by BISHOP KOSHIN OGUI
Buddhist Churches of America

It was April 2, 1965, right after having taken up my post at the Oxnard Buddhist Church. I was awoken by the sound of a train passing by. The whole bedroom creaked and dust fell from the ceiling. I thought to myself, “It’s a good thing I’m not married.”

I got up to prepare for the morning service and went to open the front door. For some reason, it wouldn’t open and that was strange, so I took a look out the window next to it. A man was sleeping there, his body blocking the door.

The man awoke and apologized sheepishly. “I tied one on last night and I meant to go home but I guess I slept here. Sorry about that.” He laughed and then left.

The whole exchange had taken place in my Japanese English and his Spanish-accented English, but I knew how he felt and chuckled to myself. He was an amicable guy. Perhaps he had been drinking at one of the Mexican bars near our church.

I had finished the morning service and was taking a breather when the telephone rang. The caller told me her husband had been killed in action in Vietnam and that she wanted to have a simple funeral for him.

After that, I began preparing the main hall of the temple, wondering about the call. The woman was Japanese, so I guess she had married an American. When the hall was ready for the service, I waited.

Soon thereafter, a Japanese woman arrived with her two daughters and greeted me. One of her daughters was three and the other four years old. The widow bore a photograph of her husband. She told me there were no remains. When I heard that, I was enraged and inwardly cursed the cruelty of war.

The two girls hid behind their mother and shuffled behind her as she walked. The sadness of it all affected me deeply and I lost my calmness. I searched for comforting words.

We set the photo on the altar and I read the sutras, but before I knew it, the voice reading the sutras, my voice, had became tearful.

This was my first time to perform such a ceremony. My legs shook with all the emotion.

This Japanese woman had married an American despite her parents’ objections. She was devastated, knowing after all that she couldn’t go crying back to them now.

I was moved by the benevolence and virtue of the sutras. They brought this grieving widow, not to mention me, to a state of calm. Our hearts quieted somewhat.

The lady thanked me through her tears and then took her two daughters and left. The image of those two cute little girls crying struck me hard. It was then that I remembered my father’s words.

“People go through many things in their lives. At some point, they will seek out a priest. If you open your eyes and learn, you’ll become a real priest someday.”

My father’s voice speaks to me to this day. Even now at the age of 68, it calls to me, urging me to live life to the fullest.

Gassho

Translated by Lefteris Kafatos