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I had carefully written down what I wanted to say in class for that day's homework assignment on "What makes you stressed?" I sat nervously waiting, at the desk in the far left back corner of the classroom. The teacher asked the first student, who answered about life in Istanbul, and each classmate after that riffed off that answer and talked about the difficulties of living in Turkey. 

Then it was my turn. 

I was last. I hated being last. I hated having to sit through each classmate's response, not knowing whether I would be called on next, understanding everything they were saying but not being able to bring cohesive words to my mouth when it was my turn to talk. 

The teacher looked at me expectantly. All the words I had written down blurred together, my mind went blank, and I felt unbidden tears well up behind my weary eyes. I looked down at my paper, tried to make sense of what I had so painstakingly translated, and dug the fingernail of my left index finger into the soft part of my left thumb. It was a trick I'd learned long ago to stop the tears from coming, at least for a while, as my mind refocused on the physical sensation and forgot about the emotional pain. Temporarily. 

A sentence came into focus and I spoke, clumsily maneuvering through the strange pronounciation. I skipped the first part and went straight to, "What is a good hospital? Who is a calm dentist? Immigration office is very difficult. I cannot speak or understand the language." 

My voice trembled. I stopped speaking and shrugged my shoulders. I knew if I continued, the fingernail trick would no longer work and the tears would rapidly appear. Even though my classmates mostly didn't notice me, sitting in my corner, the teacher was looking intently right at me, and she would know. I heard a note of compassion in her voice as she agreed that life in a new country was hard when you didn't know the language. Then she gave a few grammatical corrections and I bent my head over my workbook, writing in the corrections and swallowing hard, hoping the desperate need to cry would go away. 

I told myself I could cry later. 

Class flew by that morning as we learned new grammar and, by the time I was heading down the side street, headphones in, and hiking-boot-clad feet pointed towards home, I was surprised to notice I didn't feel so sad anymore. I didn't cry then and I didn't cry when I let myself in to the privacy of our cozy apartment. 

It took several days for the emotion to return. This time it came as anger and withdrawal. 

It was 10:30 at night and my husband was hungry. I busied myself in the kitchen cooking rice and fried potatoes. He asked me to add a handful of small frozen grape-sized fruit to the potatoes when they were just about done. As he ate, he asked if I wanted to try them. I said no. Why not? Just one, he pleaded. I refused. 

I'm tired of being told to eat this and eat that. I don't want to eat it and if I do, I will let you know, I retorted. Hurt, he replied, It's something new and I thought you would like to try it. Busily washing up and tidying the kitchen, I said, Sometimes I reach my limit for new things for the week, or the month. Or even the year.

As the words came without thought, I stopped in my emotional tracks and realized where the frustrated words came from. I had indeed reached my limit and yet, I had neither recognized it, affirmed it, validated it, or taken time to process it. It was something I had been viscerally experiencing for several weeks by then, but had not been able to put words to it. It came fleetingly, when I wistfully looked at a picture of the new house my aunt and uncle had purchased in the north of the Netherlands. I could only dream of owning a house. Most days I worried about retirement and whether I would end up living in a car or under a bridge one day. It came forcefully, when my body could cope no longer with the short nights, public transportation, cold apartment, and social expectations, and I ended up sick in bed on Christmas Day with a nasty cold. The cough from that cold lasted two full weeks as it settled into my already-struggling lungs. It came quietly, when I stopped going out and exploring the city I had been so excited to make my home a year ago and instead lost myself in mindless games on my phone or Netflix series. It came surprisingly, when I wondered if it wouldn't be so bad after all to return to the US and look for a job. At least I would be able to navigate the medical system there and I could understand the language. 

How long does culture shock last? I wondered. A quick search online proved unfruitful. There were stages, generally accepted as the honeymoon, frustration, adjustment, and acceptance stages. Some websites declared it could take a few weeks to a few months to move through the stages, but I had already passed the few months. And I was stuck in the frustration stage. 

Maybe for the TCA (third culture adult), culture shock doesn't follow a nicely charted graph. Maybe it is a series of ups and downs, with mostly downs if it is one in a long line of countries required to be adapted to. Maybe a TCA doesn't always have to be happy to move. Happy to learn a new language. Happy to figure out where to find a gentle dentist. 

