| Jody's Story (Full version) |
| I was born and grew up in San Jose, California in a typical Japanese-American family. Typical, meaning, my parents tried to raise my two sisters, my brother and me as "American" as possible, yet we still did many Japanese things. E.g., we took our shoes off before entering the house, my mom cooked rice every night--even when she made spaghetti!-- family harmony was a high value as well as taking care of relatives. Also typically, my parents followed certain Japanese religious rites out of obedience to their ancestors. At the New Year, they would offer pounded rice (mochi) and tangerines to their ancestors following a common Shinto custom, and in the summer they would take us to the Buddhist obon festival. Also at various times in the year, my father would go to his parents' grave to offer flowers and incense. For some reason, my dad always asked me to go with him to the grave. Actually, when I saw him wrapping flowers in newspapers and asking my mom, "Where's the matches?"(for lighting incense sticks) I would already know that my dad would be soon asking me to go with him to the cemetery. I don't know about my sisters or brother, but for me, these were just things we did without question. I was kind of a mixed up kid. There weren't any other Japanese-Americans in our neighborhood, nor in our elementary school. Almost all the kids were white, except for our next door neighbors who were Mexican and a Puerto Rican family from Hawaii. So it was hard for me to understand just who I really was. I remember when I was in 2nd grade some kids I didn't know called me "Chinaman." Then they started chattering something like, "Ching chong ching," while pulling their eyes back to make them slant. I was too young to understand what prejudice meant and I really had no clue what they were doing. All I knew was that "I don't like these guys," and "Hmm, so I'm Chinese?" So although these guys were weird, I was thankful to finally figure out who I was! Soon after, while riding in the family car, I remember that I exposed this newfound information to my brother--a big mistake. Of course he started laughing and he got my sisters in on the joke as well. "Jody thinks he's Chinese!" For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the joke was about, but it was going too far and too long. I needed to defend myself so I blurted, "Well, daddy is too!" Talk about throwing fuel on the fire! Well, right then I figured out my mistake. "You mean we're not Chinese?" Another thing I remember is that after Christmas my mom would always make New Years Japanese food. She would force us to eat these special pounded rice balls called mochi and these black beans. She said that if we didn't eat them that we would have bad luck all year. However we thought that having to eat them was already bad luck! Then she would do something I couldn't understand as a child. She would make stack a tangerine on top of mochi (kagami mochi) on my parent's bedroom nightstand. One day my brother and I were looking at these things and were wondering what they were. I think I was around five. Anyway, we decided that they looked like snowmen. Well, mom wasn't there so we drew a face on one of the tangerines and I got toothpicks and put them in for arms. We laughed so hard. We thought it was so funny. But right then our mom came in and... "Ahhhhhhh!" "What are you doing?!!!" "This is bad luck!!!" "Get out!" "What's wrong? What did we do that was so bad?" She didn't say. She was so upset. I still think it was funny. But that's how it was. My folks did religious things but they never told us why or if asked, they would never explain the meaning. It became apparent to me even at a young age that they didn't know why they did what they did. Like us kids, they too just followed their parents' traditions out of obedience. I sometimes hear of other Japanese-Americans complaining about hardships from discrimination, but fortunately I never had to deal with that. I think the number one reason for this was sports. Our neighborhood had a high percentage of boys and so we played all day until our parents had to drag us in for dinner. If you did well in sports, you were somebody no matter what you looked like. For me, I had the advantage of being small and skinny. It was advantageous because I could play better than I looked. I treasured this little secret. Even if I was picked last I didn't mind because I enjoyed surprising everyone, especially the other team. There were many times when I went to the plate the first inning and all the outfielders would come in. My heart would pound as I waited for the pitch that let me knock the ball over their heads. It was fun to be rounding second base only to see the outfielder just getting his hand on the ball. I got a lot of in-the-park homeruns that way. Well, it was like this growing up. Take shoes off at home, eat rice with all main dishes, go out with friends and play sports all day. In a nutshell that was my life. No cares. In high school, I was the guy who sat in the back and made sarcastic comments about whatever was going on in class. My grades were good and I could even make the teachers laugh so they tolerated my sarcasm. I also continued to do well in sports and was a starter on our football team. Again, I wasn't big but I was slightly crazy and one of the fastest on the team--yes, a perfect combination for defensive back. I ran back kickoffs and I was the wedge-breaker for kickoffs as well. They even put me in to block punts. I had no regard for my body. Now I'm afraid of getting hurt when wrestling with my kids ;-) Randy was my best friend from the 5th grade. When Randy moved into town he caused all heads to turn. This was because Randy had long hair! This was the early '70's but still only girls had long hair in our neighborhood. "Who is this guy?" He was different, but almost