I grew up in the countryside of Japan, surrounded by beautiful mountains and beautiful ocean. The life I lived seemed to be no different than any other, but I felt as if there was something missing deep within my heart that couldn’t be satisfied. “Is there something different? Why am I alive? Is this the way a human being should live? Does God exist?” Many thoughts came to my mind, but I ended up ignoring them, because I couldn’t find the answer, and I couldn’t trust anybody anyway.
The fear of death comes with many faces. Some people have a great fear that loved ones will die, some think that violence will befall them, some over-eat, and others have their funeral plans and burial plot all in order. For me, I closed my mind so completely to the inevitability of death that I had no fear of death. Or so I thought.
I was a loner. And a cynic. I pored over philosophy books on Friday nights with a box of wine. The little time I did spend with other people ended in debates over the state of humanity, which I believed was doomed. I went to class. I wrote my papers. I passed by on the conveyor belt largely unnoticed. I listened to music, blasting, in my apartment in the slums of Worcester, Massachusetts. I would go hiking and camping whenever my meager funds allowed me. I prided myself in being a headstrong woman, rejecting all the societal norms that tried to confine me.
Ruhamah came to the community in our beginnings. A simple message was spoken to her heart, that if they take care of the flowers, they would take care of her, too.