker in the city to welcome her to Japan and to our social media team. She had a three-month visa, and we didn’t know if she’d stay only three months, or if she’d be able to stay longer. Turns out that three months was all we had her for, despite trying for a visa extension. She’s the first short-termer I’ve had the privilege of working so closely with, and it’s been an enjoyable experience. She’s the same age as our eldest son, which made me feel old, but her age and energy was very suited to this ministry (in which I often feel like a dinosaur). We talked for a couple of hours on Thursday about various things, including emotional stuff that she’s facing as she returns to the Philippines. I feel privileged to have been a small part of her life at this time and pray that God would continue to lead her for the future.

Rachel, the short-term worker who was here
for three months

Earlier last week I said farewell to another social media team member. I’ve worked with this colleague for about three years and it is sad to see her go, but it's also has been a pleasure to work alongside her and see her grow. I’m not sure if I’ll ever see either of these ladies again.

A couple of months ago one of my magazine team members told me that due to family reasons he would be leaving Japan in the middle of 2025. He’s only been with the team a couple of years and originally joined to fill some of the gaps I left to go on home assignment. We’ve worked quite closely on one portion of the magazine process in the last 10 months and I really have appreciated his industry knowledge (he used to work as a journalist). It was a shock to hear he was leaving, but I’m getting better at my poker face when I hear news like this. We’ve been praying for a replacement for him. Just the other day I had a conversation with another team member who’s thankfully willing to take this specialist role on for a while and also heard the same day of someone else who's been on the edge of our team for several years who might be willing to share that role. 

We also got a surprising email earlier in the week about one of the OMF Japan field leaders who’s been considered for an international leadership role, which is a vacancy we’d been praying someone would fill (but not someone from our backyard, please God!). If he gets accepted for this, then that will be another loss for OMF Japan leadership that needs filling. This is noteworthy, because our OMF Japan leadership team of seven people is already undergoing a lot of transition: two members have recently left (one of those is yet to be replaced), a third is about to leave next month, and a fourth is leaving this time next year. Most of these leaders are remaining in Japan, but have moved in different roles. One of the leaders I’ve worked with a lot over the last 15 years, but will hardly see when she returns in a couple of months because she's moving to a different part of Japan.

On New Year’s Eve we had dinner with another (non-OMF) couple we’ve known and appreciated for almost 20 years—they’re retiring to the US. 

Another couple we’ve spent a lot of time with are going on home assignment in the middle of this year and are unsure what their future holds as they both have elderly and needy mothers in the UK.

Another colleague I spoke with on Friday also is unsure about her future in Japan after home assignment next year.

Then on Saturday night we heard that a former colleague who's been struggling with cancer for many years passed away in Singapore. 

How well we know/knew each of these colleagues varies greatly, but when I stop and think about it, the number of farewells just keeps piling up, like a relentless drip, drip, drip of a tap that we can't turn off. I tend to push it down and away and try not to think about it too much, but it can be depressing. Being called to “stay” is not easy.

I was unable to finish this blog post when I started it on Friday, and so have spent some time thinking in the meantime. I discovered this article on Missio Nexus. It talks about the accumulated grief and ambiguous grief, especially in relation to missionaries. It's helpful to note that small griefs can build up if they aren't acknowledged, until they really are overwhelming. And in missionary life, ambiguous grief often gets swept under the carpet. It's expected that our lives will contain much that is now being recognised as loss, and not just "hard but normal". I'm glad to be able to speak up about these things. It's starting to become more of a conversation within missionary circles, but I'd like others to know about it too (hence what I said into a microphone in front of 200+ ladies in October 2023).

One thing that I know is important is recognising loss and naming it, so writing about it here is part of grieving these things. I'm tempted to compare, saying that the losses we experience are nothing like the loss of a child, or parent, or spouse. Yet apparently comparison is also unhelpful. I guess it encourages the impulse to not grieve these things and therefore contributing to accumulated grief, so I won't compare.

I was listening to the Bible on Friday and was up to the portion in Acts where Paul is heading back to Jerusalem where it is foretold that he might be killed. I realised that he said a lot of goodbyes in his ministry too. Acts 20 records a long farewell speech he made to the church’s leaders in Ephesus, including these sentences:

“‘Now I know that none of you among whom I have gone about preaching the kingdom will ever see me again.” (Acts 20:25 NIVUK)

“When Paul had finished speaking, he knelt down with all of them and prayed. They all wept as they embraced him and kissed him. What grieved them most was his statement that they would never see his face again. Then they accompanied him to the ship” (vv. 36-38).

