Soaring Free

During the three years I lived in Japan, God used various experiences to shape my life. The most poignant of them took place when I was in the sev­enth grade. This one would transform me forever.

We lived near Tokyo in a small complex called Camp Zama, an army town protected by guards and surround­ed by barbed wire. On the inside, it looked like any other military compound, complete with Quonset huts and sol­diers’ barracks. But the outside held all the mystique of Japan.

I was intrigued by the nation’s history, enchanted with the symmetry of its rice fields and the artistry of its thick thatched roofs. I came to love Japan, and I always looked forward to our weekend jaunts into the cool hill surrounding Tokyo.

One summers afternoon, we piled into our black Rambler station wagon and headed for the countryside. We wound our way up the side of the mountains, where the beauty of the vast countryside unfolded. Periodically, a break in the greenery that lined the winding road treat­ed us to a panoramic view of’ the magnificence for which Japan is so well known.

At the summit we stopped by a lookout point that afforded us a breathtaking view of neat patchwork rice paddies below. As soon as the car came to a halt, the door flew open and four young Cordeiros raced toward the edge of the cliff in order to get a front-row view. Trees blanketed the mountainside, brush­ing the soft breezes with a fresh cedar fragrance. We breathed in deeply, savor­ing each moment as if it were our last.

“Ahh! Isn’t this just the best,” my brother said, pointing to the checker­board rice paddies below. Stretching out as far as we could see lay lush green val­leys, each one reaching toward a sleepy village.

“You can almost see forever from here!” my sister sighed.

Unmoved by her sentimental poetry, I suggested, “Let’s eat!”

On one side of the viewpoint sat a Japanese woman selling bento, box lunches containing dried fish, rice and pickled vegetables. Opposite her stood a man dressed in a traditional yukatta (or hapi, a short kimono coat) wear­ing tabi and getta (“socks” and “wooden sandals”) that clicked and clacked with each step.

“Irrasbai-masse!” he said, tilting his voice and adding a shrill edge to the customary vendor’s call still heard around Japan today. ‘Welcome! May I have your attention’?”

While his voice intrigued me, it was his merchandise that caught my attention. A large box hung suspended from a strap around his neck. Above the box he had dis­played several bamboo cages, each one containing a tiny finch.

“Irrasbai-masse!” he repeated. “Irrasbai-masse!”

“How much for one of those birds?” I asked, strain­ing to understand his broken English.

“One hundred yen,” he replied. “You like?”

In my junior high days, 100 yen amounted to about 36 cents. I figured that for such a deal I would oblige this peddler.

“I’ll take one!” I said, handing him a 100 yen coin. In exchange, he handed me a bamboo cage containing the tiny bird. To conclude our purchase, he bowed in formal Japanese fashion. Distracted by my new acquisi­tion, I returned a token bow and hastily headed toward my brothers.

Just then, the vendor called back to me.

“Sumimasen! Excuse me!” he called. “Don’t forget: bring cage back when finished!”

“Bring back the cage?” I asked, confused. “I’m not planning to eat it. It’s going to be my new pet. Without a cage, how do you expect me to get it home?”

“Oh,” he replied, “you no understand. Bird not to take home. You take bird to edge and release, so can fly free!”

Without a doubt, 1 thought his suggestion had to be just about the dumbest thing I had ever heard. I had just paid good money for this bird—and he wanted me to let the creature go? I had no intention of complying. But his eyes remained fixed on me, silently urging my obedience. I stood there, hoping for a reprieve.

On the one hand, I thought I could make a run for it. I knew my sneaker-clad feet could outrun his gettas. But then again, there could be some hid­den samurai moves under his yukatta. Or worse, he could throw one of’ those ninja stars at me. So at last, I figured I’d better comply.

I politely nodded and made my way toward the edge of’ the cliff. Before me, the ground dropped dra­matically about 100 feet into the lush valley. I glanced at the vendor-turned-sentry who still kept me under his surveillance.

I slowly opened the door that separated the bird from its freedom. I tapped on the opposite side of the cage and the tiny finch hopped its way suspiciously toward the opening. Then, prodded by a final tap on the bamboo prison, it suddenly launched into flight with a jubilant fanfare of tweets and whistles. I watched as It darted over the treetops. it paused and then—almost as an afterthought—circled back toward me as if to say thank you. I watched until it disappeared into the clouds and I could see it no more.

