Words by: Ashton
My mother and father-in-law visited Japan the year before we did. They were going to bike the Shimanami Kaido, a 37-mile trail that strings its way across soaring bridges and eight islands in the Seto Inland Sea.
But after two days in Tokyo, my father-in-law suffered a severe stroke. He was 63 years old. He spent the next seven weeks in a Japanese hospital, unable to speak or walk and in a great deal of pain. After he returned home, he lived only two more months.
Travelling to Japan was not a vacation for my husband, Bryan. I think it was more of a pilgrimage. The Shimanami Kaido was a quest that a son needed to finish for his father.
It rained hard on us for an entire day. There was no sun in the sky. The wind was cold. The hills were steep and too many to count. But the still sea below us and the lush green layers of mountains through the mist felt somehow holy. The hours of quiet, physical exertion were sacred.
On the second day, Bryan’s back bike tire went flat and he willed his way through the last couple of hours on a metal rim—carrying the weight of his backpack and mine. He rode ahead of the rest of us, alone with God. He told me that those two days were relieving in a way he can’t expain.
We spent the night mid-ride at Oshima Ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn. The dear woman who owned the ryokan was waiting for us at the end of her street, like a worried mom watching for her kids to climb off the school bus. I wondered how long she had been standing there.
We were soaked through from the rain and shaking from chill and exhaustion. With relief, we followed Makiko up the hill to her home in the evening dusk.
The inside of the ryokan was a calming labyrinth of light and shadow. Makiko led us through sliding rice paper passageways to our rooms so we could change into dry clothes and then fed us course after course of delicate Japanese dishes served in miniature, hand-painted bowls. Miso, pickled vegetables, green tea and warm amazake to drink. Then again like the mother hen, she insisted we take a hot bath before bed.
Here was a woman keeping the ancient art of her culture alive. At dinner she told us that the Japanese youth don’t see traditions as sacred anymore. They have no awe or curiosity about spiritual things. She said young people have lost their heart. When she opened the ryokan, her mission was to help them remember.
We slept that night on tatami mats, grounded by the sweet, grassy smell of woven rush. Before we left in the morning, we sang the Doxology for Makiko. She cried as she listened. “It makes me think of Heaven,” she said.
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