Next verse:

 “After we had torn ourselves away from them, we put out to sea and sailed straight to Kos. The next day we went to Rhodes and from there to Patara” (21:1).

“After saying goodbye to each other, we went aboard the ship, and they returned home.” (21:6)

“Then Paul answered, ‘Why are you weeping and breaking my heart? I am ready not only to be bound, but also to die in Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Jesus’” (21:13).

This last verse shows his resolve, despite the pain it must have been causing him.

Ah, once again I find myself longing for heaven where we will have no more tears, no more farewells or uncertain futures. I need to go running back to all those verses about God being my strong tower, my rock, my firm foundation! And be like a tree planted by a stream with my roots deep in him so that my leaves do not wither (Psalm 1). And pray these verses for myself (and others like me who struggle with these constant goodbyes):

“I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge – that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God” (Ephesians‬ ‭3‬:‭16‬-‭19‬).

An audaciously big question

I was recently asked to fill in a form for our organisation that included the question “What emotions characterize your last two years?” 

Yep, it’s two-year-review time. I’ve reviewed my attitude and just got on with filling out this form that includes lots of hard questions like this (I’ve been grumpy about this process in the past).

Last time I did this (2021) I also blogged about it. Here’s a portion of what I wrote:

“I don't think I got any surprises as I went through the questions this time, although the question about "What subjects have you thought about in the last two years?" always flabbergasts me: no one really wants a detailed answer to that! “

But back to what kind of emotions characterize the last two years? Words like sadness, isolation, and anxiety came to mind. That’s a different group of words than I usually have written on this form in the past (we’ve done this approximately every two years since 2000).

What’s changed? We’ve experienced loss, but not the sort that immediately comes to mind. I’m currently reading a book called A Grace Disguised (revised and expanded) by Jerry L. Sittser. This book is about how the soul grows through loss and is intertwined with his personal story of losing his mum, wife, and one of his daughters in the same car accident. That kind of loss makes most of us feel shocked and automatically we start comparing. He addresses this upfront in the chapter “Whose loss is worse?” I was encouraged by this:

"There is a different kind of loss that inevitably occurs in all of our lives . . . this kind of loss has more devastating results, and it is irreversible. Such loss includes terminal illness, disability, divorce, rape, emotional abuse, physical and sexual abuse, chronic unemployment, crushing disappointment, mental illness, and ultimately death. If normal, natural, reversible loss is like a broken limb, then catastrophic loss is like an amputation. The results are permanent, the impact in calculable, the consequences cumulative. Each new day forces one to face some new and devastating dimension of the loss. It creates a whole new context for one's life."

I’m so grateful this list includes mental illness and disability. These are the realm of loss that we’ve inhabited in the last couple of years. Not a sudden loss, nor one that has a clear beginning or ending. But a loss nonetheless. It’s helpful for me to acknowledge that this hasn’t been without consequence in my soul and the context of our lives has changed, even if it’s hard to see for the outsider.

I haven’t finished the book yet, but I’m looking forward to seeing where he goes with this. Part of the pain is related to struggling to see what the future holds. The dreams you had in the past no longer give comfort. Sittser writes:

“Loss creates a barren present, as if one is sailing on a vast see of nothingness. Those who suffer loss live suspended between at past for which they long and a future for which they hope. They want to return to the harbor of the familiar past and recover what was lost—good heath, happy relationships, a secure job. Or they want to sail on and discover a meaningful future that promised to bring them life again—successful surgery, a second marriage, a better job. Instead, they find themselves living in a barren present that is empty of meaning. Memories of the past only remind them of what they have lost; hope for the future only taunts them with an unknown too remote even to imagine.”

Some part of the practical, competent me says I’m being melodramatic, that this isn’t true of me, that what’s going on for us isn’t that bad. But then my body quietly whispers signs that I shouldn’t ignore.

I’m sorry if I’m writing in riddles here. I wish I could tell you more details about our story, but it really is not completely my story to tell, so I won’t, at least not right now. And that’s part of the isolation that I’ve felt. Not that I’ve don’t have friends who regularly ask me how I really am. But that I don’t have many people who I feel able to really open up to about how I really feel. I did dump some stuff on an unsuspecting friend the other day: someone I hadn’t seen for three years. She looked shell-shocked, and I realised that I’d overstepped an invisible line . . . Again.

