She was a Buddhist

Mom was a Buddhist. Not just any Buddhist, specifically a Higashi Hongan-ji Buddhist. That distinction mattered, especially to Mom’s mother, my Obachan, who made sure we knew we were Higashi and not Nishi Hongan-ji. I never did understand the difference between the two sects, but I do know that Higashi is East and Nishi is West. Both of these sects follow the same faith in Amida Buddha as the path to enlightenment. But in California, Nishi has always been a bigger, more prominent sect, with larger temples and bigger fundraising events, like golf tournaments and luaus. Higashi temples are less grandiose and simpler, with events like bingo and bake sales, but to the average Westerner, I doubt there would be any real distinction. They both chant the same Namu Amida Butsu and burn the same Jinko incense for purification. But Obachan made sure we all knew we were Higashi. To her, the distinction mattered, and Mom worshipped her mother above all.

When Dad met Mom, he fell head over heels. Stationed overseas as an officer during WWII, he wrote to her every single day. He even blurted out a proposal of marriage to her in a letter – he was absolutely over the moon in love. But no matter how much Mom felt for Dad, she would have nothing of it until he met her parents. Their letters went back and forth day after day, she wrote back letting him know that not only would he need her parent’s blessing, but the wedding would have to take place at the Higashi Buddhist temple. Dad continued to profess his love and promised to abide by any of Mom’s wishes. It’s what kept him going while he was oversees as a Second Lieutenant leading reparations in Japan following the devastation of the war.

Dad came from a devout Christian family. His mother was a Methodist, active in her church and deeply rooted in the Christian faith. Dad grew up attending Sunday services, but by adulthood, religion wasn’t something that stuck with him. He was an academic, an engineer – logic and reason were his north stars. Still, Dad was a golden boy, brilliant, kind, and deeply loyal to his family. As the eldest son, he was doted on by three sisters and a large extended family. Always a straight-A student, always top of his class, Dad had his pick of universities, but he chose UC Berkeley. He valued the accessibility of a public school over the prestige of private ones, mostly because he was mindful of cost.

When Dad finally met Mom’s parents, they welcomed him with open arms. They saw his potential, his intelligence and charm, but most importantly how much he adored Mom. Mom was also extraordinary – beautiful, talented, and ambitious, with a keen business streak that set her apart. Dad’s affection for her was obvious to everyone, sometimes more obvious than Mom would have liked. As beautiful and extraordinary as she was, she was also somewhat modest and conservative. Dad, on the other hand was demonstrative, a free spirit, unafraid to show how much he loved her – even if it embarrassed her now and then.

The wedding, as promised, took place at the Higashi Hongan-ji temple in downtown Los Angeles. A beautiful, auspicious affair fitting for a promising young Japanese-American couple. But after the vows were exchanged and life together began, it quickly became clear that Dad had no intention of adopting Mom’s Buddhist traditions. And Mom, not wanting to attend services alone, eventually started accompanying Dad to his family’s church. Over time, Centenary United Methodist Church became the center of Mom’s social existence, and of our family’s spiritual life. Mom threw herself into it – volunteering, joining clubs, and supporting me and my brothers in our youth groups every Sunday.

And yet, at home, her Buddhist faith quietly persisted. She kept a butsudan shrine in the house, a small wooden altar where she paid homage to her parents and loved ones who had passed. As a kid, I didn’t think much of these little wooden shrines. To me, it was just another object in the house, like a vase or a decorative bowl. But on special days, she’d carefully place offerings – a glass of sake, a tangerine, a piece of mochi or candy in front of these little wooden shrines. These small gestures were acts of devotion, quiet yet deeply rooted in her faith.

Then one day, when Mom was 92 years old, after spending nearly 70 years of her life attending a Christian church every Sunday, she surprised me. Out of nowhere, she announced that she wanted to get baptized. I spent many years accompanying her to Sunday service in her senior years, mostly as her driver. I would sit and listen to the sermons, but Mom usually fell asleep. I knew she liked to go to church as a ritual, but the sermons never actually moved her.

So when Mom declared that she wanted to get baptized, my first reaction was, “Why? What would that even mean to you?”

And after all those years as an active member of the church, I just assumed she was already baptized. But at this moment, Mom confessed that she never considered herself Christian, that after 70 years attending a Christian church, she was still a Buddhist. But her reason for wanting to be baptized was not for herself, but for Dad. She wanted to make sure she would be reunited with him in Heaven… just in case.

She also wanted me and my brother John to join her, knowing neither of us were baptized, but we were not particularly religious either. If anything, my beliefs lean more toward karma and the teachings of Buddha than the Bible. But Mom asked us to join her. How could we say no?

It was Easter Sunday 2015. The chapel was packed, buzzing with the energy of old friends greeting each other, many who only see each other twice annually at Easter and Christmas service. Once the baptism segment began, Reverend Mark called on Mom, John and me to join him at the altar. And Paul, Jay, Ian and a few other leaders of the congregation also gathered around us as witnesses to the affair.  

Mom went first, stepping forward with her quiet grace. Reverend Mark asked her if she accepted Christ, and she nodded. Her voice was soft but carried a weight of intention as she answered the questions of faith being read to her from the scriptures, and the congregation echoed the affirmations in response. The water trickled down her forehead, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, her expression serene, as though she were making peace with a part of her past.

Then it was my turn, which I dutifully performed my part, and then John. When all was done, the congregation clapped and cheered, the whole ritual festive and celebratory. Afterward, we all went out for lunch in Little Tokyo – a rare gathering of the whole family. It would be the last time we all ate a meal together in a restaurant.

Seven months later on November 1st, a night when the family gathered for our usual Sunday dinner at our home, while watching Game 5 of the World Series, my brother John had a sudden, massive heart attack. He passed away quickly, peacefully.

Our baptism that Easter felt like a quiet miracle in hindsight. It wasn’t just an act of faith it was intuition; Mom’s way of bridging the worlds she’d lived in – Buddhist and Christian, East and West, the past and the future. It was her way of honoring the love she shared with Dad and the family she built, while staying true to herself. It was her unspoken blessing to us all.

John’s passing only deepened the significance of that moment. Regardless of what the baptism meant to him or me, it was still a blessing and a comfort. Because in that act, I knew Mom found comfort in her heart believing her youngest son and her beloved husband were together. And now I find peace believing she has reunited with them, that they are together. For that, I am grateful.