The websites have a plethora of recommendations of how to get past the hump of culture shock as if it is something that must be overcome and put in the past, along with any memories of a good life before the challenges I am facing now. The TCA is advised to socialize with the locals—just about impossible in a huge city where people are impatiently hurrying from responsibility to cultural expectation and have neither time nor patience to try to decipher my halting broken sentences. They shouldn't indulge in thoughts of home and constantly compare it to the new place they now live in—but when I'm confronted by a horde of grannies with their carts, intent on pushing their way past me to snag the freshest cucumbers at the Friday market, I can't help but think of the spacious Costco aisles lined with organic produce and polite shoppers. One website brightly announces that moving to another country to live is "one of the most exciting life experiences you can undertake." They fail to add that it can also be one of the most difficult experiences in your life. 

For the TCA, culture shock is more complex than the adjustments a monocultural person experiences when they move to another country for a period of time. The monocultural person comes with their identity anchors firmly placed as they hover over the new country temporarily, absorbing some of the language and culture and lifestyle, but never fully committing to their new home. After all, they will soon return to the familiar and all this will fade into the Google Photos album on their phone that they will pull up to brag to friends about their semester or couple of years abroad.

The TCA, on the other hand, enters the new country with a Pandora's box of emotions. While they are letting go of the memories from their previous country, simultaneously they must acclimate to the new country to the extent that they are indistinguishable from a local. They must learn the language without an accent, love the foods with their unique tastes and textures, dress in the garb and quickly learn the nuances of how to address elders, cross your legs, blow your nose, or any other such quirk of the culture. On top of all these adjustments is the ever-present knowing that they do not have a home anchor. They have been shaped by all the countries they have lived in but cannot lay claim to a single one that they can call their own. This state of liminality is not simply a rite of passage—it is their identity. They exist in confusion because they never really know who they are. 

Perhaps another recommendation is not what is needed for this TCA. Perhaps what would help heal the soft keening of a soul lost in the swirl of countries is simply an understanding soul to come alongside and sit with them. Maybe cry a little together. Say, It's okay to feel this way. That we can find a dentist another day. And share a Snickers bar together. 

The Angel of the Shampoo Bottle

Did you give me $200 in the past month? I asked my husband. He looked at me oddly. 

$200? For what? When? Why?

I don't know! I am counting my money, I have $200 extra ,and I don't know where it came from! I replied in frustration. 

I grew up with a mother as an accountant and at a very young age I learned how to take care of my money. First, we always put aside 10% of our pocket money for tithes and then another 10% for offerings. Those were given in church. Then we put aside another 10% for charity, which, as my mother explained, was for helping poor people or buying gifts for others. The remaining 70% was ours to keep or save as we wished.

As I was just a kid and not needing to save up for anything big anytime soon, I usually spent my money on chocolates, ice-cream cones, sodas, and books. I loved books. I saved up my pocket money each week until I had enough to buy the next book in the St. Clare's series. I'd go down to the corner bookstore and point to the one I wanted, then hand over my carefully hoarded Egyptian pounds. 

Or, if I had extra, I would buy the icecream cones that came in a paper wrapper with the thin cardboard lid on top. Once I pulled the tab back, revealing the sweet treat underneath, I would check the lid to see if there was a You have won! printed inside. If I had, I could return to the shop and get another ice-cream cone for free. The best part was the bottom of the cone with its solid chocolate core. Usually I didn't win, but my mom did several times and I was quite envious of her. I had better luck with the emerald green glass bottles of Sprite. I would pop the metal cap, peer underneath, and if I saw the magic words I would run to get a free bottle of soda. 

As I grew up, the few pounds changed into a few euros and then a few dollars as I moved from country to country. Uncles tucked a few bank notes into my hand, grandparents carefully counted out our vacation allowance that they had been saving all year, and family friends gave from their generosity. Then I was earning money from cleaning toilets and helping a little old lady in a purple tracksuit with deep purple socks walk around the loop for her constitutional. And each time I put aside 10% for tithes and 10% for offerings. The 10% for charity had, by now, morphed into my regular spending as I tended to help others on a regular basis. 

