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Thursday, April 26, 2018

Weinik

I'm very much an emotional person and I tend to live life on the compass of my feelings. Which is not a good idea, I'm realizing. While emotions are valuable in helping us to understand or express what we may not have words for, they can also be tricky little triggers.

For example, if I'm walking home late at night and it's a quiet street and I feel afraid, that emotion will prompt me to walk quickly, be alert to my surroundings, and probably not repeat my action again in the near future. On the other hand, if I see my best friend laughing with a mutual friend just minutes after I told them something confidential and I assume they passed it on and are now enjoying some gossip at my expense, the anger and betrayal I feel may not necessarily be based in reality. They could simply be laughing at a joke or something completely unrelated to me.

I think as women, we tend to be very much aware of our emotions. This hypersensitivity, when not tempered with logic, can lead to difficult scenarios. A woman who's being bullied at work may start to cry, her feelings of despair and fear of being fired and low self-worth expressed in tears. The men who see those tears, though, label her as being too emotional without taking the time to find out why she is crying.

Perhaps a woman is enjoying the attention of a guy when she sees him paying similar attention, though of a lesser amount, to another woman. This leads to distrust and jealousy which may or may not be based in reality. Her interpretation of an amiable interaction could turn it into something more meaningful or it could be that the man is interested in the other woman and is trying to see how much he can get away with.

On the other hand, I've read too many books and seen too many real-life stories where women didn't listen to their emotions and they suffered for it. They saw their significant other online, chatting up other women, indulging in evil habits, and they excused those behaviours as trivial. It is not trivial, however, when a woman's self-worth is disrespected. As men deserve to be treated with honour and dignity and respect, so too do women.  

Saturday, April 21, 2018

In a Thousand Setting Suns, I See My Reflection

Do you have a couple minutes? I need to do an interview for my class about another culture. I just have 3 questions to ask about family, food, and social customs. 

The Education major stood in the doorway of the communications office looking hopeful. I, the quintessential survey taker, was only too happy to oblige. My colleague laughed and said, Which culture? She has a million! Do American, then.

I protested. American was so cliche, and anyway, it wasn't my ethnic culture. The student sat down across from me and for a moment I panicked. Which culture did I want to represent? For a moment, it suddenly seemed to be very important to pick the right one.  

Dutch. Wait, no, I don't know enough about it. Let's do American, it's easy and I lived there the longest. No, not American. Mauritian. That's what I want to do. Mauritian. Here's how to spell it: M-A-U-R-I-T-I-U-S.

For the next couple minutes I answered questions about what the family system looked like, what types of foods were most commonly eaten, and what types of traditions I'd grown up with. Though I'd only lived in the same country as my Mauritian relatives for 3 years under the age of 5, we had gone home for summers so I could remember enough to speak knowledgeably. At first I was worried about the accuracy of what I was sharing, then I remembered.

This is me. 

I wasn't giving a history lesson or sharing anthropological insights. No, I was speaking about me. I'm Mauritian.

The joyful yet painful tension of being a TCK is that we claim multiple identities, moving from one to another without notice depending on which one the situation calls for. When I had a 3-hour layover in Heathrow, I came back speaking with a British accent that my friends remarked on. Sometimes we slip so deeply into one identity, wanting to fit in so desperately to feel like we belong, that we forget we have other parts to us that are equally as valid.

We can't handle the jarring those parts cannot resolve within us, a discord that state ambassadors are unable to mediate between countries, let alone all found in one person. So to manage, we place identities into neatly labeled boxes and shove them into a dark place in our mind that we don't visit unless we need to switch an identity, like changing from an afternoon's sporty gym outfit to an evening formal for a special dinner.

For 17 years I existed in a culture I fought to integrate into an already fragmented identity. Like Terry's son, I felt distressed that I had to forget who I was before in order to fully integrate into a new identity that I did not choose but had to learn to live in due to life circumstances. When I finally left, returning to the place I felt happiest before that steel door had slid shut on who I was, the joy returned. Slowly, too, the pieces of who I'd been began to drift back together as I started to assemble the puzzle.

I began to explore the 11 distinct cultures that defined me up to now. I began to claim my ethnic heritage, proud in my Dutch-Mauritian identity flavoured with all the countries I'd lived in scattered around the world. Like a ratatouille, a hodgepodge that tasted best after simmered for hours, I began to accept my fragmentation as valuable. To pull the strings of my cat's cradle life story in tight, then let them fall into a design just as complex as the first while not being afraid to add in more loops to create an even more beautiful design.

Last year I spoke at FIGT, joining international speakers to encourage TCKs, ATCKS, and those who are a part of their lives, to acknowledge the losses as we move between identities. In recognizing the frustration we face of trying to claim a single home or tell people who we are, I ended by affirming that I had found home within myself. Yet even then, I hadn't completely integrated that understanding of home with an understanding of me.

Having a place to claim was important, and to realize that it may not be a physical space was good. Yet even more than that, was understanding who I was. More than experiences, losses, environments, and people in my life, my identity was based in the cultural perspectives that had written my innate understanding of how I approached those experiences, denied or validated those losses, adapted to or fought against those environments, and drew close to or held people at a distance in my life.

Last week I chose to be Mauritian. Tomorrow I may pretend I'm Lebanese when the taxi driver remarks on the weather or switch to Dutch when he asks if I'm single, dashing his hopes to snag an American for the price of a meal at a fast-food restaurant. The reality is that I'll never be able to fully claim one identity, just as I cannot speak the languages of my childhood flawlessly. It is not a weakness, though. It's simply a reminder that who I am is beautiful in its complexity.

Because this is me. 

The Heart Speaks in Languages

I don't usually post melancholy things on my Facebook page. When I first got active on social media and started adding anyone who I knew, whether or not we were friends, I began to see that some people used their account to go off about all their problems. Some would use bad language, others were obviously looking for attention, and some were downright mean. I eventually unfriended those, but in the midst of all of that I decided I didn't want to depress other people who were my Facebook friends.

So if you scroll through my Facebook page, you will find posts celebrating life. My blog is where I am more real about the melancholy side of me--free in anonymity. One of my friends, after he hadn't known me all that long, looked at me and told me I was melancholy. I was rather indignant, telling him I was sanguine and choleric, but not that melancholy. Except when I thought about it, he was right.

When I'm feeling particularly melancholy, I think in French. Somehow it seems more romantic, more apropos to the emotion. Spanish is for feeling intelligent in another language; Dutch for the familiar and erudite; Arabic to stretch my brain cells. French is for the heart. L'amour, c'est toujours seul. Seul dans mon chambre. Pensée pour tois, rêver a tois, mais pas avec toi, parce que je suit seul. 