immediately, Randy and I hit it off. I remember him looking left out, watching us play football at recess so we asked if he wanted to play. He did, he was good and like me he had a strange sense of humor. We were inseparable friends from that time until high school. On the high school football team, Randy was one of the starting running backs. He wasn't very big either, but he was fast and unafraid to knock heads. It was our senior year in 1977. This was our year to be the BMOC (Big Men on Campus); this was going to be our year. It was July and we were excited and at the same time dreading having to go through the traditional two-a-day practices that were coming up. I don't remember where I actually was when I got the news. It was just too dream-like. Someone told me that Randy was found dead. He had killed himself. The date was July 7, 1977, that is, 7-7-77. Apparently Randy saw fated meaning in those numbers. Those numbers haunted me after that. It wasn't that I was looking for meaning in them, but they kept jumping out at me. Like after the funeral, when I was driving and thinking of where Randy went, my eyes somehow went to the odometer. At that moment it flipped over to 7,777 miles. A few days later when we were receiving our football equipment, the coaches said they had to take inventory and give each piece of equipment we received a number. The number on my equipment? 777. Helmet size, 7. It was like that for a lot of things. Groups of 7's were everywhere. It made me become aware of an unseen world. It was eerie. To this day, I don't know all the details of what happened to Randy. But as a 17-year old kid who was living a carefree existence, this was incomprehensible. We were all stunned. I and my close friends who grew up with Randy, all went through the stages of grief together. But more than working through things together, we stuffed a lot and just tried to move on. For me, I spent a lot of time alone in my room. I was dazed. I couldn't function and I wanted to quit everything--including football. Suddenly the thing that I most valued became a meaningless game. I lost my heart to play, and couldn't imagine playing without Randy. But my dad wisely saw that quitting wasn't the best for me so he said I couldn't quit. Now I see that it was a good decision, but I didn't play well that season and I didn't care. I struggled all year. Losing Randy was the worst, but surprisingly there was something just as bad that I could not have imagined. Friends, teammates, teachers and my family all became cool to me. It was like I became a stranger. People were so fearful of hurting my feelings that they kept their distance. Not surprisingly, my family didn't know how to console me either. Since I was always rather quiet growing up, I think they just thought it best to let me sort things out on my own. This is also the Japanese way. Keeping harmony, even if it's silence is often the preferred alternative. I never blamed anyone for this because I understood that I would have probably acted the same if the situation was reversed. (Through this though, God gave me a heart for helping people in need) I was definitely depressed and since I had no one to talk to, it got to the point where I couldn't take it anymore. I felt that no one cared about me and there was no meaning to life. So I made my plan. Near San Jose is the Santa Cruz mountain range which has a short highway called, Highway 9. Hwy 9 has lots of hairpin curves around steep cliffs, "so if it just so happens that I fly off one of these cliffs at high speed..." It was a simple but smart plan. It will look like an accident and that will be the end of it; no confusing feelings like after Randy's obvious suicide. I just wanted to escape with no strings attached. The day came. It was a perfect California day. I didn't do anything to prepare myself; I was just going to do it. I got in my car; put it in reverse and screeched out of the garage. Then I did something that I'll never forget. I put on my seatbelt. As I saw myself doing that, I just stared at what my hands were doing. Then I laughed, "You idiot! You don't want to die. Why put on a seatbelt if you're planning to kill yourself in a car accident?" That was a defining moment. It was after that incident that I began to ask the big questions: Where do people go when they die? What is the purpose of life? "Coincidentally," after posing these questions, I started to meet Christians. In our neighborhood there wasn't a single church-goer, and all through school I didn't know of any Christians. I knew an Italian-American Catholic family, but they didn't go to church either; they just had pictures of Jesus on their walls. The next year when I entered university I met lots of religious people. It seemed that they were everywhere and they always wanted to talk to me! There were lots of Moonies and Hare Krishna at San Jose State. The HK were easy to spot because of their garb and were just plain wacky, but the Moonies were deceptive. I remember being approached by many Moonies who said that they were collecting money for some orphanage or refugees. I got to be pretty good at spotting them and then I learned to have fun with them by acting like I was interested only to end with, "Aren't you a Moonie?" Then I would laugh as they scampered away. I came to see that religion was arbitrary, yet something inside me kept asking those deep questions. Christians approached me too but because of my experiences with Moonies I always had my guard up. However, what I couldn't understand about these Christians was that they were so nice. And right when I thought they were going to sell me something ("A ha, the hidden agenda!") they would just thank me for my time or give me something to read. In contrast, the Moonies always tried to get money from me if they "gave" me literature. I finally sloughed off my undeclared major my sophomore