The Two Swords I Carried, and the One I Had to Return

What I Remember

What I remember about the man the most was his style of dress, how he greeted you at the door, and the size of his hands.

Always a suit, always a smile, always offering a firm handshake when he greeted you at the church door- his hand completely dwarfing my thirteen‑year‑old one.

He was a man from a different time, a world that no longer existed, a world new generations would doubt ever existed.

Regardless of the occasion he was always sharp, would call you on your bullshit if needed, and was a man of action even at seventy years old when I met him.

When I was confirmed at sixteen, after the service and the luncheon, he told me to wait on the church steps—he had something to give me.

Imagine handing a sixteen‑year‑old kid a sword.

But that’s exactly what he did, along with a small framed picture.

The sword was a one‑handed saber in a leather‑wrapped scabbard, ivory handle wrapped in gold‑brass wire. It was his Marine dress sword from the Pacific and he wanted me to have it as encouragement for the years ahead.

I wish I had paid more attention to what he said, but my focus was entirely on the sword.

He said something about how I was starting my life and his was moving on as the world had moved on, but he wasn’t upset by it.

Shortly after that he wasn’t at the church door for the Sunday service.

A few days later, his cremated remains were placed in the columbarium with no family in attendance.

After a few days of swinging the sword around, I put it back in its scabbard and left it in the umbrella stand in the basement, among old golf clubs, hockey sticks, and wooden bats.

It stayed there for years.

The Dojo

When I entered the dojo and took the oath, the first lesson was the warrior’s heart—mushashin.

You either had it or you didn’t. If you didn’t, you’d better get it, or you wouldn’t last long.

This made an impression on me.

Nobody explained the rules; you watched your seniors—your sempai—and emulated them.

If you couldn’t pick up the obvious things, how could you ever learn the hidden ones?

Omote and Ura.

Mushashin was the cornerstone of everything. Technique could be taught, corrected, learned.

But not the heart of a warrior.

Yet according to my sempai, it was simple: take the oath, and conduct every action with the heart of a warrior.

For years I trained with only a bokken- a wooden training sword.

I watched the advanced students with their aluminum swords, and during New Year demonstrations, the seniors with their shinken.

Naturally I wanted one, but waiting was part of the warrior’s heart.

When it was time, the teacher told you it was time.

Eventually I had my own shinken.

To outsiders it didn’t look like much, but its design was clear to those who understood.

The blade was thicker, the polish duller, the fittings plain hammered metal, the handle simply wrapped.

Two bamboo pegs held the blade in place.

It was a sword for cutting practice—thicker in order to forgive mistakes, dull‑polished so the rolled mats wouldn’t scratch it as much,

Most of the time it sat in a bag under the kamiza, coming out once or twice a year under the close supervision of the teacher.

But it still had to be cared for even if it sat there for 363 days.

Taken apart.

Inspected.

Cleaned.

At some point during this routine, I remembered the other sword. I was relieved to find it still in the umbrella stand.

I was ashamed at my heart for forgetting it.

I asked a senior student to approach the teacher on my behalf as was the way to do it.

I wanted to clean the sword as I had been taught and keep it in a similar bag beneath my own under the kamiza.

It felt like the right thing to do.

So there they sat—one sword I had permission to wear, one I did not—but both cared for as a warrior should.

A sword is a sword, after all.

The Return

A decade later, during an Easter service, I noticed a man in a dress uniform at the back of the church. It took me a moment to place him after reading the name on the uniform.

He was the grandson, about my age. I remembered him fleetingly from childhood—one of the kids who had challenges, who came from a difficult family, who sometimes got into trouble.

Essentially me.

But now here he was, and it looked like everything had worked out. Demonstratively he had found some warrior heart of his own.

After the service I introduced myself.

He didn’t remember me.

His family had left the church years ago; he was only back to visit his grandfather after the service.

I told him I had something for him—something important—and asked him to wait while I went home.

I was almost out the door with the sword when I remembered the picture.

It was a picture of him on his wedding day, in uniform, his wife in her wedding gown beside him, the sword at his waist.

When I returned, he was still waiting on the same steps where the sword had first been handed to me. I gave him the sword and the picture.

Surprise and shock.

He remembered seeing the sword and picture above the fireplace as a kid, but after his grandfather died, no one knew what happened to it.

Everybody figured it just got thrown out with the rest of the stuff when the house got emptied out.

He didn’t know what to say.

Nothing needed to be said.

I thanked him for letting me take care of it for a few years.

A simple handshake communicated everything that needed to be said.

Kajo Chikusei.

Next Story: Under The Spear