I searched for a French quotation that could somehow capture the feeling but tonight it was a Portuguese word that spoke to me. It's one I've heard before but I'd always thought of it in connection to the many homes I'd left behind that tugged at my heart. Except for tonight.

Saudade--A deep melancholy or nostalgia felt when yearning for someone who is not there.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

A Thousand Sparkling Lights

I looked at the pictures someone had posted on Facebook, slowly clicking through the album. The food, the smiles, the camaraderie, the group photo at the end with everyone smiling big. Then I opened up a chat window to my mom and began to type.

Mom, do you think I'm not good enough of a missionary because I'm not doing Bible studies with dorm girls, bringing food bags to refugee families, or participating in the activities like today the women's ministries did a picnic for refugee women?

I've been here 2 years and 2 months today and I still don't speak Arabic; I don't have connections in the community; I don't have a 5-year evangelism plan; I don't even know how to talk about Jesus or give a Glow tract to someone in the taxi or bus or at the checkout. It's difficult, this world I live in that is a swirl of missionary with real-life. I work at a Christian university and attend the attached church and being single suddenly somehow means I'm asked to do a whole lot of things. Today it was a picnic, last week the church clerk, and tomorrow probably to teach the lesson study for the earliteens. It's not that I don't want to help; it's just that I'm starting to understand why one of my friends is on a church break right now. Burnout doesn't come only in the workplace; it can come in ministry also.

Perhaps the heaviest burden of guilt, though, comes from not feeling like I'm doing enough to be accepted. By whom, I'm still not sure. The older people, who will pat me on the shoulder and say Isn't she doing such a great work for the Lord? My peers, who will invite me to other social events since we've spent time together doing church activities. The university students who watch my behaviour as they model off what they see me do or not do. The one whose opinion I wish most to be positive of me but never know. Or the God Who, through church and culture and environment, has led me to believe, perhaps erroneously, that there is a great work to be done and I'm neglecting my part?

This is not a new topic for me. I struggle often with the tension inside that shames me into feeling not good enough. While I came out here as a missionary and continue to be under that umbrella, there is very little about me that feels like a bonafide missionary. That isn't what I want to be, anyhow. I just want to be me, living here, and adjusting to what it means to breathe in and out in the cycle of life. If my life makes any impact at all, I want it to be without my knowledge, so that I cannot claim any prideful part in it, but rather let it be natural and real. Not the requisite cookie-cutter set of expectations or a veneer of smiles that doesn't translate into the heart language.

Maybe this living between worlds thing is more than physical continents. Maybe it is also relevant to my purpose in life. I find myself caught between the expectation to be a 100% missionary and a 100% person living life here. I don't want to be a missionary. Maybe that's sacrilegious to say. But just like I hate living between identities, never knowing if I'm Dutch or Mauritian or Californian or Lebanese or Burkinabé, I hate not being able to claim a single identity for who I am.

I want to be a woman in her 30's living in Lebanon exploring life through music, nature, and food. A woman who loves to laugh, is excited to see the sun sink in the golden Mediterranean horizon, writes to understand herself and her world, is slightly obsessively overanalytical, and dreams of romance. A woman whose motto is people before tasks, values quality time without technology, and will drop everything to talk or listen. 

This is me.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Another Goodbye

I stood in my bedroom, the bedside lamp the only light, watching the red taillights on my old Suzuki light up as Michael put on the brakes and prepared to reverse out of my mother's driveway. A minute later he was gone and I was standing there, silent. It was just another goodbye.

The alarm went off at 5:15 am and I blearily stumbled out of bed, trying to wake up through enormous yawns and a few sneezes from the cold. After packing and tidying up the last bits and pieces, I had turned off my bedside lamp just after midnight, ready to get a few hours of sleep before interrupting my REM sleep. My brother would be leaving at 5:30 for his pilot training job and I wanted to spend a few minutes with him before he left.

I watched him microwave his oatmeal, then bag his three meals for the day along with an apron to catch the spills as he ate the oatmeal on his hour-long morning commute. Familiar in its constancy, though I'd not been up that early to watch him get ready to leave before, we made small talk as he prepared to leave. He finished a few minutes early and sat to chat a bit more, then we both fell silent. There was nothing more to say. It was a moment that had come all too soon and now we had to face it.

A couple of days ago, he'd handed me a book about a missionary pilot and encouraged me to read it, saying it was really interesting. In the midst of the adventures, I'd realized that what he would soon set out to do was even more terrifyingly dangerous than I'd wanted to think about. Prayer would need to be even more important. The last two pilots with more than 11,000 hours of flying did not fly out of their mission station alive; their lives were claimed by the jungles of Papua. Now my brother was preparing to answer his own call to the same station.

Would this be the last time I saw my brother? I wondered. Granted, the men were in their 50s or 60s, they had lived full lives with children and grandchildren. But just a week ago, a young native man in his mid 20s had been brutally murdered in a bizarre revenge-killing likely due to mistaken identity, in a remote area of Papua. Death came without notice. When it did; it was final.

When Michael began flight training, as my mother and sister and I anxiously watched his little toy plane toss into the air and somehow soar up to the heights, we began to learn the meaning of trusting God in a different way. My mother told me, as we thought about how mission flying was a high-risk calling, that if my brother died while flying for God it would be the best way to die because he would be working for God. Theoretically, I knew she was right. Emotionally, I wasn't ready to accept it.

Goodbyes are not my thing. They never have been. Perhaps that's why I either pretend they aren't happening, as I gave Michael a long hug, told him I loved him, and then smiled as he walked out the door, as if it was just another day. Or I have to say goodbye to friends before going on a short two-week vacation, as if I won't be seeing them for a year or more. Either way, I don't like to face or ignore the reality of the possible finality of it all.

My friend was driving me home before I'd left on my last trek to the US when I remembered I hadn't said goodbye to another friend I hadn't seen in 10 days. I asked if we could stop briefly, he looked a bit confused as to why it was necessary to stop just to give her a hug and say goodbye. He didn't understand, he couldn't understand, that my life had been a series of goodbyes, most of which were expected to be said with a smile on my face even if my heart had sunk to the bottom of my toes. He didn't know that I had to say goodbye because I couldn't say goodbye 20 years ago to all the people and places that were so dear to me. He didn't know that saying goodbye, now, had become a ritual of sorts because in saying goodbye it was my way to remind myself that soon I would be saying hello.