Over the years there were stories, time and time again, of how God provided at just the right time for my needs. When we had to go to the dentist, a family friend donated their Sabbath earnings from the hospital towards our dental bills. When I needed to pay for my sponsored child in Bangladesh, the little old lady whose cards I helped write and bills I helped pay gave me my pay a month in advance. When we needed to buy appliances for our apartment, the money we made from selling our household items in the previous country covered all we needed to buy and more. 

And each time I sat down to do my accounts, I marveled. I marveled at God's goodness, His generosity, and His deep intimacy with the little details of my life. Nobody else knew when I prayed and asked Him for a specific amount of money that summer I spent shredding termite-infested papers hour after hour, doing my part to earn as much money as I could but knowing I would come up short for the expenses I would incur. Yet just a few days before the summer ended, I found myself holding an envelope from a dear family friend that contained the exact amount of money I had been silently asking God for, for several weeks. Where I had just about given up hope, He had never stopped listening to my prayers.

I am convinced there is an angel who tucks cash into different places and refills shampoo, oil, and rice containers, I told my mom. And I was. I knew there had to be. There was no other explanation as to how two people could manage on a missionary salary, regularly host guests, and still have a fridge/freezer and cupboards full to bursting with dry goods and staples. We were never in want and had never been. 

Taste and see that the Lord is good;

blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.

Fear the Lord, you His holy people

for those who fear Him lack nothing.

The lions may grow weak and hungry,

but those who seek the Lord lack no good thing.

~Psalm 34:8-10

Don't Let Me Go

Fine, then, I'm going home, I said, as I turned around and walked off. My shoulders hung low in defeat, tears barely held back, as a deep feeling of sadness came over me. But I had made my choice, so I had to stick to it. The way I was feeling right then, I wouldn't have made very good company anyhow, so I set my feet in the direction of our apartment and carried on. 

An hour earlier, my husband had eagerly asked me if I wanted to join a friend and him to go to the Deniz Muzesi, a naval museum just across the Bosphorus Strait. We'd tried several times already to go but hadn't lucked out. The first time, the museum was closed as it was a Monday and we hadn't realized most museums were closed on Mondays. The second time it was too close to closing as we had had too many errands to run that day. Finally, today seemed like the day. We just had to eat something and we could be on our way. 

Hurry up, my husband urged, as I slipped his water bottle into my burgundy Quechua backpack in preparation for our adventure. 

What time are we supposed to meet? I asked. 

3:20 he replied.  

It was already 3:10 and we had at least a 15-20 minute walk down to the pier. I slipped on my shoes. By the time we reached the door, it was 3:15. 

We threaded our way through the crowds out for a Sunday afternoon, heading to the pier. By the time we reached the ferries, it was 3:43. 

Where is he? I asked, craning to see over the crowds. 

He's not here yet, he just got on the metro, my husband said. 

I looked at my watch and calculated the amount of time we had left. By now it was 3:47 pm. 

We can't go to the museum today, I said, bitterly trying to hide my disappointment. It doesn't work. By the time he arrives, it will be 4 pm and we still have to take the ferry across and walk to the museum. By the time we get inside, we will have 45 minutes at most to see it. I didn't know if it was a small museum or not, but we were going to pay for entrance and I didn't want to be rushed after paying. We were balancing our last few dollars until payday, as, yet again, we'd had to shell out nearly 20% of that month's salary for residence permit expenses. 

Okay, we won't go to the museum, my husband agreed. 

Then I'm going back home, I said. 

He asked if I wanted to just walk around the pier area; I looked at him helplessly and said, What's the point? 

It was Burkina Faso all over again. I was 7 or 8 years old—my father had found an unbelievably low price for tickets to England and we were going to be able to go and see my Granny, favourite aunts and uncles and cousins, in the year we normally wouldn't have had a paid furlough. I was so excited. I could hardly wait. Until my father came home and announced that the price was just a one-way ticket and we couldn't go after all. We were a missionary family and the salary didn't stretch far enough to pay for 4 tickets at twice the price he'd originally thought it was. 