Whenever I get to this point in a blog post I’m confronted by the decision of how to finish it off. There’s no obvious conclusion. But maybe back to the question of emotions that have characterised these last two years. I did have some positive emotions that I might have included in the list, like contentment and joy. Yes, I think loss can teach you that your soul can expand to allow you to experience immense opposites, even at the same time.

I highly recommend this book. In the “praise” section at the start, someone wrote:

“Our souls need stories of how other people have overcome challenges so we can believe that our own hard stories can be ones that testify to our overcoming as well.”

I hope that my blog can be also a vehicle for helping others, in a small way, to believe that they too can make it through hard times.

"Come forth"

We had a rough week last week. I can't share the details—it's not my story to tell—but it involved the death of someone we knew. I've been a bit lost for words, but I did know that, in the midst of my current busy-ness I needed to find time and space to think about this loss and that writing is one way that I do that. So I took some time on Monday to go to a park and think about the week that's past (when the weather was warm and the rest of my family were home on a long weekend). But the writing I did then is not something I can share here.

Monday was an unusually spring-like day, even
if many of the trees are still leafless.

But I also remembered that I'd decided to work my way through a book called Come Closer by writing about one verse a month (corresponding to one chapter in the book). And it turns out that the next chapter in that book is about death. About the story of Lazarus' resurrection:

Jesus said, "Lazarus, come forth" (John 11:43.)

Oh, don't we all wish that the Lord would say that for loved ones we've lost? We groan in this death and pain-marred world.

We don't want it in our lives, we try to deny that it happens. But can we allow it to turn our eyes to the truth? That we were made for Eden, a perfect world, with no sin or death. That our longings for an unmarred world are really longing for that, and for life everlasting in heaven. Read God's words:

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”
And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new. (Revelations 21:3–5 ESV)

Right now we don't know the answer to the "Whys?" And that's not comfortable. But for those of us who follow the God of the Bible, we do know that there is a future in which all of this pain will be gone. And for those who have gone before us, that their pain is now all in the past. That is something to hold on to, even as we mourn their loss to us.

I'm also left with the question, like last time I wrote on this "Come" series—how can I live abundant life now, even as I get weighed down by the griefs of this life? I think one key is found in one of my favourite passages. Looking to Jesus—

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that
you may not grow weary or fainthearted. (Hebrews 12:1–3 ESV)

Music played a part in my reflections at the park on Monday. Here's one song I missed, though:

 

 

Lamenting this Christmas-time

This topic of lament has come up for me multiple times this year. More often than usual. Possibly because collectively we've experienced more losses than any time in recent decades. I think I'm probably not too far off the mark to say that this disaster has been far more global than anything this world has seen since WW2.

So, I've been pondering lament recently, but also noticing a trend in myself. I've been struggling to see other people experience joy at being reunited with family. Yes, failing to do Romans 12:15: "Rejoice with those who rejoice" (NIV). Probably I haven't been great at the second part of that verse either "Mourn with those who mourn". Compassion fatigue? Or just plain selfishness?

The reality is that this week is probably around when our eldest son would have arrived from Australia to spend Christmas with us, had COVID-19 not derailed international travel (it's been 18 months since we've seen him). It's one of many losses this year has brought, so it's been kind of buried in our thoughts as something not so important. But maybe it's a bigger loss than I thought.

But, after pondering "lament" during the last couple of days, last night it occurred to me that this was also something I needed to bring God, complain to him, and then to leave at his feet. And repeat, as needed.

I recommend watching this 22:48 talk by Elizabeth Lewis Hall, a professor of psychology at Biola University, for some deeper thoughts on lament. I realised that, while she talked about the "anatomy" of lament, by dissecting one psalm of lament, she also talks about some of the short phrases that Jesus used on the cross (see Matt. 27:46 and Luke 23:16) as "laments". 

So a lament doesn't have to be in the form of poetry or song, with clearly thought out phrasing. It can simply be a line, even a thought, directed to God. That's encouraging for I am not especially poetic and certainly there isn't time for writing poetry every time thoughts like these overwhelm us. Writing prose, like a blog post, has helped me process my pain many a time.

Dr. Hall also talks about how putting words to our experience helps to shape our experience. When we express our sadness to God, it's changing our relationship with God, it's increasing our intimacy with him, so that's a great reason to dive into lament:

It’s important that nothing seems to be off limits in terms of what we can bring to God in our suffering. This expression of suffering in lament is a crucial element because what happens then is that our suffering is not denied and our suffering is not minimized. Suffering is not dealt with by explaining it away or by distracting ourselves from it. It’s recognized.

