A first-term emotional affair

I thought I was ready to be a missionary in Japan. I’d come to Japan in 1982 and lived with a Japanese family for a month. Then, in 1986, I returned to Japan to do short-term ministry with hi-b.a. for three months. Finally, in May 1993, I arrived in Japan as a long-term missionary with hi-b.a. along with my wife, Susan, and two young sons. I had a degree in Bible; I had done a ministry internship working with youth for over three years. We had raised full financial support and had the backing of our family. I had even taken a semester of Japanese in college and done well, so I was confident I’d thrive in language school.

We moved to Karuizawa for language school—actually, we were pretty much dropped off. Even though we loved the natural surroundings of Karuizawa, we knew no one and felt isolated. This was before the internet was commonly used, and we didn’t even have a computer. Phone calls to the US cost over $1.70 per minute. So we relied on letters for communication back home.

There was no one else in our mission in language school. We got to know other missionaries. Our school assigned us “helpers” who were further along in language school than us. One family from Europe helped us with the practicalities of life in Karuizawa, Japan. But we didn’t have a sense that we belonged.

Certainly, the excitement of being in Japan carried us through initially. The first month or so of language school was fine as it was review for me to learn hiragana, katakana, and early conversational vocabulary and grammar.

Life got hard

Gradually, though, life got hard. I don’t know when it happened. Perhaps a turning point was our first Christmas in Japan when we were required to spend three days at hi-b.a. camp with our coworkers—they were all Japanese as there were no other foreign missionaries with hi-b.a. on the field at the time. For three days, we sat in a cold camp, not really knowing our coworkers well and definitely not having a level of Japanese to enjoy conversation with them. We returned to language school in Karuizawa feeling homesick and alone.

Susan and I had loved many aspects of doing youth ministry together in the US. We laughed a lot. With a limited budget, our early dates were sometimes doing laundry together at a laundromat. Excitement, laughter, and joy—these were the kinds of emotions we communicated easily with each other.

However, sadness, fear, anger, and frustration were the kinds of “negative” emotions we had little experience sharing together. Both of us withdrew into our isolated worlds, experiencing our pain alone while maintaining a facade of a happy first-term missionary family.

That wasn’t too hard to do. Member care consisted of a monthly phone call from Tokyo. “How are you doing?” our field director would ask.

“Oh, we’re fine,” we’d reply.

“How is language study?”

“It’s hard, but we’re doing okay.”

“OK, we’re praying for you. Talk to you in a few weeks.”

I yearned for friendship, for an intimacy of sorts. There was a Japanese woman in the community who spoke English. I would see her regularly in my daily life. Because she was fluent in English, we could talk about a great many things. And I did. I don’t know when it moved from being a comfortable friendship to (on my part) something more. I began to write notes from time to time and she would reply to them. Once I snuck out at night just to walk past her house and another time to call her from a phone booth. My wife didn’t know about any of this. The secrecy alone was a clue that this had become unhealthy.

Others must have known or at least suspected. I know one missionary woman left a note for me at my study spot letting me know that she appreciated my ministry to her teenage children, that she was praying for me, and that I should be careful. She included a Bible passage.

Found out

One day I returned home from school. In fact, I think Susan called the school and requested that I come home early. I walked in the door and there on the kitchen table was the red box where I had stashed all the notes I had received. “Open it,” was all she said. I was found out.*

Now there was a new kind of pain we were forced to share together—the pain of guilt, of betrayal, and of failure. We called our field director and confessed our situation. We said we needed help. We visited a counselor for a session. He was a kindly gentleman who taught at a Christian university, but he figuratively patted our hands and said, “There, there, you’ll be fine.”

We insisted we were not fine to our field director so our situation was reported to the US office. We also contacted our home church, which had, just the year before, hired its first missions pastor. Communicating with this pastor, we learned about Tuscarora Resource Center (TRC), a counseling center for those in ministry, located in Pennsylvania, US.

Taking positive steps

Six months after graduating from language school, we were back in the US to get help. We lived at TRC (now called Alongside and located in Michigan). Five days a week, my wife and I spoke to counselors—sometimes together but more often individually. You see, we are both from Christian homes, but we are also from broken homes. We naturally would have picked up the habits of our parents not realizing that some of those habits led to a breakdown (or were symptoms of problems) in their marriages.

In my parents’ case, towards the end of their marriage I don’t remember them arguing like they used to when I was younger. By that time, they were both excelling at their occupations and were highly respected in their workplaces. In hindsight, by that time they may have withdrawn from each other and moved toward work and work relationships.

My counselor proposed an analogy that my family was like a skyscraper that was tall and looked strong and beautiful but was actually corroding inwardly. Part of our homework was to talk to our siblings and parents. Susan and I learned to share the hard emotions like anger, sadness, and fear.

We concluded that I had had an emotional affair (which was likely one-way). My wife also confessed that she had relied too much on another person to share with, rather than try to communicate with me. We worked on communication skills.

After three months, we returned to Japan to finish out our first four-year term. The second half was better than the first. Oh, I wasn’t “cured.” Even over twenty years later, I struggle to communicate well. I can go over the top emotionally, but I’m not usually trying to hide my emotions. Susan and I are much more proactive in recognizing and asking, “Are you okay? How are you feeling right now?” In fact, even as I write this, I’m experiencing some hard emotions about life and ministry in Japan. The best thing, though, is that Susan and I are talking about my current emotional state. I’m not suffering alone. I’m not withdrawing from her.

Why am I telling this story?

I tell this story because I know I’m not the only one. I have read that often people in ministry are among the most isolated or friendless people. Also, more and more of us missionaries come with baggage that was somewhat rare or well-hidden in decades past. Abuse, broken homes, even previous divorce, depression, and addictions are just some of the emotional difficulties many of us come with or develop.

First, I want to assure you that you are not alone in your pain and struggle. Second, I want you to know that there is help out there. There are a number of places you can get help; Alongside is just one. Third, secrecy is detrimental. Confess your struggles to someone and get help. Some of the bigger missions in Japan even have member care specialists, and JEMA can direct you to some of those people.

At the time of writing this, Susan and I are days away from celebrating our 30th anniversary. In May, we celebrated 26 years of ministry in Japan. It could have all ended back in the mid-1990s, but fortunately my problem was discovered and my wife and I got help. I urge you to also get help if you are struggling in any way—for your sake, for your family’s sake, for the kingdom’s sake, for the sake of the Father’s glory.

* My wife has her own story of how she also struggled, but there is only room for my story here.