The last five times I'd taken to the skies from Beirut, heading out over the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, I'd prayed my little prayer that I always prayed. God, please bring me back. I was excitedly anticipating my next adventure, after all I was born with travel in my DNA, but I needed to come back. My goodbyes couldn't be the defining of my identity; I needed to know that my hellos were secure. Sure enough, soon I would return and though the long hallways and the baggage carousels still had to stamp themselves in my memory with their familiar smells, as I stepped up to the next available window and handed my residence permit and passport to the smiling immigration officer, I knew I was home.

Soon I would be walking through those glass doors that separated the in-between from the certain. Perhaps a taxi driver, or a friend, would be waiting for me, ready to drive me back through the haggle of cars and motorcycles and buses that made life in a city so stressful yet exciting at the same time. Soon I would be hefting my exactly-51-pounds suitcase up the two flights of stairs, 14, then 12, then 11, then 11, and rolling it to my door which I would unlock to a tidy little dorm room. Soon I would be messaging my family to let them know I'd arrived safely and then soon, my head would be on my pillow, my arm around my stuffed dog, and a smile on my face as I softly drifted off to sleep.

This living between worlds thing, I don't like it very much. I have had to learn to accept it because it is my reality. Just like my sister, I cannot live in a world so small I can see people on the other side of the glass cage I'm in and if I wipe the glass from my breath, I see them staring in at me, wondering why I am so very different from them. So I leave, to find my own knowing, but this means I must return to see family because it is those threads that also connect, tenuously, to the person I was and am today. I cannot measure my identity only in the place I am most at home; I find my home in the people who settle me and my family is very much a strong part of that. But to see them, I have to return.

So I learn to live with the regret and I learn to say goodbye, reminding myself that this is what people do often now. We say goodbye but then we say hello. In a few minutes, my brother will start his day while my sister, 16 hours away, is ending hers. I will be buckling my seat belt in a cylindrical metal box as I prepare to lift high above the ground and let the wind carry me to one of three airports in three countries today. The in-between will be my reality for 28 hours until I can settle back into the routine, exchanging one familiarity for another.

This is my life. It is not one I would have chosen but it is one I must live in order to breathe. So I say goodbye but in doing so I know. . .I will say hello.

Friday, March 23, 2018

A Pouf of Air

I feel like a fraud.

I peered into my bathroom mirror; a face I didn't recognize peered back at me. It was a beautiful face. Curly hair laid just right, with enough hairspray to fix it in place should a nor'easter blow, a warm smile, and round baby cheeks. While I no longer passed for a high-schooler, as my age was finally starting to creep across my eyelids, I definitely didn't look like I was in my late 30's. Mid-20's perhaps.

Right after work that day, I'd grabbed my keys and purse and hopped in the 7-seater with my friend to head down to Elie for a treat we allowed ourselves three or four times a year. She, a mother of 3 under the age of 2 with her husband in college, didn't have much money for luxuries. I had no patience and didn't relish the thought of going on my own. So when the twins' 2nd birthday party came up, we decided it was time to go get ourselves pampered.

The young assistant soon had my friend's colour painted on and she relaxed in the hair salon chair waiting for it to set. I, meanwhile, had just had my hair washed by the second assistant and was sitting in my own chair watching my face in the mirror. It was a face I didn't like to see.

My cheeks were too chubby and I had a double-chin. My eyelids looked saggy and puffy, my teeth were too small and when I smiled my gums showed. My hair was thinning and there was an obvious balding spot on the top right side that I tried to hide by combing my bangs over in that direction. My eyebrows were thick, though semi-shaped, and also thin in patches so I looked more like a mangy homeless cat than a well-groomed trendy woman. Mosquito bites from the last week's battle with several formidable foes were unevenly dotted around my cheeks and nose with a bonus one on my left eyelid.

I sighed inwardly and looked in the mirror as the young lady began to blow-dry my hair. At first she simply tousled it while waving the hairdryer about but soon she took round brushes and used them as curlers to begin putting a curl in my hair. When she'd finished, I thought it looked nice enough, but she had just begin to work her magic. Soon a small curling iron appeared and she painstakingly separated small sections of hair and wove each around the iron until the moisture evaporated and a perfectly formed curl slipped off the barrel.

After hairspray, cream to add shine, and meticulous arranging and rearranging of the curls so a perfect wave accented my smile and hid the balding spot as if it had never existed, I stared in the mirror silently. I had sat in the chair feeling ugly and watched myself transform into someone beautiful. I'd never felt so beautiful before in my life.

That evening, I received compliments from several of my friends who noticed the new me. Somewhat self-conscious, I tried to pretend I was my usual self but I knew I looked different. When I headed back to my room, I slipped off my black velvet heels and looked in the mirror again. Yes, the same beautiful woman was still there. Except I realized one thing.

The beautiful woman only felt beautiful on the outside.

I didn't grow up in a family where compliments were easily given. When we grew older, physical touch also abated, so hugs were for mostly when we were feeling sad or going on a trip. I envied Hispanic families who were always showing their love through touch. I wished my parents would tell me I was beautiful instead of warn me not to eat so much because I was putting on weight. The weight, of course, hid the sad little girl who not only wished for more warmth but was dealing with the TCK grief and loss that she had to carry all her life.

A beautiful thing is never perfect. ~Egyptian Proverb

Was it possible to be beautiful and not have a size 2 figure? Was it possible to be beautiful and have stretch marks on my knees, a round stomach, and uneven skin? Was it possible to be beautiful and not have straight hair, waxed arms, or Botoxed lips? Was beautiful not defined by what we saw but only enhanced by what made us feel good about ourselves?

I looked in the mirror again at the face I knew well. Tomorrow my hair would rearrange itself after a night of tossing and turning as I am not a light sleeper. I stared at eyes that hesitated to sparkle, afraid that acknowledging what I saw wouldn't change the way I felt. Yet a little smile began to appear as I continued staring until the smile crinkled the corners of my eyes. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and tonight I was beautiful.

Friday, March 16, 2018

Kikiki

I bought Kiri today. It's a soft cheese that I grew up eating so it's a comfort food reminiscent of my childhood and one I very much enjoy eating today with honey on a soft roll-up Lebanese bread. Arriving at campus 30 minutes before sunset, since the orientation had finished early and we didn't hit much traffic coming back, I decided to take a quick jaunt partway down the hill and go to Green Market, the mom-and-pop shop frequented by the university dorm students, to pick up something for potluck the next day. I was craving potato chips so that was on my list. Along with Kiri.