And when it’s recognized, that means that our suffering is legitimated. Research suggests that processing our suffering cognitively and emotionally is necessary in order for growth to occur. 

Biblical laments in psalms almost always include praise, so as we can, it's important to turn to God in praise too. I think, somehow though, in Western Christianity these days we skip the lament, and move too quickly into praise. When I've asked colleagues recently about the worst things about this year, most often they've told me of silver-linings, as if to dwell on the ugly is wrong somehow. But then, I'm not God, so perhaps they're expressing their frustration to him in the privacy of their own prayers, I don't know.

In addition to sadness that our son can't be with us this Christmas, I am also frustrated at the moment by all the people saying that they will refuse to take  COVID-19 vaccine when it is available. What they don't realise is that the more people who do that, the longer this crisis is going to go on. And the harder it's going to be for people like us, who don't live in our home country and whose immediate family is separated by an international plane flight. At the moment, the cost for us to visit Australia for a short time, is not just the cost of a flight, it would mean a total of four weeks of quarantine (two each end), and around AU$5,000 to pay for quarantine in a hotel, as is required by the Australian government, not to mention whatever costs involved in getting the required tests to just let us on a plane.

Australia is (mostly) fine at the moment because they're basically not letting people in or out. I can't see restrictions on international travel being lifted until vaccination (or a pretty darn good treatment option) is found. When I say Australia is mostly okay, I mean that there are industries and sections of the community who are hurting. For example, the education sector that relies on a large number of international students, and the travel, tourism, and hospitality sectors, obviously, plus industries that rely on backpackers, like fruit farmers.

But university students are also hurting. Our son's university did most of the entire year online, and it while it kept things moving through, our son found it a really difficult year. Yes, there is little COVID-19 infection in the community, but health isn't the only thing at stake here.

But that's enough of my ranting . . . to you. I need to go and take my frustrations to God. To quote the Bible: 

"How long, oh Lord?"

What sadness do you need to bring to God? How do you do that best?

Fear of being too much

This week it feels like we've turned a corner here. On Monday the boys finally went back to school on a usual timetable. Things feels a lot more like what we considered normal in February. I've got the house to myself again from 8.30 to 4 or later on school days! I know that is not normal for many people in cross-cultural ministry, or indeed in this current season with many people still working from home, or schools operating in a hybrid fashion. But it feels good to be returning to what our family is used to working with.

On Monday I also travelled across Tokyo for the first time on trains to a meeting at our Japan headquarters. That's the first time I've done that since early March. I was thankful that the meeting started later, so I didn't have to battle peak-hour trains and had a seat on five out of the six trains I rode on. It made the journey less stressful.

Then yesterday I went out to have coffee with a friend I haven't seen for months. I didn't have to tell anyone where I was going, or be back by a certain time. It felt free-ing.

That's not to say that everything is the same as it was in February. Every time we go out we're wearing masks. And we're still having Zoom meetings for many things. This week I had a mission small-group on Zoom as well as a parents' prayer meeting for school.

This time of year we're usually going to cross-country meets every Saturday. It's not happening this year.  I'm rejoicing that I've got sleep-ins every Saturday, but missing the interaction with other parents that these meets often provide. And these are not the only events in the coming months—where there usually are opportunities for building relationships—that have been cancelled, or radically changed.

The start of a cross-country race.

September is often when I have a second wave of grief at the losses that happened in June when the school year ended. When school starts up again, I realise that life isn't quite the same as it was. There are people missing, "empty chairs" in my life.

So it's been good to connect with two or three friends who are around, but with whom I haven't invested much time in getting to know, usually because they don't live close. It takes intentionality to get to know people who you don't see regularly, especially people who look very busy. But I've also realised of late that I have a nagging voice that warns me not to overwhelm others. A fear of "being too much" in conversation and friendship. That can make it hard to venture out to push a friendship beyond "occasional contact".

Do you ever feel this way? 

I'm not sure why I feel this way. 

Maybe a deep-seated memory from childhood of being overwhelming to others when I got over-excited. As I child I probably didn't care so much, but now I am much more sensitive to making others feel overwhelmed and therefore turning them off.

Or perhaps it is just coming to the surface now when it's pretty common in my house to be told by my teenage boys that I talk too much (they wouldn't believe they are echoing what my primary teachers repeatedly said of me...). Of course that's been exacerbated in our house over the last months when my non-family outlets have been reduced. I was once asked by a female teammate of my son, how I coped living in a house full of guys. Simple: I have girlfriends! Though it hasn't been so simple of late, has it?