year and decided on English Literature. I was an 'A' student through high school, but I never pushed myself by reading much. Now I discovered the richness of literature. I read most classics because I wanted to, and others because I had to. In one class I was surprised to find that a required text was the Bible. I had always wanted a Bible but never pursued getting one. But there it was on the reading list. So I got my first Bible at Robert's Used Bookstore. I read it but I didn't really understand it. When I would find a famous passage or phrase I would say to myself, "Huh, that's from the Bible too?" It was fun but difficult to read this book, yet I somehow knew that it was special. While reading the Bible, I took some time to look into Buddhism since I grew up thinking that I was a Buddhist by birth. What I found though was that it was incomprehensible. No wonder my folks had no answers for me. Who could understand this stuff? I thought, "If this is the true way, then the person who wrote it didn't want anyone else to find out!" I quickly gave up. In my senior year, there was a lot of talk on TV about "Born again Christians." This was because of a political movement of conservative Christians called the Moral Majority. I wondered what this term meant, "Born again." I was slowly learning about Christianity, but still I didn't know much and I was wary of cults. Anyway, I wanted to know what this term meant, but I didn't know where to look. I was in the Business Tower when nature called me to the men's room. It was there that I got my answer, because on the toilet paper dispenser was a tract called, "What does it mean to be born again?" Amazing! So there I was, seated on the throne of my life, reading for the first time what it meant to be born again. It felt like one of those "777" encounters--like someone knew what I was thinking. Only a few days after the restroom revelation, two guys met me while I was sitting on a bench having my lunch. I was eating a banana when they came up all smiling (funny how you remember those small details). I could tell that they were the "religious" type right away. I thought, "Oh no. Why do they always come to me?" "Hi, I'm Eric and this is my friend Gary. Would you have a few minutes...?" Ugh, I'm eating lunch. They know I have free time. I'm trapped. "OK, sure." They then shared the gospel message with me using the 4-Spiritual Laws booklet. Although I tried to deflect with my typical sarcastic armor, what they said seemed to make sense. The few things that I had learned were like puzzle pieces that were now coming together. But I didn't want them to come together; I felt so out of control. I wanted to regain control by rejecting them, yet at the same time wanted to know the truth. I was feeling uncomfortable because the truth was now winning and so I tried to brush them off. "I have a class now..." They were persistent without being pushy so I couldn't fault them so when one said, "Can we talk again next week?" I couldn't say no. Like clockwork, they came to me on that same bench at the appointed time. We chatted a bit before they turned the topic. I don't remember all that was said, but one thing Gary said has stayed with me until now. He said, "From what you've said about yourself, I can see you're a nice guy and you've been living a good life without being a Christian. So if you're right and after death that's the end, then we both will have lived good lives, right? But what if I'm right in believing in Jesus? If Christianity is true and we both die, then what?" I don't remember if he finished that thought, but the conclusion was obvious to me. Gary would go to heaven, but I would go to a much less desirable place. I wasn't able to deflect this point. We parted and I was left with the heaviness of Gary's question. I quickly concluded that if this story was in fact true, I needed Jesus too. If untrue, then I could forget it and get on with my purposeless life. It was 1981. I was a senior and a Literature major. I wanted to see Europe. I asked a friend of mine who was also a Lit major to go with me and so we planned our excursion. As we were moving along in the process though, he said he couldn't go. Now what?! I decided to go alone. It really wouldn't be alone though, I would meet up with a group of about 40 other college students in Holland and we would go from there. Even leaving the country couldn't keep the topic of Christianity away from me though. Actually, it heightened with every cathedral or museum we entered. The Vatican totally gripped me. The whole tour seemed to be for Jody's education into the history of Christianity. You see, I still wasn't convinced that it was historically true. If that wasn't enough, there was a Christian on the tour as well. "Another Christian?! I can't get away from them," I thought. But she was attractive and kind and very very funny. We spent a lot of time on the bus laughing and making stupid jokes like ugly-American tourists. We talked seriously too and this is where she told me about her best friend, Jesus. Now, I'd heard a lot about this Jesus, but not as anyone's "best friend." Yet she was sincere, not a wacky fanatic. Through my years in college I had just studied a little here and there about Christianity; with Eric and Gary, it was still on the theoretical level. But now, here was a real person that I was getting to know who had real faith that I could not deny. After Europe, my head was reeling. What had happened? It was as if God was chasing me and I couldn't hide. Even after I got home, I found a little red booklet in my drawer that was like a little Bible that led one to belief in Jesus. I hadn't seen that booklet since I was about four years old when a Salvation Army lady gave it to me, but here it was in my hand! (Later my mom said while I was in Europe she found it and she put it there) The end of the booklet