In 2011, my husband and I had just moved to Japan when the Tohoku earthquake—a 9.1 on the Richter scale—violently jolted the continent. Though we were four hours north of the epicenter, I thought a semi had slammed into our townhome. Doors slammed shut and open during the 6-minute terror. Had our shipment of household goods not been delayed, the earthquake would have thrown our dishes from the cabinets, toppled the TV, and sent picture frames crashing to the floor. Thankfully, our house was nearly empty.
Afterwards, standing on my front steps and calling to neighbors up and down our street, we heard the off-base loudspeaker sound a siren as a Japanese announcement echoed through the air. I could only understand one word. “Tsunami.”
Even now, when I remember that time, I’m struck with a choking sob. But at the time, I was oblivious. I did not know what disaster was to come—I didn’t know 20,000 people were going to lose their lives from the tsunami that tore across small fishing villages and large cities alike. All I knew at the time was that 1) we lived at the highest point on base (two miles from the ocean), 2) the electricity was out, and 3) I had a kitchen to paint before I lost the gift of daylight. Oh, and I was due to deliver our first baby in two days. I went back inside and picked up a paint roller.
In the weeks that followed, the gravity of the destruction began to sink in. Then the Base Commander launched “Operation Tomodachi,” meaning “Operation Friendship,” and dozens of Americans would load onto buses in the mornings, ride out to the coastline, and spend the day picking up rubble and bringing relief to the victims. Feeling useless with my newborn Emma in my arms, I watched as the women I admired so much left each day to pour out their time and strength rebuilding the villages. All I could do was go off base and spend money, my baby swaddled in a wrap around me. It felt small, but I hoped a few yen and a customer would bring hope to the hurting.
What I expected was the traditional Japanese nod of gratitude as I dropped a few coins into their hands. What I did not expect was the sheer joy the people demonstrated at the sight of Emma. There is one image burned in my memory—an old man approached when he saw her. Then tears flowed as he reached out his hands, asking to hold her. As he held her, his wrinkled face broke into a beautiful smile. Tentatively, I pointed to her and said, “Tsunami.” He nodded as emotion flooded his face and voice again.
Then he declared over her, “Japanese!”
And I saw that moment as my way of picking up the rubble. For him and many other locals, the wonder of witnessing new life seemed to renew a pathway to hope. It was not about my small efforts, but about the divine gift of multiplication. The small seed turns into a tree, the smile offered from a stranger brightens a bleak day. The “I love you” written in crayon makes a mom feel seen beneath the piles of laundry and dishes. The infant brings hope to bereaved people.
As Mary Ropes beautifully illustrates in “Mary Jones and Her Bible,”
“Let no one say that what he can give is but as a drop in the bucket, and therefore of no value. It is by the tiny rills that like a thread of silver wind down the hillside, by the silent night dews, by the softly falling rains, by the quiet springs that swell among the peaty uplands-it is by these, that the river is formed…Not a drop is lost. Nothing is valueless. All goes to make up an inestimably precious whole.”
Ropes, Mary. “Her Works Do Follow Her.” Mary Jones and Her Bible. Generations, 2021, pp. 87-88
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