Of course it's never all about me. It has a lot to do with the other person too—what their personality is, what their situation is like, etc. I know, for example, that I live in a household dominated by introverted males who aren't into talking about feelings. In this house I can easily overwhelm everyone with too many words or emotions, so I tend to pack them away and then unsuspecting others I encounter can cop the overflow later.

I love raw, authentic conversation, but I know that that is something that makes some/many others uncomfortable. I also value that authenticity reciprocated, so I ask questions that helps me understand what it's like to walk in your shoes. That too can make people uncomfortable.

But perhaps I'm indulging in too much introspection!

Anyway, this week, after a particularly emotional time at our small group, I ventured to ask a friend if I could text her more often. I even expressed my concern that I might overwhelm her, and she assured me that that wasn't the case. Ah—that was a balm to my heart.

It's hard to keep making the effort to build up friendships when you've had others torn away. That effort gets harder as we get older. And, as I've said many times before, living outside of one's own culture, the turnover rate of friendship is much higher.

That being said, I was also able to drop in on an old friend yesterday: my best Japanese friend. I was passing within 50 metres of her stationery shop, so I popped in. We go back to 2006 when we had children in the same kindergarten class (and I had a one-year old!). It is good to have local friends who stay put!

If you have read all the way to here, thank you! My blog is a safe place for me to process my thoughts, and to put a lot of words and know that if someone is feeling overwhelmed, they can easily click away! 

Cumulative grief

This is the 20th year since I first left Australia to work in Japan as a missionary. In that time I’ve said hundreds of goodbyes, the sorts of goodbyes that preceded people moving internationally. Some were “I plan to be back in a year/four years” goodbyes, others “I don’t know if or when I’ll be back”. Some were “I’m leaving”, others were “you’re leaving”. The latter is often swept under the carpet as a minor grief. But over the years I’ve said so many goodbyes that it’s become more major than any single goodbye.

So at the risk of sounding repetitive, grief, in particular my experience of grief as a missionary, is what is on my mind today.

This kind of grief has a name: cumulative grief. It occurs when there are many losses in a short time or after multiple losses on a regular basis. It is certainly something that most of us are experiencing after all the cancellations and restrictions of the last few months. Missionaries struggle with it and, I suspect elderly people too, as one by one they lose people they love over the years.

Sarita Hartz hits the nail on the head when she writes in this article that perseverance is valued in missionary circles. So the “done thing” is to push through, to carry on. (Which, as an aside also makes this kind of grief something like "disenfranchised grief" when a loss is felt, but not acknowledged by others as important; see a list of different types of grief here.)

“Missions is a field where persevering is celebrated, and stopping to grieve is shamed. It’s no wonder we have so much burnout.Our lack of authenticity and our inability to make space for it, is strangling the very mission we’ve set out to do.How can we expect to be a reflection of Jesus when we haven’t taken the time to be honest with Him about the state of our hearts?Authenticity grows in the environment of intimacy.”

Yes. I write about grief regularly, especially around this time. It’s my Achilles heel, a chronic injury, if you like. 

I said another goodbye yesterday, with someone who I’ve shared things with that I’ve told few others. I couldn’t even hug my friend. But we did get to sit in the park with our coffees.

I cried. Not just for this loss of a friend (she’s in the “I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again” category), but for all the friends I’ve lost before her.

I woke at 4 am this morning thinking of all the times we’ve spent together and the occasions when I would miss seeing her in the future.

The cruel thing about this kind of grief is that little voice inside that tells you you have nothing much to be sad about, after all, this is nothing compared to losing a child or spouse. It is not easily compared with those massive griefs. I am not immobilised, and there is no need for me to take compassionate leave just because I said goodbye to a friend yesterday. However, that doesn't mean that my losses are irrelevant, that I should ignore them.

I was very encouraged to receive this in an email from a friend who knows a bit about grief: 

“Trust me. I understand that accumulated grief. Goodbyes are so difficult. They are absolutely gut-wrenching...I'm praying for you, dear sister. What you are struggling with is normal and really hard to process. So many people don't understand that because they haven't had to go what you're going through.”

I was also encouraged by an article in Japan Harvest this year that talked about biblical lamenting. (We don't yet have a separate electronic file, but you can see it here, on p22). It encourages me to dwell in the Psalms, for example 77, or 73.