I love Kiri. Except I feel guilty when I eat Kiri. See, I spent nearly half my life living on a campus where any kind of dairy product, eggs, processed foods, and cinnamon (yes, cinnamon) was touted as the food from hell. Or at the very least, if you ate it, you wouldn't live long and you would get cancer and die a painful death so you would experience hell on earth. If you managed to somehow, miraculously, escape that fate and die in your sleep, you would end up in hell anyhow because the consumption of cheese would keep you out of heaven.

I'm not joking, by the way. It may sound somewhat sarcastic, but during my freshman year in college at this campus I went on a choir tour and one of my classmates preached a sermon on the evils of cheese. It shook my fragile faith and worried my sensitive conscience. Now, in my late 30s, I still battle those voices that insist anything other than single ingredients will ruin my health for good.

I'm not against health. I practice it to the best of my ability. I just wonder, sometimes, though whether I would have had a healthier relationship with food and exercise if I'd grown up appreciating them rather than struggling to relate to them without a moral value assigned that was connected, albeit vaguely, to my eternal salvation.

I met a teenager at a recruiting fair today at a nearby high school. Picking up on his accent, I asked where he was from and found out he was from Alabama, but had just moved to Lebanon from Jordan. His parents were missionaries with the Parkview Baptist Church so I tried to find a way to connect our similar MK upbringing. He was quicker than me, though, to bring out a point I'd just been thinking about.

You know, when you move around so much, you soon find out that what is considered right and wrong in one place is not necessarily so in another. And so there are very few rights and wrongs, when you really think about it. Like dancing, for example. Baptists don't dance but it's not wrong. The blond-haired blue-eyed lanky teenager was in earnest. I jokingly asked if coffee wasn't allowed either, but he laughed and said his parents were addicted to coffee. I recommended an MK Facebook group and then off he went. Leaving me thinking.

The longer I live as an adult in a culture not my own (though what culture I would consider my own is a whole 'nother dichotomy), the more I realize that what I perceive as morally right and wrong, through the lens of my worldview, is not always the same as what others perceive as morally right and wrong. It can be somewhat unsettling, because it's easier to claim our principles as the bedrock standard for all others, than it is to allow ourselves to step onto the tightrope between our differences and consider walking to the other side. Or at the very least, not insisting you practice my way but allowing you to practice your way even if it feels wrong to me.

How this translates into the conflict I find within myself, though, is a greater conundrum. Certain standards were heavily drilled into my head for a significant number of years and, because I want to please and I hate conflict, I would ask for the Taco Bell burrito, No cheese, no sour cream, please and then go home and eat 12 mini chocolate brownies dipped into a tub of chocolate frosting. I grew up vegetarian, so dairy products were not portrayed to me as the greatest sin, but now that I knew better, and had more light, there was the added responsibility to live up to the light or so it were.

In all honesty, this is really quite ridiculous. When I think about things logically, I think my body is able to handle a cube of Kiri and a handful of potato chips easier than a deep dread of being judged and an imagination that pictures every cell in my body turning into a cancer cell upon being exposed to that cube of Kiri. It's not just the Kiri, though. It's the music I listen to, the clothes I wear, the movies I watch, the choices I make with my free time, the way I spend my money. My closest friends would look at me and shake their heads, wondering why I am so worried because I seem so responsible.

I recently discovered CCM and the many good songs that really connect emotions with God's truth that I have relied on to encourage me on my difficult days. I wear clothes that are stylish and flatter my figure, but that means they are not loose or 2 sizes too big or drab. I wear candy red dress pants to work and skinny burgundy pants when I go out. I feel really good in the clothes because I finally feel stylish. I go to the movie theatre to watch movies with my friends and I relish buying overpriced caramel & salt mixed popcorn or the fresh corn they season to taste right there. I travel all over Lebanon during my free time, playing hooky from work to go to the city's public beach, seeing exhibits and attending concerts and hiking in the mountains. I buy a box of Lindt chocolate for $10 and order lunch by delivery once a week and pay $20 for a book on trendy current Lebanese culture.

Someone from my former conservative life would look at me and shake their head, wondering how I could have become so liberal. They would ask me, in solemn tones, whether I had thought about how I was causing my brothers in Christ to sin by wearing clothes that caught their attention. They would remind me that movie theatres were hotbeds of sin. They would point to the need to reach the world and ask why I wasn't spending more of my free time in sharing GLOW tracts or praying at 2 am or witnessing. They would talk about all the self-supporting missionaries who were struggling to keep food on the table and insist I should send money to them instead of indulging in pleasures of this world.

Morally right? Morally wrong? Are the choices I make every day ones that have me headed straight on the pathway to perdition? Or does Jesus' admonition that He came so we could live life to the full mean we are free to enjoy this life also without guilt hanging over us? It's not something I have figured out yet but I know what I would like to do. Eat a cube of Kiri without worry.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Fully Me

It's time to write. Sometimes I start a post and I have the first sentence perfectly prepared. Then there's times like tonight when it's nearly 11 pm and I should be reading or sleeping or doing my dishes but instead I pull up my 6-year old laptop that amazingly still works even after I've dropped it on the floor multiple times and eaten so many meals over the keyboard that I could shake an entire loaf of bread out of it and when I tried to clean the keys I managed to ruin the plus/equal sign and the delete sign, which is fine because I can just use backspace but when I'm trying to do my accounts I have to copy/paste the plus/equal sign from a Function and it really gets kind of annoying.

If I couldn't write, I think I wouldn't manage very well. I imagine if one day I got put in prison, in a dank mud cell somewhere in a jungle or on a mountain, that I would find a twig and carefully scratch it into a stylus and use that to etch words into the walls and on the floor. I have to write. Even if I'm not writing anything particularly riveting, or original, I still have to write.

Sometimes, though, I don't write. I have this ongoing tension in me when it comes to capturing moments. It's like taking pictures. I love the new selfie feature on smartphones and I use mine all the time so I can share my experience with my family and friends. In those moments when I really want to remember, I find myself frustrated, though, with the selfie notion.

See, I would much rather just experience the moment and then relive it later in my memory than revert to a grainy, dark-lighting, awkward smile or eyes half-closed picture or even one that looks great but is stilted. I feel responsible to take a photograph, just like I feel responsible to buy two jars of jam when they are on sale because I know I'll eat enough jam that it makes the deal worth it. But when I pause the moment so I can "just take a quick photo!" the feeling is gone. It's changed from being fully present and experiencing the emotions and excitement to posing so we can look good and wondering if I should upload it to Facebook or just share it on the family chat.