asked if the reader wanted to receive Jesus into his heart. I couldn't take it. I was scared. The pressure was too much for me. I fled my room to escape by turning on the TV. It just so happened that there was a documentary about Europe on the PBS channel. I began to relax as I re-lived my short tour. And it was short--11 countries in two weeks! It wasn't long into the program that I found that TV wasn't an escape either. I began to sweat and feel sick. The documentary wasn't about Europe per se; it was about Christianity and how people from different countries worship Christ! I was trapped again. The show went from country to country and showed different styles of worship. Afterwards, a couple of old British commentators gave their final words as they sat in lounge chairs on a big lawn. The phrase that hit me was, "As we have seen, although people have different styles of worship, their faith is the same." Here it was again. Mysteriously, someone knew the question I was afraid to ask and had given me an answer. I went back to my room like a boxer who was getting beat up between rounds, and closed the door. "Ok, so it's faith. Well, do I have faith?" I thought about it, then got out a piece of paper and wrote to myself three questions: 1. Do you believe in God? 2. Do you believe that Jesus was a historic person? 3. Do you believe that Jesus died and came back from the dead? I answered: "Yes." I had always believed in God "Yes." I learned that Jesus was a historic figure. And to the last one I surprised myself by writing, "Yes!" I had also learned that this was a historical fact. To my amazement, I found that I believed! I really couldn't believe it. I believed in Jesus! So right then I picked up that little red booklet and re-read it. At the prayer invitation I knelt down next to my bed (because from watching TV I knew you had to kneel at a bed to pray :-) and I read that prayer. I immediately felt relieved. The proverbial weight came off my shoulders. But more than that, I felt a Presence with me. "It must be God," I thought. It was a good feeling. I wasn't alone anymore. And the cloud of depression that I had since Randy's death was gone too! I was feeling happy. This was great! I wrote to my friend whom I met in Europe. She quickly wrote back and gushed about how happy she was for me. I thought, "Is it really that big a deal?" Then she ended with, "You need to find a good church." "Church? I've never gone to church. There are hundreds of churches in San Jose. How do I find one?" So I told God, "God, I guess I need to go to church, but I don't know where to go." I was earning pocket money by bagging groceries at a local Alpha Beta supermarket. That week a woman and her kids were going through the check out and so I helped by bagging and taking her groceries to her car. I knew them but never really talked. I'm not one to chat, but this woman started talking to me and we talked for quite a while in the parking lot. Then she started talking about her church. I was shocked. But even more shocking, she asked, "Are you a Christian?" "Huh? uh...No, but I just became one." "What church do you go to?" "I don't have a church. Like I said, I just became a Christian." "Oh, then why not come to my church?" She then wrote down the address of her church and how to get there. As she drove away, I just stood there in the parking lot looking at this paper with God's answer on it. Unbelievable! "God, you really are real!!!" Did I mention that I am the youngest of four kids? Well, all of my siblings were moved out of the house by this time. I was still leaching off my parents while going to school. But from when we were all kids, my family had a tradition of having a big Sunday pancake breakfast together. This tradition continued even after my sisters and brother left. So I had a problem. And the problem went like this: I want to go to church I now have a church to actually go to But I have to eat breakfast with my folks on Sunday If I tell them I want to go to church, they won't understand, maybe they'll be angry, who knows how they'll react? Hmmmmm (When I finally did tell them I was relieved to find that they were supportive) The next Sunday morning came. I chewed on pancakes and sausage while wondering what to do. Another Sunday. "There's got to be a way..." Then I got an idea! The next Sunday I ate the fastest Sunday breakfast of my life. Got dressed, said, "I'm going out," and took off before my folks could ask any questions. I found the church without much problem but was really scared to go in. I knew no one and this was a big church. As I stepped in though, I was greeted with a warm handshake. Others greeted me too. "Everyone seems so friendly. Are they for real?" I found a place in the back. People were standing, singing some song from a book. I noticed that there was a book in front of me and so I stood up too, looked over at where the person next to me was and found the page. Right when I got the page opened though, the song was over and everyone but me was sitting down. They did this stand up, sit down routine a lot. I really felt out of place, but everyone was friendly. If I only knew someone. Then the MC announced that there was going to be special music. To my surprise, it was my grocery store lady. She sang a beautiful song. I was impressed. But even more, I felt relieved that I actually did know someone at this church. And although I did not know God very well, I knew that He was with me too, taking care of me and showing me the way to my new life. (Incidentally, this church is where I was baptized and sent out as a missionary. Little did it know that first day.) God has led me this way from then until now. Jesus is the Good Shepherd whom I can trust. He has taught me to say as Paul did, "I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me, and delivered Himself up for me." Galations 2:20 Home |