This was entirely unintentional "therapy" yesterday.
I made focaccia and veggie burgers for dinner, all from
scratch. I also did a little bit of trimming of my potted
pelargonium and these flowers were casualties. They made
a lovely addition to the table last night when I was
feeling a little shaky.

I'm not sure if I've said anything helpful here. More, just acknowledging that this is a grieving season for me. Made worse this year, I think, because it comes on top of a bunch of losses because of the pandemic (and I'm not talking about deaths here, though that could be true for some of you). And also acknowledging that writing is a form of therapy for me. It helps me to get words "on paper" about the things that are swirling around in my head—things that are stopping me from sleeping, messing with my work, and even interfering with my interactions with others in my house.

And I'm doing what Sarita (above) says is important: being authentic. Admitting I'm hurting.

Oh, and I'm also praying that God would continue to bring special friends into my life here in Japan. I can't allow my grief at goodbyes to cause me to build a wall, because that would be even more damaging. I'm a relational person who needs friends to stay healthy. If I didn't know that already, COVID-19 has reinforced that need. It's also not all about me, none of my friendships are all about me, who knows how God might use me in someone else's life.

I'm rambling now. Time to stop pondering and get on with preparing dinner for the family.  

Can we get creative at this time?

Last week I had a virtual coffee with one of my best friends in Australia. We love touching base and always come away feeling encouraged, and with things to think about.

One thing I came away with this time was a sense that people like us (we're both in full-time Christian ministry) have already learned some of the things that others are now faced with in the current global crisis. As is typical for me, this has been percolating and a blog post forming in my head. But my chief struggle has been: what angle to take? I can't write to you in a boastful way saying, "Ah, we've been learning these things for a long time. Have fun learning them now!"

Please forgive me in advance, I'm trying not to write with that tone. Though this situation is not a cake walk for us either, perhaps I can speak as one who has gone before in some ways and tell you some of the things (in random order) I've learned that are helping with the current situation. Perhaps that can help you process the many things going on and find some paths through.

Loneliness
I think this is one of the biggest things I've faced as I've lived overseas. It's been an ongoing challenge to find relationships and keep them. When you move out of your own culture you face challenges to having friendships on multiple levels. 

I felt like I left the "real Wendy" in Australia. In Japan I could no longer hug friends freely, as I preferred (I do still struggle with this at times). I couldn't speak freely in the new language I found myself surrounded by. Even those who spoke English didn't speak the same English as me. I needed to internationalise my language somewhat, just to communicate clearly.

I had to be more intentional about friendships. That included "seizing the day". If there was an opportunity to touch base with a friend, even if it was unexpected or creative (like an accidental pocket-call) then it was worth doing. Video calls and texting have made life a lot easier on this front in recent years, I'm so glad technology is where it is now, even ten years ago this would have been a more difficult experience.

If you need a hug, try a pillow or a soft toy! It's worked for me (even before I came to Japan). I know it's still warm in Australia, but cuddling under a blanket, or even a sheet wrapped firmly can help.

Get creative. Be impulsive. Think intentionally about how you most value as friends and seek a way to encourage them. Pray.

Cooking meals
From the start learning to make do with what you could get has been an integral part of us providing food for our family in Japan. That includes a lot of substituting in recipes. It can require creativity. But it also requires you to think about what you can do, rather than long for what you can't have.

Living in Japan has pushed me to learn new culinary skills, or extend the ones I had: like making bread, lasagne, and fruit mince pies and making other things from scratch, like chutney, lemon butter, and even puff pastry (never doing that again!) There are plenty of ideas online for substituting for ingredients you don't have, and videos to help you learn new skills.

Get creative. Be bold. Try new things. Think about what you can do, rather than what you can't.

Fruit mince pies

Spirituality
Moving to a country where you don't speak the language you have to learn how to self-feed. For many years it was about all I could do to get my family to church, let alone understand anything that was going on there. I've learned not to rely on a Sunday morning service to "feed" my soul. I've listened to sermons mid-week, read helpful books, pray and read the Bible very regularly, been honest with friends about how I'm doing, even formulating my thoughts enough to write them on my blog etc.

Get creative. Set a goal of doing one new thing to feed your soul this week. Think about what you've learned and share it with a good friend. Share honestly with one person about what you're struggling with spiritually.

Working from home
Home is my usual place of work, so that hasn't been a major change for me. The biggest change has been having my high schoolers and sometimes my husband join me at home, though I'm used to working here during their holidays. Some of the challenges of working at home have included a lack of private space, separating home and work, managing my time, and getting enough rest. 