I'm on my fourth notebook since I arrived just over two years ago. Somehow life has been rather full of things to write about (and yes, I write the old-fashioned way, with a favourite .38 colour pen from Taiwan in a college-ruled notebook with a fun cover) so I write. There have been experiences, though, that I have not fully captured in a word portrait in my college-lined notebook. The sweetest memories are best remembered with the heart--not placed in sterile frames or inked out in darkest black on gray lines. I've bubbled over sharing those experiences with my family over the phone, and only in speaking do I completely recall and recapture each thrilling second, but the notebook only holds the briefest of sketches.

I used to wonder why the Gospel writers said that if they tried to write down everything Jesus had said and done, it would require many books. I understand now why. It's because they loved Jesus so much that every word He spoke, every behaviour, every mannerism, was dear to them and it was impossible to describe every one. They had to content themselves with highlight reels that best reflected each minute they treasured with Him.

Perhaps it is better this way, to let the essence of the memory distill in time. It both dissipates as details blur and engraves itself in my mind as the specifics are rehearsed over and over. The story deepens in meaning while holding a place for me to revisit to claim a piece of my identity that has now been touched by this memory.

Perhaps this is the TCK way then--reluctant to hold what is most precious to me in a photograph or a paragraph but rather to let it slip through my heart's fibers as it weaves together with many other memories slowly defining who I am. Because that is how I want to remember my life--not regret from choices made for me or ones I felt responsible to follow through on, but deep joy because when the moment came I truly lived in it. No frozen smiles. No attempt to write down every word verbatim.

Fully present; fully alive; fully me.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Upside Down

I just finished watching a very thought-provoking documentary titled Against Me about 7 women in a Middle Eastern context who were struggling to get their basic rights and custody of their children in a system that refused to validate them as equal human beings. Granted, the scenarios were set within a specific religious context but the microcosmic glimpse into their difficult realities shook me up a bit.

I remember the first time I watched Not Without My Daughter. The book had sat for years amongst many other books on our packed bookshelves but when we bought the DVD and sat down to watch it, I was spellbound. And terrified. Reacting emotionally to what is the reality for an undefined number of women married to controlling men, I called up my American friend who was dating an Iranian man at the time. Have you watched this movie? Are you sure you know what you're doing? While both my friend and her boyfriend were Christian, so that their framework of reference was different than the one portrayed in the movie, I was still worried. Unconsciously, I stereotyped him just as people stereotype after major terrorist attacks.

My friend ended up breaking up with her boyfriend for other reasons. I found myself 15 years later living in the Middle East again and this time I'd come with the plan to stay indefinitely. God willing, I would find someone, settle down, have kids, and live the expected life. Somewhat naive, I didn't consider what it would mean if I settled down with someone from the country I was living in. If we were both Christian, then surely God would bless our marriage and everything would be okay, correct?

Til I watched the documentary and realized that my presupposition was not necessarily fool-proof. I'd gone with a friend who was passionate about women's rights and we discussed it in the cab ride home. Was it better to marry in a civil court only, so that religious laws would not prevail, and the civil court would grant more rights in the case of a divorce? If both parties were Christian, but the man decided to get a divorce, did the laws of that country grant the right of custody to him regardless of the woman's request? Was there such a thing as a pre-nup?

We weighed the balance of the Western model where women are awarded more equality in their rights with men, though this also brings more responsibility to contribute to the financial stability of the household whether through working full-time or even being the primary bread-winner in certain cases, versus the Middle Eastern model where men are expected to solely provide for the food/shelter/clothing for their family but women have less rights in society. Was one better than the other?

Did women have more power in the Western model, or was power necessarily defined by financial independence? Did buying power really expand a woman's freedom or was it restrictive because now she was expected to pull her weight in contributing to the family's financial freedom? Was the Middle Eastern woman able to more fully embrace her role as a woman who could trust in her husband to take care of her? Did she lose power due to certain legal limitations or could she use her feminine ability to manipulate and get what she wanted in the end?

Cultures and systems are set up to meet certain ends and in this culture, the woman may not make the final decisions but she also will not have the final responsibility. Of course there are different scenarios, such as where the father or husband has died and the woman has to provide for herself, though these scenarios still insist that if there is a male relative in the picture somewhere, he should consider it his responsibility to ensure that she is taken care of. Women are allowed to be the weaker gender.

It's an age-old story, the widow of Nain whose only son had just died, and Jesus giving him life. To my mind, now steeped in this cultural context, Jesus did so not only because He had pity on the poor woman who had lost her husband and now her son, but because He understood the culture and that she would struggle without a male presence to protect and provide. He healed her son in sympathy and she could once again hold her head high in society.

Perhaps this is why the laws give children to their father in the case of divorce. I am not agreeing with it one way or the other, but am merely attempting to understand the logic. In the context whereby the man is responsible for his family, it is logical to give him custody of those who need him the most--his children. His wife often returns to her family but if he has any sense of honour, he will have to provide for the ones who are a part of his very DNA.

In an ideal world, divorce doesn't happen. Of course this idealized view is not reality, so we come to the next step. Divorce happens, whether due to abuse, unfaithfulness, incompatibility, infertility, or other reasons. None of these cases make it easy for the woman and if she does not have a family to return to, it is even harder for her to manage, particularly with children.

Here is where the dilemma comes in. Should the children be awarded to the father merely because he may be able to provide for them better than the mother may be able to because of her status? Women often marry before completing an education, while men may be more educated than them. Or they may have a degree but no work experience, while men are expected to provide so they have a job. In many cases leading to divorce, the man is the primary perpetrator of violence or unfaithfulness or abuse in one of its many forms, and to entrust young children with malleable minds into his hands is not right.

A single mother with the poorest of capabilities but a heart rich in love is better qualified than a working father who can provide the sterile basics of a home/clothing/food but no emotional attachment to the child. This is my humble opinion and unfortunately it will not win any Oscars as it is based in an emotional rationale. Yet studies have shown over and over that what really matters to a child's ability to thrive and grow emotionally is that they are nurtured by a parent (parents if possible).

As with any society, there are no absolute answers to the question of what is right and what should be expected and what should we fight to change? I stepped out of the cinema this evening a little shell-shocked into the realization that laws can dictate a life that was never the intent to begin with. Those women never planned to get a divorce or to have to fight to see their children for more than 3 hours a week. They were not aware, they were not educated in the laws, and their lack of knowledge became their miserable destiny.