My little heart broke that day and never quite recovered. Now, more than 35 years later, it still remembered the bitter disappointment and somehow equated a trip to see family with an afternoon outing. It still hurt. I still felt just as alone today as I did back then. Lost and alone. 

But there was nothing I could do back then and there was nothing I could do now. I shrugged out of my backpack and handed it over to my husband, then headed for home, crossing streets without looking for cars, imagining hacking off my long wavy hair, wishing I could break every plate in our dinner set, trying to think of some way I could release the pain that would never let go of me. But there was no way to lance 40+ years of being left behind. 

So I went home. And cried. 

Of Breadcrumbs and Books

They're gone. They're all gone. 

I was in the middle of a homework assignment from my counselor—write a list of words that describe you. I dutifully typed up the usual; sister, wife, creative writer, loves to travel and try ethnic foods. I added a new one—likes miniature decor—and as I did so, I looked up at my bookshelf facing me that housed two shelves of miniatures. Behind them, in a haphazard sort of way, stood two complete rows of books underneath which a third shelf held another seven smaller paperbacks. These were all the books I had with me now. Other than a black and yellow tub in my mom's basement that held 50 or so books that I still had to bring over one day, I had no more books to call my own. 

They were all gone. 

And as I sat in that knowledge, a deep melancholy sadness came over me. I knew theoretically that I could buy books at any time. I knew that my most precious books from childhood were sitting on those two shelves, Heidi, and Under the Blood Banner, and Little Pilgrim's Progress. I knew that 80% of the books I had bought, I had never read cover-to-cover, unless they were a story, preferring to read snippets here and there and then place them back on the shelf in anticipation of reading the whole book one day. I knew books were merely paper and ink—lifeless soulless inanimate objects—that didn't deserve to be mourned over in the way that I was doing now. And yet, the grief was still there, buried under years of a don't-care'ish attitude because if I cared, I would feel. And if I felt, I would hurt. And if I hurt, I would be vulnerable. And if I was vulnerable, if somebody actually noticed and took a moment to care, I would crumble like a paper-thin page from a century-old book. 

It was why I had gotten so good at listening to others, deflecting attention from myself, talking about events and experiences without sharing the real me. Who the real me was, I wasn't even sure I knew. I didn't know how far back I would have to go to find her. Was she sitting in a tunnel under a bridge, holding on to her knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing because she was so alone? Or was she dancing in the thrill of an African summer rain, face to the sky, open and unafraid of life? 

Was this urgent feeling of needing to scoop up all the books I had ever owned and surround myself with them so strong because over the years I had had to let pieces of me fall by the wayside as I moved on, even though I wanted so badly to keep those pieces with me? 

I don't read these books; they are old, I reasoned as I packed up yet another box of books to take to the giveaway room on campus. 

Thirty years ago, I had given away my favourite big doll with the sculpted plastic hair and a single sprout of hair poking out like a ponytail on top. It was expected of me, and I was happy to do it, in the moment. To walk into that hospital and give away my toys to the sick children. It was what missionary kids did and Jesus loved them for doing it. 

Except the kid who got that doll could have just as easily been given a store-bought plastic doll and it would have made no difference to them. The only person who remembered so many years later was me, the one who had picked out that doll when I was just three years old on a summer holiday with my parents, granny, and favourite uncle in Spain and Portugal. My granny had told me to choose a toy and I, so cleverly, had chosen a doll pushchair. Feeling sorry for me having a pushchair with no doll inside to push around, she had then bought a large doll for me and I left that store with not one, but two gifts that day. 

The doll, the books, the Tupperware olive container, the other red peeler, the pillar glass clock that sat on top of the piano. Tangible pieces that I could follow, like Hansel and Gretel's crumbs, back to where I began. 

But where did I begin? 

Breathing on Dry Bones

Look at that baby, my husband nudged me as he nodded to the right. I turned and looked, perfunctorily saying, Oh how cute! as I tried to hear whether the muddled overhead announcement was for our flight or another one. Cute? She looks funny! he said. I took a closer look. The little one's hair was looking more like a mohawk than anything else and she had distinct facial features. I shrugged and thought nothing more of it. 