I stood suspended in a moment of fresh discovery.

I walked slowly back toward the vendor (who no longer resembled a wary sentinel). I returned the empty cage and he bowed in the traditional form. I returned his bow but not so hastily as before. This time, I took the reverent posture of a young disciple before his sensei

I didn’t return home that day with a newfound pet. I brought back something much more profound.

I experienced the joy of being a Dream Releaser.

This incident has traveled with me throughout the years, forever altering my perspective about serving people. If I had even a hint back then of how much this single experience would transform my life, I would have paid 100 times as much for that little finch.


Inward-Pointing Arrows

Years later, at age 19, I turned my life over to Christ. I felt starved for attention and hungry for a better life. Yet I didn’t realize that all my arrows pointed inward.

I began attending church, only to find myself rating the services as to how they affected me. I evaluated prayer meetings and even worship services by what kind of experience they gave me.

If they didn’t “move” me, then obviously they weren’t of God.

I read all the books of self-discovery detailing how I could achieve my goals and how to get my prayers took answered. I heard all the speakers; and while each one provided some help, I still felt something missing. I had prayed all the ‘bless me” prayers ever printed and chant­ed all the affirmations taught in the seminars, but, something seemed lacking. The messages didn’t ring quite true. As time went on, I began to see myself becoming a per­son I didn’t particularly like. It dawned on me that I had been using God as a vending machine. He became a means to an end—mine! I needed Him to get more blessings, more money, more position, more favors. He existed more for my purposes than I did for His. The epiphany came when I realized that I existed for His purposes, not my own.

Years later I remembered afresh the lesson God taught me on that mountaintop in Japan. But this time, it wouldn’t come with a bright light or through a beard­ed prophet with reverb. This time it would be delivered through the simple life of’ a Dream Releaser.


An Early Investor

I guess that God knew His assignment for me would get kind of taken to the cemetery if I didn’t get help, so he sent Noel Campbell, a pharmacist-turned-preacher who invested in me early on.

Noel’s wife had died of cancer, forcing him to rear five young children as a single father. I remember him graciously moving his living-room furniture to one side and removing all the breakables, so we could hold week­ly youth meetings in his home. Every Saturday evening we would commandeer his house and cram more than 100 students into his front room. The scene resembled a hostile takeover more than it did a Bible study, but you’d never know it from Noel’s smile.

In 1984, I left the youth ministry and moved home to Hilo, Hawaii, to pastor the small beginnings of a church. Noel felt a nudge from the Lord to move with me—with no promise of salary and no guarantee of a position. He simply resigned his position as an assistant pastor Eugene, Oregon, and moved to the quiet town at the base of Mauna Kea. His main assignment?

To be a Dream Releaser.

As a 31-year-old rookie, my dreams lay frozen under glaciers of’ fear. My immaturity, mixed with my fears, made for a volatile recipe. But Noel, in his mid- to late-50s at the time, came to Hilo to encourage and, at times, prod me until I found the confidence to fly. He made a com­mitment to help me stay in step with what God had planned. He remained with me for six years to ensure that I didn’t forfeit the “scholarship” God had placed inside of me.

Noel saw in me things that I couldn’t see for myself’. Without him, I may very well have missed the miracle God put in motion. I was both insecure and impatient-­but Dream Releasers have a way of helping their charges to navigate through such obstacles.

When Noel finally saw me in full flight, he returned to the Pacific Northwest to be a grandfather to his daugh­ter’s children. When he boarded the plane, I remember feeling as if Elijah had departed! But like the mantle that the venerable prophet left behind for his young disciple, Noel left me something even greater.

He gave me an empty cage.

Through Noel’s selfless love, I discovered what I needed most—not another seminar, but someone to tap on my cage. His example beckoned me to do the same for others. The same lesson I had learned a few years earlier from a bird merchant turned sensei, God was now ask­ing me to teach.

Imagine how many restless souls are waiting for someone to take the time to bind a broken wing, to breathe in new courage, to nudge them into flight! Not until I accepted this invitation did I begin to notice the true heart of Jesus. I had unwittingly made Him into a vendor—but now I was about to make Him Lord.