I used to pride myself on being educated on the various ways that women can find themselves trapped and I vowed never to let myself get into a similar situation as the brave women I knew who had to silently endure indignations they never deserved to even know. Yet I am realizing there are still things I have to learn and life is not as simple as we think it is when we are young and blissfully in love. Marriage is a solemn binding contract and should be considered as such. After all, for each of those seven women, the terms of the contract became an impossible vise that would grip them for the rest of their lives.

This must not always be so. We have to stand up, speak out, and silence those who have shamed women for asking for their right to raise and love their children. Regardless of religion or culture, children deserve to be taken care of by the one(s) who are capable of doing so in the best way possible. This is what should be determined by the courts. Gender should not be the determining factor; love and loyalty should be.

Monday, March 5, 2018

From Frustration to Anticipation

I'm waiting for something to happen. Now it's not guaranteed to happen, just like most things in life aren't guaranteed, other than being born and dying. But it's something I've been waiting for in a somewhat passive way for more than 20 years and rather more actively in the past couple of years or so.

For those who know me, you know I'm a Type-A personality so when I have my mind set on something, I set about to get that thing done. Whether it's booking a ticket for one of my many international ventures, buying my first smartphone, or preparing a meal for 20 people, if I decide to do something I get it done. This is good--except when it comes to circumstances that I cannot control. See, the Type-A personalities are also somewhat of control people too. They get things done because they know exactly how they want to get them done.

I'm learning that in life, there are times when being a Type-A is not necessarily the easiest. I often end up frustrated because I cannot control the people around me, I cannot manipulate circumstances to achieve an end result that I think is best for everyone, and I cannot decide what the outcome will be when it involves more than just me. Which is generally just about every day!

I was thinking today about what I'm waiting for and in the midst of my frustration, I suddenly realized something. I could choose to be frustrated with the waiting or I could wait excitedly in anticipation. Either way, the outcome would not change, neither would the time I had to wait, but my mood would most definitely improve.

I sat on the roof overlooking the night city and saw a commercial airliner slipping over the Mediterranean Sea. All I could see were wing and taillights as it glided down across the horizon but I knew it was a plane as every day I looked out my office window and watched planes coming in for a landing. My mind jumped ahead to the next trip I hoped to take and though I was eagerly anticipating seeing dear ones, instead of focusing on them I was thinking about coming home. It was still so far away but I was already anticipating seeing another dear one on my return.

It's like that every time I travel. I don't waste a lot of emotional energy being frustrated that I have to wait for weeks or months to see my loved ones. I spend that time being excited that the time is getting closer and closer until I can be with them. I know that all too soon the precious time with them will have vanished and I will be saying goodbye.

Perhaps God sees things like that too. Though I'm sure He wishes time would pass sooner so He can come and change this world into perfection, I imagine that He is waiting in eager anticipation for that day. He's excited because He knows what is going to happen. He's been waiting for thousands of years and it won't be much longer now until He can see His dream and our dream come true to be reunited forever.

So today I choose to wait in anticipation. Both for what I am hoping for and for what I know with certainty will happen. It's not much longer now. . .

CPGBJ

Choices. Life is full of them. Some mundane. Do I wash my hair this evening or tomorrow morning? Some predictable. Do I eat beans or manaeesh for breakfast? Some fun. Do I go to the classical concert or the outdoor night market? 

I came home at lunchtime today with my head swirling with choices. I could eat a quick meal and head back to the office so I could leave by 5 but that would mean my oasis in the middle of the day would evaporate. I could sit on the grassy lawn, the green picnic bench, or a beige plastic chair on the roof and soak up some of the unexpectedly warm March sun devoid of summer's humidity. I could take a nap to try to catch up on some of the winks three rather pointed mosquitoes had taken from me the night before. Or I could write.

They say when you have a job you love, you never work a single day of your life. I'm not sure there is a job out there that consists of blogging about life but if there were, I would switch jobs in a heartbeat. Whenever I have free time, I write. To some it is a distasteful chore but to me it's a release of the emotions that sometimes have nowhere to go but into cyberspace. It is me documenting reality, archiving the beautiful and the difficult, so that later I can return and remember who I was in that moment. I will never stop writing because it is who I am. I am a writer.

I am also an executive assistant, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a TCK, an MK, a PK, a traveler, a European, an Islander, a woman, an independent person, a giver, a cook, a supervisor, a hiker, and a musician. Some of these labels I have chosen while others have been assigned to me. Then there are labels I have not yet received which I hope one day to have.

A friend sent me a quote that read One of the hardest battles we fight is between what we know and what we feel. The premise of this is once again found in the choices we make. My sister is constantly reminding me to replace negative thoughts with positive ones because she understands all too well my fear of believing in beauty, apprehensive that I will jinx life if I dare to dream yet unable to completely quash my optimistic spirit. Do I choose to bury hope so deep it cannot see the light or do I choose to believe the hundreds of promises that remind me God has a plan for my life that is good and filled with joy and hope and peace and love?

A dieter easily fills her mind with thoughts similar to this: If I eat that cookie, I will get fat. If I don't exercise one hour every morning before breakfast, I won't lose weight. If I don't lose weight, nobody will love me. The reality is that one cookie will not make a person fat but the negative thought then controls the behaviour which often leads to binging on 10 or more cookies in desperation. The reality is that a person can exercise in the evening if that fits better into their schedule and have similar fitness results but the negative thought results in feelings of hopelessness and the person ends up watching movies on YouTube in the evening instead. The reality is that those who truly love us do so based on our hearts and our personalities but the negative thought pushes the person into a constant cycle of insecurity and despair.

Contentment. Peace. Gratefulness. Belonging. Joy. This is what I want to choose so that my life will reflect the hope I have for my future and for now. Til what I know and what I feel harmoniously become a single reality for me. 

Thursday, March 1, 2018

Of Silver Spoons and Silly Tunes

It's this ache. The one that cannot be soothed by syrup-filled knafeh in a warm bun or a chocolate brownie. The one that doesn't disappear after an hour and a half talking with a friend and at the end I feel like I haven't even started to share the words that continue to bubble. The one that appears in bursts of memories that seem odd to miss, like the parking lot at Winco or the traffic lights by the Douglas Arco gas station. The one that drags me down so that I don't want to see people or pushes me out of my echoing dorm room to fill my free time with activities.

It's the ache that insists I am wrong to want what I want because really, God should be enough, and anyhow, if I want anything else then it's setting up that or them to be more important in my life if indeed I'm not content right now. After all, only God can fill that empty hole in our hearts. Except there's something wrong with that kind of reasoning. I think.