It was a game we'd been playing since we had gotten married five years ago. Anytime one of us saw a chubby baby, we'd point them out to the other and smile together at their antics as their parents hurried by. We didn't have children of our own. Most of the time it didn't bother me, especially when I was around small ones that had a lot of energy and I was only too happy to hand them back to their parents at the end of Cradle Roll Sabbath School. 

Except every now and then, things felt different. 

After some mild turbulence during the second half of our, thankfully, short flight, we landed and started to deplane. The small "international" airport had stairs for us, pushed up to the plane by one of the ground crew, and the crew member directing the plane to its parking spot used a thumbs-up gesture instead of a fluorescent marshalling wand. We walked across the tarmac into the terminal and joined the huddle of passengers waiting for bags to start trundling out on one of the only two baggage belts there. 

As I wearily waited to the side with my carry-on, my eager husband having claimed a spot right next to the flaps where the bags came out, I noticed a couple of kids pushing a baggage cart around to amuse themselves. One young boy came over with an empty cart and as he passed his mother, I noticed she was the same lady who had been holding the baby we'd seen at the beginning of our flight. 

The baby noticed me in the same moment I noticed her. Almost automatically, I smiled. Her tiny face lit up immediately as her smile spread from ear to ear, she chuckled happily and kicked her little legs with glee. A tear pricked my eyelid as a pang of sadness slipped uninvited through me. Her mother noticed the little one's sudden burst of energy and turned to see who she was looking at. When she saw me, she also smiled and I smiled back through the tears that threatened to cloud my vision. Blinking rapidly, I turned away but not before I saw the understanding glance of a woman who could not speak my language but saw the empty arms and felt the lonely heart. 

The baby kept giggling and smiling at me until the family had claimed their bags and headed for the arrivals door. I watched them leave with a wistfulness I had learned to bury deep down over the years. I had all my answers down pat—I am too old, most women my age are grandparents, I wouldn't want to risk having a child with a serious illness, this world is becoming too uncertain to raise a child in. 

It didn't make the loss any easier, though. 

I See You

It had been one of those days. Fitful sleep, awake in the middle of the night with a sneezing fit, losing sleep while I waited for my allergy meds to kick in. I was so thankful I'd brought those meds. I showed up late to breakfast, everyone else was nearly done, and I hurriedly ate something as they started clearing the table. Kids running through the house shouting, slamming doors. People constantly talking over and around me as I tried to do my presentation on health. The studies seemed dry, the facts they already knew, and everybody had a story to share. I retreated to my room after a rather tiring day, sent an audio to a friend, and opened up my Bible app. 

But as for you, be strong and do not give up, for your work will be rewarded. 2 Chronicles 15:7

A song came to mind, Tenth Avenue North, Fighting For You, and as I listened, the tears finally came. 

Heaven had better be worth it, because if it isn't, then all of this sacrifice was for nothing. The short nights, the loneliness, the difficult beds to sleep in, the anxiety on yet another flight, the unfamiliar foods, the strange people in my house. I could have walked away so many times. 

I listened as the lyrics sank deep down. 

Jesus could have walked away too. There was nothing holding Him down to this earth. Except His love for me. 

Jesus fought with every ounce of His being to resist the devil's temptation to give in, have an easy life, eat nice foods, and receive the false worship of many, because He saw me. And He couldn't stop fighting for me.  

In that moment I realized that even if nobody else saw me, Jesus did. Jesus saw me as He walked to the Mount of Olives. He saw me as He knelt and asked God to take away the cup of suffering He was about to drink. He saw me as the crowd came in the night to arrest Him. He saw me as the Roman soldiers beat Him and placed the thorn of crowns on His head. He saw me as He was pushed and shoved from court to palace, waiting patiently for the guilty verdict. He saw me as He stumbled under the weight of the wooden cross on the road to Calvary. He saw me as the nails were cruelly hammered into His hands. He saw me as the darkness set in, the earthquake shook, and He couldn't feel His Father's presence anymore. He set His face like flint and resolutely committed His spirit into God's hands. And in that last moment before He took His last breath, He saw me. And He knew it was all worth it. Even if heaven was lost to Him. Because He knew I would make it and that was enough for Him. 

