by Takako McDowell
Orlando, Fla.
My father’s recovery took everyone by surprise, but no one more than his doctors. The prognosis they’d given was totally grim, yet he behaved as though he’d not heard it. His brother was the one who told him about Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, shortly after hearing that my father was sick. And once my father began chanting, he simply made up his mind—you could tell: He had determined that he would recover. When he did in a few short months, it shocked our sleepy farm town. We’d come to know him as someone confined to his bed. Now, he was a regular sighting. Greeting all who passed by, he told them all about Buddhism—he’d been returned to us bursting with life.
Understandably, I think (I was 10, after all), my first impression was that Nam-myoho-renge-kyo was magic. I’d gather my friends at our house to chant for whatever they wanted and chanted about what I wanted too. Back then, what I wanted most was good grades—mine were never much above average. That change, too, felt like magic to me—my report cards coming home stamped with A’s.
My views, of course, have matured since then, but at their core, the feeling is the same: When you focus your prayer in front of the Gohonzon, there’s really nothing you can’t change. And the more I share this understanding with others, standing by them until they break through, the more courageous, joyful and grateful I feel—full of vitality and hope.
Not everyone has understood my faith, not right away at least. My husband, for instance, early on in our marriage, was taken aback that I’d contribute my own money to the SGI. A secular person and a shrewd businessman, he saw only an unsound investment.
Still, he knew how much my faith meant to me and stood by me when others attacked it. In the early ’80s, we moved to New Jersey, one of 16 business and military transfers we’d make over the course of our marriage. We arrived with our little son, Dave, and soon after, I gave birth to our daughter, Amanda. So it was all the more painful when my husband’s family there cut ties with us and our newborn kids.
As it turns out, they were deeply religious and outraged that I was a Buddhist. “That’s their choice,” said my husband, before I could vent—and he was right, what else could be said? Still, when I thought of the kids, it seemed like such a loss over something so small. I tried my best to keep the future in mind—to believe that this would change. I’d been told, after all, when I was young in Japan, that my faith would truly bear fruit in my 40s, 50s and 60s. So, I simply continued to strive for the sake of kosen-rufu. Twenty years passed before we heard from them, but when we did, it was to ask to come visit. Of course we said yes, and had a wonderful time. As they left, they said that of the whole family, ours seemed the happiest of the bunch. By that time, we were all practicing Buddhism—me, my husband and kids. And it was true that we’d become very happy.
So it came as all the more of a shock, the news I got later that year. That March, out of the blue, I was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. I had a large, fast-growing tumor requiring immediate radiation.
I’d undergo four rounds of radiation in all, each one laying me out for weeks. Throughout it all, I had incredible support from my family, neighbors and friends. My son, without being asked, took a year off school to take my place running the family store. My husband took six straight weeks off work, taking care of me day and night. And the women of my chapter cooked and delivered delicious meals—none of this I’ll ever forget.
Still, the radiation was brutal—after my third round, I lay in bed too sick to move. For the first time, I wondered if I was going to die—and for a while, it was all I could think of.
Then, a passage from Nichiren’s writings came in a flash to my mind.
“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo is like the roar of a lion. What sickness can therefore be an obstacle?” (“Reply to Kyo’o,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1. p. 412)
I began chanting—not out loud; I couldn’t move at all. I chanted silently, inside my heart. As I did, my fear slowly subsided; in its place rose a powerful anger—I cannot die! I thought, There’s still so much to do! I thought of my children, my husband, my friends and my family. I thought of all the members of my chapter. Chanting, I lost track of time—I couldn’t tell you how much time passed. But at some point, something extraordinary happened—a brilliant sunrise unfolded in my room. In an instant, the room was flooded with light—and the next instant, the light was gone. It was evening again—the sun had not risen; the vision had taken place in my mind. From the window fell a dim square of twilight; the room was cool and dark. All that was left was a feeling of clarity, of enormous joy and conviction.
This is my mission, I realized. A mission I chose—to regain my health and live undefeated by the devil of illness!
From that point on, though physically drained, I felt no fear—only joy and anticipation.
Come May, I underwent my fourth round of radiation, after which I quickly regained my strength. At that point, I’d lost all my hair, so I dressed my head in colorful bandanas. Like this, I’d head out to meet with my friends. While speaking with my friends in faith, we discussed the spirit of contribution. It was May, after all, and the contribution activity was in full swing.
Returning to my business, we got it quickly back on track. For each of the next two years, I contributed my entire year’s income.
“You’re crazy,” my husband would say, but without much fight in his voice. For my part, I was overflowing with happiness. I had no regrets, felt nothing but joy that I could make such an offering, and gratitude for being alive.
I was determined to contribute more than ever before, to do this year after year.
Toward this end, in 2007, I applied for a job at a bank. The very next day I received a call asking me to come in. After the interview, I was asked to start work the next day, and the next day, I did. I worked hard to win in all areas of my life. Before I retired, in 2014, I received the award for Customer Service of the Year.
Today, I wake up every day thinking, Ah, I am alive today. What a wonderful thing! Both my children are happy and successful. My husband, now retired, bakes cakes for the members.
My chapter here in Orlando is a true SGI family, united in prayer to bring joy to our community. Now, I wake up every day thinking, Ah! I have so much to do! So many people to encourage to become happy!
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