It's the ache that reminds me I don't do well on my own. I'm good at faking it, just like any other born-and-raised-in-the-church-Christian. I smile sweetly when well-meaning ladies beam at me at yet another wedding reception, saying We hope you are next! while trying hard to hide the hurt because it's not my choice to be sitting alone at a plus-one event. I sit silently at a Bible study that turns out to be mostly couples, comfortable in their years of being together, and I swallow the tears that nearly spill over because I wonder if that will ever be me.

It's the ache that makes me question if everything I've ever heard about God answering prayers is real because while I know intellectually it is, somehow it seems everyone else should have priority over me and I'm last on the list when it comes to finding a life partner. After all, other women seem to want it more, have waited longer, are more nurturing, and have their lives more together than I do.

It's the ache that is tied to the insecurity which has plagued women since the fall. We have this irresistible pull towards someone special but it is constantly playing tug-of-war with the reluctance to believe that a man could love us for who we are without expecting us to change. Unless and until someone commits, and sadly even after that, there is always the risk that they will throw something in our faces as an excuse to walk away.

It's the ache to know that I am needed enough that someone will want to connect with me daily, look for ways to show me they care, so I never question whether or not they want to be a part of my life. To stop questioning whether I am intruding, to stop second-guessing, and to let go of the fear that loving them will push them away.

I read a quote once that said, Never be afraid to be the one who loves the most. This is God's example to us, isn't it? He loved us first and He loved us most. If He had waited for us to love Him, I think His heart would have broken because we are naturally so selfish. We don't even understand what it means to love God fully or to be loved by Him. God shows me daily me how much He cares about me and within minutes I seem to forget. Does His heart also ache like mine? Does He long for me to hold close the beautiful ways He pursues my heart? Does He get discouraged when I focus so much on the things I wish I had that I forget the more precious things He gives me?

This morning, a friend texted me at work asking if I'd eaten breakfast. I hadn't, so he picked up a sweet treat on the way in, a favourite pastry that I hadn't eaten in months. At lunchtime, another friend mixed up the online order but the hummus with grilled vegetables and crackers were just what I wanted for my supper as I'd run out of fresh vegetables. After spending most of the day trying to book logistics for a business trip for two colleagues, we found the perfect flight itinerary and the budget balanced. A quiet evening meant I had time to do my taxes and my accounts--two things I'd been putting off for some time. Each special experience carefully personalized just for me.

Why is it so hard, then, to trust that if God can take care of the small things and is continually showing me in my life, that He can also take care of the prayers I've whispered for so long now? Why is it is so difficult to trust when I have so much evidence to trust Him? Psalm 91 says, He is my God, and I am trusting Him. There needs to be nothing more than the simple fact that He is God, He is mine, and this is enough to trust Him. Yet God, in His understanding of my forgetfulness, also gives me reasons to trust in Him.

Because He loves me. Maybe the ache must remain for a time longer but I can take courage knowing that in the midst of the ache, my Father is waiting to sit with me, comfort me, and remind me daily that He is listening. He will answer. And He will bring joy into my life above and beyond what I could hope for. He will make up for the difficult years and when He does, I know the ache will disappear. He placed it there so I would realize--I was made for more than this. 

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

The Years. The Locusts. X 7

Well, at least I get to be out of my office for 3 hours this afternoon, even if I'm going to have to sit through some very boring meetings, was my thought as I lugged my laptop, bottle of water, and phone to a comfortable auditorium seat in the middle of the room. I'd heard these speakers before and from my foggy recollection, they hadn't stood out as particularly interesting, so I was ready to spend some focused time organizing my rather-full work inbox.

An hour later, the gentleman had finished speaking and I had managed to whittle my inbox from 950 emails down to 875. I used the break to get some letters signed by my boss and then settled down for what I thought would be another couple of hours of similarly-styled lecture. It was not as dull as I'd thought but I hadn't heard anything particularly new. Til the woman stood up to speak.

Now, I can't tell you exactly what she talked about, though I recorded her talk to listen to again later. All I know is that I sat spellbound, my monitor dark, as I heard story after story about how God had worked miracles in the life of a woman who I'd always imagined had it all together but in reality was as human as I. I'd planned with a friend to go to an opera concert at a nearby university that evening, but we both agreed to skip it and stay for the evening prayer meeting. Her brother agreed, encouraging us that there would always be more concerts but it would be better to stay.

The prayer meeting lasted nearly 2 hours but time didn't settle into boredom as once again, the couple spoke about how God had shown up in very individual ways to them and to others. I began to recall stories in my own life even as I longed to have more of the experiences they were speaking of. What I had thought was going to be yet another set of standard-issue meetings had turned into an oasis that was quenching a very thirsty soul. I had been longing for several weeks to be reminded that God had everything under control and the words I heard were exactly what I needed.

7 times in John 15-16, Jesus reminds the disciples that they can ask for whatever they want in His name and it will be granted to them. Later, we read the verse in Joel 2 where it says that God will give back what the locusts have taken. Other encouraging verses include Jeremiah 33 where God says if we call on Him, He will answer, and Isaiah 55 where we are told that God's thoughts and ways are beyond what we can imagine.

Every time I try to accomplish something on my own, I get frustrated and I get stuck. Every time I give up and ask God to take over, sometimes without even being able to express it in words but simply am weary of trying, God brings such joy to my heart that I cannot hold it all. God knew I needed to stay tonight to hear the words He was waiting to speak to me. He knew I needed to be reminded that He pursues my heart and is longing to spend quality time with me. He knew that my decision to stay would be rewarded in a special way that I would not orchestrate but would remind me how very much He wanted to see me happy.

Yes, the locusts have taken away years I wish I could reclaim. Yet, just as Job remained faithful to God and in the end was rewarded in this life with twice as much as before, I am claiming the many promises God has given that if I ask according to His will He will grant my heart's desire. The desire doubled in joy to compensate for the years of the locusts. He has promised and He will answer.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Two Years. Twenty.

And softly, just like that, the two years passed and I slipped into the third as comfortably as I wrapped my soft pink fleece blanket around me on a cold winter's night.

The day began just after midnight of the eve before, saying goodnight to someone who had taken a very dear place in my heart and shared with me nearly half the time I'd been in this country I now claimed as home. Then a whirlwind of work, an evening with another dear friend who had become my family away from family, and I found myself drowsily sitting in the coveted front seat of a rickety blue and white bus, bouncing along the potholed road, as 16 young ladies sang and giggled behind me. I could hardly keep my eyes open to see the night lights with familiar shops along the way but I breathed in deep the warmth of belonging and felt at peace with where I was.

For the melancholy, though, moments of deep joy and peace often seem to tumble into moments of questioning. Or deep sadness. The next day, and the one following, I found myself sitting on my bed crying. And I couldn't tell you why. I just felt sad.

