Of course, no one can be a tourist in Japan without at least trying to see Mount Fuji. Having said that, I am issuing a POSTCARD ALERT! for this and the next several postings.
We were extraordinarily lucky in that the weather was perfect for the entire five days we were there. Wisely, we went with a tour operator, and he stated that of the ten groups he'd taken to Fuji that season we were the only ones that got a good view, as it was rainy or foggy for the others.
We were also extraordinarily lucky in that our hotel room for that leg of the trip faced directly toward the mountain. This was the morning at sunrise after our arrival. It had snowed the day before, dusting the peak in white; the reason the snow is at an angle is that the afternoon sun melted it a bit more on the western side.
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Brush with Slavery #2
You never know who you're going to meet in a small town. I've discovered over the years that it is often in the backwaters of America that you run across the most fascinating characters. Nacogdoches, Texas, is no exception.
It was in one of the smaller, outlying congregations of the churches of Christ in Nacogdoches, called East Main, that I, to my knowledge, first laid eyes on a Chinese person. Her name was Chenjean. I had lately fallen away from attendance and on a Wednesday night my landlord out in the country, Mr. Curry, offered to pick me up on his way to Bible study. It turned out that there were only five in attendance at the service that night - in addition to Mr. and Mrs. Curry and myself, only two more, one of whom was Chenjean.
In spite of that inauspicious beginning I took up attending again, and as time went by there were enough young people to take on the appearance of a youth group. We all got along and enjoyed doing things together, playing games on Friday nights and going on the occasional trip. It was a blessed time when, looking back, I'm convinced that God was allowed to breathe a little life into East Main.
One of the duties we'd taken on as a group was the delivery of the Lord's Supper to the local rest home on the west side of town, on Loop 224. The accouterments fit into a little box that neatly encased the unleavened bread, little cups and "fruit of the vine", as the emblem of the blood is called. Eventually it fell upon Chenjean and I to take on this duty.
At the home there was really only one resident that we visited. Her name was Lottie Upshaw, an elderly African American who lit the room with her smile and greeting as we walked into the room. She was so fun to visit, full of stories and opinions on the news of the day. Often we considered our time with Lottie the highlight of our Sundays.
As we got to know Lottie, we discovered some fascinating things about her life and history. One was that she responded to the Gospel and was baptized well into her eighties. Another was that she became a staunch Republican who adored Ronald Reagan, which was highly unusual for her demographic. And lastly, she was the daughter of a slave.
When Lottie revealed to us that her mother was a slave I silently did the math in my head to ascertain whether it could be true, much as I'd done by the fence at the Pitts' home in last week's story. This was 1987, and if Lottie was born late in her mother's life - as told by Lottie she was in her fifties - it was possible that as a child her mother could indeed have been a slave as a youngster. This made our acquaintance with Lottie all the more interesting.
Chenjean and I had been delivering the Lord's Supper to Lottie at the home for a month or so when one Sunday she dropped another of her bombshells. After visiting for a short while she looked at us and declared that we'd make a good couple, that we should just "get together"! At the time Chenjean and I had not really dated, but we were doing more together, mostly for the church. Lottie's comment changed things, though, and I began to look at her a little differently. Thus, due to the seed planted by Lottie Upshaw, this daughter of a slave, our lives took a turn and the "rest is history", as they say.
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