So to the one who is going through a difficult time right now, struggling to find their purpose in life, trying their best to make it through the day, I see you. I see your sacrifices, seeming small in the eyes of others, yet they are all you can bring to God today. I see your commitment and determination to keep going, even though you keep falling down, keep making mistakes, and keep messing up. I see how you pick yourself up and try again. I see you. 

And God sees you. And He will keep fighting for you. Even on those days when you feel like you can't. 

Life in the Big City

I knew there would be culture shock and yet again, I wasn't really planning to give it much more than a passing glance. I figured, I wasn't really changing cultures, at least I was going from one country in the Middle East to another country in the same region; barely two hours away by plane. So how hard could it be, anyway?

I was about to find out.

I grew up my whole life, more than 40 years, on campuses. I lived, worked, and worshipped on a space of land you could easily walk in 20 minutes. My world was small—too small—as I felt it at times, but this was all I knew. I didn't realize the ease with which I was living as housing was a given, my work commute was often 10 minutes or less, and utilities and maintenance were part of the benefits. 

Suddenly I found myself standing in an empty and rather disheveled looking apartment with lumpy linoleum floors listening to a real estate agent bemusedly answer our question about the missing light bulbs in the house. 

It's your first apartment rental, right? It's common for apartments not to have light fixtures. You install them yourselves and then, when you leave, you take them with you.

What an odd thought. Why anyone would want to clamber up to the ceiling and take down the light fixtures made no sense to me. Unless, of course, their light fixtures were one of the many status symbols I had noticed dominated society here. Thankfully I had a very tall husband whose penchant for fixing things made my life much easier and saved a bit of money too. 

The first apartment we'd seen was referred to us by someone who knew a real estate agent. The apartment was so small, you could sneeze and you would have seen all the rooms. It felt too claustrophobic and, even though it was new and within our budget, I said no. Where would we store our 11 suitcases, let alone all the stuff that we had packed in them? 

The next time we ventured out, we saw two different apartments. The first one was nice but there was mold in the bathroom. The second one we really liked and asked the real estate agent to contact the owner. It was furnished, within our budget, and in a nice area of town. There was no mold and the living room and bedroom were bright and filled with light. A week later, the real estate agent still hadn't gotten back to us and we realized we probably had lost that one. 

Then came the big Seven-Apartments-Day. Armed with Google Maps and a spare battery pack that we traded between our phones to keep them going through the day, we trekked all over several different areas, riding the metro, bus, and walking up to 20 minutes each time to see the different places. At the last stop of the day, the sixth apartment, the real estate agent suggested we look at a slightly bigger place he also had available. 

The building was old, but there was no mold smell in the stairway or in the apartment itself. Three of the four rooms were oddly shaped in the form of trapezoids or quadrilaterals at an acute angle. The bathroom was black, which I hated, and the whole apartment felt like a train compartment. But my husband loved it and there was no mold, which by now seemed to be my only requirement. 

We went back to see it the next day in the daylight and decided it would do. I eyed the crumbling upper balcony dubiously, questioning if was a foreboding of whether the building would hold up in an earthquake. My husband reassured me it would. After walking around the surrounding area one more time, we chorused to each other that we loved it. 

After all, we won't be in the apartment much, anyhow, I reasoned. I was starting to figure out this big city routine and realizing it was going to take up much of my day. Even if we would end up living 45 minutes closer to the school than we were now, if I took a teaching job, that would eat into my time too. We would be out most of the day and only come back to sleep, do laundry, and eat something quick. 

A delicious falafel meal and a metro change later, we were sitting on prized seats on the M4 line heading back to our temporary apartment. We hurried home through the drizzling rain, thankful it wasn't raining harder as I hadn't brought a rain jacket. There was laundry waiting to be done, the room looked like a tornado had exploded, and I needed to catch up on vacuuming, homework, and cooking. If we heard back from the real estate agent, we would need to set up the utilities, sign the rental contract, clean the apartment, and start looking for appliances and furniture. 

Life in the big city. Just one of the many life-shocks I would be encountering.