It was an ordinary day. Preparing for a day with family around the Christmas tree as well as exchanging Christmas gifts and sharing a meal around the dining room table. Seems it has been that way for all 53 years of marriage to my lovely wife. We expect our oldest son and his family of wife and son as well as our daughter and husband and their two girls and finally our youngest son. The youngest of the entire batch, our grandson, is now driving, so it will not be the same hectic household that at one time saw the grandkids racing around the house and Christmas tree looking for the next gift to open. Later in the day our daughter-in-law's mother and sister will join us for the afternoon meal to celebrate Christmas Day. We were hoping that by now the COVID-19 virus would only be a memory, but we must once again be careful that we distance ourselves as best we can. All members of the family have been vaccinated so we are hopeful that everyone will be safe this Christmas season. My story today is one that was written by Gordon White many years ago and has since been condensed and edited for the free publication known as "The Fishwrapper" which is given free to those who shop at a few of our local supermarkets. I picked up my copy this past weekend at Stauffer's of Kissel Hill and when we ended our shopping day at Weaver's I noticed they too had free copies for anyone who may want one. The Fishwrapper is a 20 page, 8 1/2" x 11" publication of Little Mountain Printing and contains inspirational stories as well as advertisements, cooking tips, puzzles and pubic notices. The headline story this week is titled "Conqueror's Christmas" and I am sharing it with you in it's entirety since I found it so inspirational this Christmas season. Hope you enjoy it. It was another extraordinary day in the life of an ordinary guy.
Conqueror's Christmas
It was our first Christmas in Japan. A few units of our regiment were stationed in a former resort town 150 miles north of Tokyo, billeted in a bleak factory warehouse. The men had become restless and resentful. Each man wanted only to get home - and home had never looked so far away. The prospects for a "merry" holiday were faint. And yet, on the Sunday before Christmas, we had an experience that was deeply moving. In the "heathen" village which we occupied stood a small Christian church whose congregation was entirely Japanese - farmers, shopkeepers, and artisans who had suffered for their beliefs under the Mikado. This was their first Christmas of freedom after the dark days of war, and they wanted to share it. So, they invited the American garrison to attend. The service was held at night, long after our regular services in the regimental headquarters area. We were not ordered or urged to attend; the choice was left entirely to us. Some of us, I suppose, went out of curiosity, some out of boredom, but most of us went because...well, simply because it was Christmas. Aside from the fact that we had been instructed to wear Class A uniforms, there was nothing official about the formation. And although officers piled into the trucks with enlisted men in a hodgepodge of rank, we took care that our conduct would impress the natives as befitted conquerors. Yet, we were not treated as conquerors. When the trucks dropped us off in the narrow, crooked street, we were greeted with Japanese smiles and happy nods. We were their guests, and what little they had to share, they wanted to share wholeheartedly. The church was a small wooden building, old and weather-beaten. Maybe with age it had attained a certain dignity, but it looked very much as though a gust of wind would send it flying. At the entrance, we were taken in hand by an aged and wizened gentleman, displaying a gold-toothed grin, and wearing the proud remnants of a shirt and tie and cutaway coat. He spoke no English but made us unmistakably welcome as he led us to our seats. Skeptically, we looked around in the dim and uncertain light. The interior was cold and drafty; the furnishings were pitifully sparse. A small pulpit stood up front, and behind it a stained glass window showing the effects of time and abuse. Facing the pulpit were hard and uncomfortable benches onto which we squirmed awkwardly. The religious decorations were few, but they had been bravely supplemented by the handiwork of children. Swinging on the walls were crude cutout angels and cherubim and seraphim, painstakingly colored with crayon. To us Americans, it seemed odd to find God's angels displaying definite Japanese facial characteristics. The elderly usher passed our programs to us, made of stock forms from the supply of our regimental chaplain and bearing a reproduction of the nativity on the cover. Inside was the order of worship; it was typed in English on the left-hand page and laboriously hand lettered in Japanese on the right. We left no programs behind on the benches that night. The pews soon became jammed as families trooped in wearing their best regalia - clothing that looked tattered and flimsy alongside our neat, warm uniforms. At first, the Japanese eyed us uncertainly - still under the influence of war propaganda. But tension soon vanished. The parents and the children ogled us with wide eyes and wider grins. Our own dignity melted somewhat, for we, in turn, were fascinated by the doll-like appearance of those Japanese youngsters. In the rear of the auditorium, the choir and the overflow crowd sat on their haunches, native style, in a matted cubicle about the size of an average school cloakroom. In fact, the whole proceeding was much like the first day of school, with everyone stealing embarrassed glances at everyone else. Then, the battered hand organ began to sneeze out, "O Come All Ye Faithful" and we turned to our hymn books. A legacy of the founding missionaries, they, too, were printed in both Japanese and English. The congregation rose and we winced in anticipation of the weird discord certain to follow. At first, we sang self-consciously, but the Japanese poured themselves out in music, and soon the two languages blended with a curious, yet harmonious, effect. For us, the meaning of the music was universal; the actual words didn't matter. As we resumed our seats, we found ourselves smiling at the Japanese, and suddenly we became less conscious of the cold drafts and the uncomfortable benches. As the hymn ended, the Japanese pastor made a welcoming speech. His English was not fluent, but we knew what he was trying to say, and he knew it, too. The sincerity in his face said it for him. Because it was a special occasion, the program consisted mainly of musical selections. When the first soloist was introduced, we squirmed momentarily but quickly snapped to attention. She was a young Japanese girl with the most angelic face I have ever seen. To the war weary soldiers, she looked like a saint. And she sang like a saint, too. Soft and sweet, her voice rang out, transforming that dingy little church into a great cathedral. As the last note trailed off, not one soldier dared show his face to his neighbor. The sermon presented few problems. Our regimental chaplain delivered it in English, one paragraph at a time. Then it was translated, one paragraph at a time, by an educated Japanese engineer. The two gentlemen bowed to each other at the completion of each stint, and the whole thing went off beautifully. Our Japanese vocabulary was strictly of the "hello/thank you" variety, but the sermon was impressive nonetheless, because of the spirit in which it was delivered. When the sermon was over, a dozen soldiers moved to the front where they were joined by about twenty ladies in kimonos. Our Special Service Officer acted as musical director for the "Hallelujah" chorus, from Handel's Messiah. When those combined Japanese and American voices burst into song, it was more stirring than any military march our division band had ever played. And it was revealing - because "Hallelujah" in Japanese sounds just the same and means just the same in English. We stumbled forth from that tiny auditorium in a warm and welcome daze. There was no scoffing, no disbelief; we had participated in something unforgettable. But you won't find it in the history books of Japanese-American relations. It was too simple, too fundamental. I might add that when the collection plate was passed, we American soldiers piled it high with currency - more money than that poor church had ever seen before. Yet, we meant no show of wealth or superiority. We gave because we wanted to give; it was our contribution to a cause. We had been through a terrible war. But in this small Japanese church, we had momentarily glimpsed a solution to man's problems that war could never give.
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