Ways I've addressed these include setting "work hours" when I try to remain at my desk in our dining room most of the time, and not sitting at my desk at other times. Not looking at or answering emails or work messages outside of "work hours", including weekends. Taking the evenings off and sitting in my "relaxing chair" (admittedly, though, I'm still doing Japanese study there). Having a routine that includes watching a TV episode in the evening with my husband (something to look forward to as I work during the day). I've even got a red bandana that I put on my head if I particularly don't want to be interrupted (given that I don't have a door on my office). I don't use it often, but it has worked well when I do.

Get creative. Set up a rough schedule, including meals. Set aside time to work and time to relax. Find things to look forward to that you can slot into your day.

Grief
Yes, we're all suffering grief at this time. A loss of our plans, a loss of lifestyle, of freedom, even a fear of losing people we love. We've lost the ability to touch base with people easily in our day-to-day lives.

Yesterday I went into the office to pack the magazines we've been working on since Christmas. As I said goodbye to my two colleagues/friends at the end of the day, it was a bigger goodbye than usual. It kind-of felt like the goodbyes we do when we leave Australia or when friends leave Japan. An "I don't know when I'll get to see you again" goodbye. That hurts. I meandered my way home, not knowing when I would next get outside my own little neighbourhood. A lot like the internal processing that goes on in my last days in Australia: wandering through shops like a ghost, not knowing when I'll next be there, wondering if there's any last-minute things I should buy. It's a way of saying goodbye for now.

Get creative. There are different ways to grieve. But take your time. Think about, or even write or draw the things that you're missing. Look at photos. Talk with friends about what you're missing, or what you're looking forward to doing again. Plan what you might do next time you get the freedom to go to that favourite place or to shop freely again.

Being content in the now
One big lesson we've learnt that helps us stay afloat is finding ways to live in the present, to enjoy where we are. We've sought places and experiences that can only be done where we are. In Japan that has ranged from big things like going camping or visiting places we'd never get to if we weren't living here, to smaller things like enjoying local cuisine or appreciating the seasons in our local area.

Get creative. Are there things you can find that are unique about now that you can enjoy? Like living in your PJs all day? Or the many online experiences that are freely available? Or having time to sort through old photos? Or just having more time to connect with others who also have more time just now?

The first article I've linked to below finishes with an invitation to cross-cultural workers to join in the conversations that are circulating about confronting the challenge before us. I'm not quite sure what opportunities will present themselves to me, but I guess this blog post is a start.

The second article below mentions some other things that I've learned as a cross-cultural worker:

• loss of control
• our fragility
• dealing with fear and learning to operate out of faith instead
• our desperate need of God and compelling need to pray
• helping us distill what's really important in life
• what's our ultimate hope

I could write on all of these things also, but maybe another day.

Inspiration for this post also came from these two articles:
1. https://www.alifeoverseas.com/how-to-do-life-during-a-pandemic-cross-cultural-workers-can-add-to-the-discussion/
2. https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/things-coronavirus-teach-us/

I'd love to hear what you're inspired by in this post, or what creative things you're doing to help cope in the midst of the current season.

Risk-taking, or not

I don't see myself as a great risk taker. I like to plan and the prepare for possible risks. I don't like taking physical risks (and less so as I get older). I don't like taking financial risks. I've never taken out a large loan, never bought property. I like stability. I like predictability, within reason. I like Japan because it feels safe. Even though we have the threat of earthquakes and  volcanoes, of nuclear missiles, it still feels pretty safe compared to many countries God could have sent us to.

But some people, looking at me and my life would consider that I am a risk taker. After all, living on what people give is a risk, isn't it? Choosing to raise my family in another country is a risk, one would think. Deciding that I'm willing to follow where God leads me, that's risky too—on the surface. But I don't feel this so often. Maybe because God's led us to a place where he's kept us for a lengthy period of time (in missionary terms, we've been at CAJ for twelve and a half years and in this house for eight of those). Maybe what we're doing has become so normal to us that we don't notice that others might feel the risk.

Really, the biggest risk factor I feel regularly in this lifestyle is investing in friendships. They are one of the least stable things in my life and one of the things that I value highly. Investing in friends is risky because I don't know how long I will have that friend. I know the pain of having many absent friends. Leaving Australia the first time was hard, but leaving it again and again is, possibly, harder. Then the friends I make here also have a tendency to leave!

