A PERSONAL REFLECTION AT YEAR'S END
Dear Friend of Catholic Answers:
I trust you had a happy and blessed Christmas. Ours was hectic but satisfying.
The extended family got together on Christmas Eve at my parents' home in Long Beach. On Christmas Day our son left Los Angeles early so he could spend Christmas Day with us in San Diego. We went to Mass together and then had our traditional Christmas meal, sukiyaki. The next day it was our turn; we drove up to see him off at LAX. He has moved to Japan, where he will be living and working indefinitely.
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You know how troublesome moving is. It always takes longer to pack your belongings than you ever could have estimated. Imagine the hassles when you not only have to pack but have to reduce your possessions to what can be checked aboard a plane and shipped in a few extra boxes.
During the week before Christmas Justin sold off or threw away most of what he owned, reducing his worldly goods to what could be crammed into a backpack, a suitcase, and four boxes (two of which he left behind for us to ship).
There is a laceration involved in giving up what one has collected, and this is true even for those who have not yet racked up many years: clothes, books, mementos that would be of interest to no one else but are priceless in one's eyes, and utilitarian things needed for everyday life. How many shirts do you keep, and how many do you give away? Which books are kept, and which are discarded? What about the ticket stubs and greeting cards and photos that are heavy with memories?
Fourteen months ago, I learned about the great fires that had broken out in Southern California when I found myself stuck at the St. Louis Airport, my flight having been delayed because a blaze threatened the chief air traffic control facility in San Diego. I phoned my wife to see how things were, and she was worried. The flames had advanced to within three miles of our house.
Start packing up, I instructed her. Put whatever you can into the car. And don't forget the crucifix by the door--it came down to me from my grandmother.
There were books I would have wanted her to retrieve, but I had no way to tell her how to find them in my library. No time for that. If she remembered the crucifix, at least that connection with my youth would have been spared. As it turned out the fires came no closer, and I was able to arrive later that day at a home that smelled of smoke but that otherwise was unharmed.
My wife and I are proud of Justin's accomplishments. He did well in what is reputed to be the most difficult major at his university, and then he attended graduate school while working nearly full time. Before school ended he obtained a fine position with a major company in his field, and he spent most of December visiting the company's American offices in Massachusetts, Minnesota, and California, getting to know the people and processes he will be dealing with from Tokyo.
Work over there will be demanding, but at least Justin will not have the extra burden of a language problem. He is fluent in Japanese, not even having an accent. Despite that advantage, his great adventure will have difficulties he cannot yet anticipate, but that is how life is. Reality seldom matches expectation.
Having one's son a quarter of a world away is not as comforting as having him within driving distance, but I am in no position to complain. Three decades ago my wife made the journey in the other direction, leaving behind her family in Kyoto and settling down in San Diego with me. Surely it was no less difficult for her parents than it now is for us.
Nowadays, transoceanic separation is no more trying than is transcontinental separation. If Justin had chosen to live in the Midwest or New England, a visit still would entail a long flight and the inconvenience of hotels and, perhaps, public transportation.
I reminded my mother that her parents had made a more difficult and final decision. They immigrated to America in 1908. When they left the old country, they knew they would not see family and friends again.
In the parable of Lazarus and Dives a great chasm is said to separate the two. A century ago the Atlantic constituted a great chasm, at least for the poor. People of means could take an ocean liner and within a week find themselves in their old haunts. Not so with everyone else. Coming to America meant an irrevocable break with one's roots.
How different things are today! Each week my wife speaks with her sister, who lives in Yokohama. An hour's chat does not do violence to the phone bill. And then there is e-mail. The two of them converse that way nearly every day. Compare that to the occasional and much-delayed letters my grandparents received.
With airline tickets costing but a few days' labor, my wife and I can afford to travel overseas almost at will, and we have the luxury of mooching off friends when in Japan. The other side of the world is conveniently accessible. It is less bothersome to travel to her hometown than it was, a century and a half ago, to travel by stagecoach from San Diego to Los Angeles.
All this is true, but I remain but half consoled. The separation is undeniable even if unavoidable. My child grows up and goes his own way, and in my mind I hear the sorrowful notes of "Greensleeves."
"Remain healthy in body and spirit," I counsel Justin, giving him a last hug as he enters the security check line. "Odaiji ni!" we call out to him. "Take care of yourself!" The line snakes around twice, three times, and then he disappears around a corner.
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