I really enjoyed camping with friends this week. We've only known them for 2 and a bit years, but I was tempted to think, "Wouldn't it be great if we could go camping with these guys when all our kids have left home . . . " but I nipped that one quickly. That's about 11 years away, and I can't count on them still being here in 11 years. It seems as though we might be here in 11 years, but only God knows.

However, I've been reminded several times this week that I don't need to be afraid. That really, it is just from my limited perspective that things are uncertain. Nothing catches God by surprise, nothing is out of his control. Though we might question what he's doing, that's a human perspective problem. And God is with us through whatever things we fear that come about. But fearing them is not drawing us closer to go, in fact it does the opposite.

These words from the hymn Amazing Grace were brought to my attention in a sermon this week:

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,And grace my fears relieved;

When we know God (and 'fear' him in terms of being in complete awe of him), our fears of anything else are taken away. I know that that's never completely true till we're in heaven, but —as we grow in our faith and fear of God—our fear of other things gradually dissipates.  

There is no fear in love. But perfect love [i.e. God's love] drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. (1 John 4:18 NIV)

This post was inspired by the theme of Risk on Velvet Ashes' prompt: The Grove and this article specifically. And here's another post on risk in relationships on the mission field, though differently slanted to mine.

A lost gem

This afternoon I'm going on a regretful journey with my husband. We'll be searching for a jeweler who will repair my precious engagement ring. About ten days ago I discovered that one of the diamonds had fallen out. Who knows where? I'd just returned from Manila, but it had been some time since I looked directly at it.

I love this ring, I've never seen another exactly the same. I'm acutely aware that it is just a thing and that the relationship it represents is far more precious and quite irreplaceable. But still, I love the ring.

Empty chairs

Some of us went for a short stroll off the beaten track
 after lunch. I was so intently conversing with people that I didn't
get to stop and contemplate our beautiful green surroundings
for long. However I did snap a couple of photos. 

Yesterday was a good day. Please remember I wrote that. 

It was also a day when I remembered people who were in my life in the past but aren't anymore, simply because they're no longer here in Tokyo (temporarily or permanently) or even in Japan. 

Yesterday I went to the western end of Tokyo, close to the mountains. It was an annual gathering of women, most of whom are foreign missionaries. We gather to support one another, worship God, be refreshed, and to pray. In a group like that there's always a lot of mobility. Faces who were there last year who weren't there this year. 

What came to mind yesterday morning as I eased into seeing all these people was a song/scene from one of my favourite musicals, Les Miserables, Empty Chairs and Empty Tables. Now it's true that my friends haven't died, and in some ways I hesitate to make this comparison because I know that there are people out there who have dealt with much worse. But the accumulation effect is somewhat similar. 

Of course all this was on my mind already. If you've been here recently you will have seen a trend, especially since I wrote this post back in August about the colander of the expat life. So it's not really a surprise that it's still on my mind. This article about the accumulated grief and loss experienced in an expat life came up this week in my blog feed. It's written from a different cultural background to "safe" Japan, however it does mention many of the same losses we experience. It doesn't directly mention serial loss of friendships. But then no list is perfect!

I particularly like this from the end of the article:

Please do not normalize your life and minimize tough realities. Your overseas life is not normal. It is therefore imperative that you spend more time with God naming, grieving, and ultimately handing Him your legitimate loss, injustice, and stress.

This is the view from the verandah of the place where we met.
Gorgeous, yes?

This is partly my problem. I try to normalise my life, minimise the losses, and get on with life. However I'm realising I can't do that. I need to be sad sometimes. So here I'm naming it. I've lost friends. There were  empty chairs yesterday. Good friends who weren't there, who won't be there again. The seats weren't empty, they were full, of others, but not the same people with whom I've shared my heart in the past.

I had interactions that I didn't like yesterday too. I'm trying to process them today. Trying to figure out why I didn't like that and what I'm going to do next time I encounter those people. Perhaps I'm too introspective, I don't know. Somehow that's how God made me, though, because if I don't think about these things I get into a mess that I don't know the way out of.

But yesterday was also a good day, yes it was. 

I got to see a friend I missed saying goodbye to two years ago. I was able to say to her that it's been hard. 


I was able to use our car and the Japanese drivers licence God gave me to help women get together (not so many expats can drive in Japan, especially women, it seems). 

I was able to have some good conversations with good women, some I'd count as friends. 

I was also able to make deposits into other relationships, possibly people who I will count as friends in the future.