Amazingly, my sister messaged me in the middle of my tears asking if I was home. Moments later, I was on video chat with my family, as they showed me the beautiful sky view of Taipei by night. I struggled to get through a sentence or two when they asked how I was and then, for the next 20 minutes, they gave me the beautiful gift of listening in understanding as I tried to explain why I was feeling so sad.

Work was becoming less of a ministry and more of a burden, as I fell further and further behind trying to juggle two full-time positions in addition to other expected responsibilities. I woke up in the morning dreading the day and counted the minutes til my lunch break, then til the end of the day when I could lock my computer and my door and leave.

My coveted private room with single bathroom was less of a place to retreat in the cold winter than a symbol of how lonely being alone could be, as I missed my family dreadfully. I hated eating meals by myself and went out as often as anyone invited me so the echo wouldn't speak louder than my thoughts. Not having a proper kitchen or a car to easily buy groceries meant a challenge in preparing healthy meals so I skipped meals, ate processed foods that lasted longer, or ordered out whenever I could. A manaeesh with cucumbers/tomatoes/olives counted as my vegetables for the day.

The pressure of living in a small community that was all too eager to live vicariously through my life was starting to really bother me, as the constant questions piled on top of expectations became too much to handle. I skipped church because I didn't want people to ask me why I was sitting where I was, or wasn't sitting somewhere else. A simple grocery shopping trip turned into 101 Questions after and I didn't have the emotional energy neither the answers.

Then there was the TCK grief process. Somehow this never seemed to be complete but came in cycles, unpredictable, triggered by unknown causes that would appear to be unrelated, but when the grief came it would overwhelm. It was then that it was best if I could simply retreat for awhile to cry, mourn, and be kind to myself with silence, solitude, comfort food, and time with God.

Today I realized I didn't remember what it felt like to sit on the swing in my backyard in Burkina Faso. I was 9 years old when we left so I should have a memory of pushing back and then flying up in the air as high as I could go. I should hear the links as they slid past each other, rusting in the humid African sun. I should see the side of our house coming close as the swing swung out and I tried my hardest to get high enough to see the tiled roof. I should smell the dry grass tall with prickly burrs in places and the hint of cool as sunset approached. Yet none of those sensory memories came easily to the surface and I wondered for a panicked moment, Was that me? Why can't I remember me? 

Perhaps this is why I've been writing ever since an aunt gave me a square wide-lined diary for an earliteen birthday, its simple lock and key easy to pick yet giving a sense of privacy, its padded brightly coloured cover inviting me to open it and write all sorts of interesting things inside. I still have it in a box that is now packed with all shapes and sizes of notebooks I've collected through the years as I graduated to spiral-bound college-lined notebooks from Taiwan with 0.38 tip coloured ink pens to match.

I write to remember myself. All the details, all the sensory memories, all the moments I'm afraid I will forget, because inevitably I do, is packed away in those notebooks. My biggest fear is that one day a fire will come along and burn the last scrap of evidence that I existed in time before the trauma of a family split defined me in a way I'd not chosen for myself. Today I still write. I blog, I journal, I keep a prayer journal, I write lengthy emails to my best friend and family, and I manage tomes even in text messages.

See, if I'd grown up in and lived in a single country, it would be easier to label my memories and shelf them in a way that prettily displayed their prominence in determining who I was. The problem was, I didn't have that luxury. Or limitation, depending on how you looked at it. Each country was an entirely new experience and required adaptation and flexibility beyond the ordinary one would encounter in familiar surroundings. I had to scrape out who I was from the community I'd lived in and try to sketch it into a new setting which only became more tiring as I grew older.

I've lived more than 30 years on visas. My experience was not one of initials carved into a wooden school desk, coffee chats with elementary school friends, or high school reunions. Cliques defined my inability to slip into cultures, though I grew adept at faking confidence or a don't-care-attitude when I sat alone in the cafeteria. I learned to look for the lonely so we could create a group together, to listen and blend well enough that others invited me along simply because they liked me rather than knew me, and to be okay with being alone on a Saturday night.

So the third-culture kid in me still searches for a home. A place of belonging. At times I think I've found it, when a deep feeling of peace and joy settles my soul in the most unexpected moments, whether in a concert hall or singing an old hymn or riding in the ancient van home from the airport. At other times, I glimpse it in a person when understanding comes without explanation. Then there are times I wonder if I will ever feel truly at home and whether I should resign myself to accepting there will always be tension between my multiple selves swirled in conflicting cultures and paradoxical worldviews.

These are not simple answers that can be found in a book or on an inspirational quote magnet. Each of us must walk the journey alone as no one else, no matter how culturally sensitive they are, has seen and experienced and processed life as we. Just as we long for them to give us freedom to be different, we need to allow them to not understand without judgement. For me, this means to write, to cry, to push myself beyond the comfort into the unknown. I listen, I read, I ask questions. And I am learning to forgive myself for forgetting.

I couldn't handle all those memories without collapsing underneath the responsibility of cataloguing each one in their respective place. It was too much to bring together all my realities into a single coherent one so I pulled each apart, like the segments of a mandarin, and threw myself into creating a new identity that absorbed as much of the host culture as I could to the point of being unrecognizable. The accent, the music, the hairstyle, the speed at which I spoke, the mannerisms, became me. So even as I wrote to preserve the memories in those particular moments, I slid a heavy metal door shut on who I was in a previous space of time.

A friend told me the other day, You have Lebanese mannerisms. I looked at her, surprised. She was a TCK too, familiar with our chameleon-way of adapting, and had noticed something about me that nobody else had. Perhaps because everyone else now assumed I was Lebanese, from the taxi driver who rattled off the location to confirm it and I simply nodded my head to avoid being charged extra, to the lady behind me at the grocery story checkout telling me a story about her day as I smiled at what I hoped were the appropriate places.

I realized I was doing the same thing all over again. In hopes of fitting in, of being fully accepted, of no longer being called the foreigner, I was trying to become Lebanese. In doing so, though, I was starting to forget who I'd been before.

Writing helps us remember who we were and reminds us who we are. I am bare feet running on cold blue tile on a hot African summer's afternoon. I am green Dutch countryside and black and white cows blurring by as the train heads to Schiphol. I am hot peppers stuffed into onion bhajas dipped in cooling yoghurt in my Mauritian grandmother's British kitchen. I am five a.m. prayers and roosters crowing to the beat of Lebanese drums. I am soured cabbage surrounded by a sea of red chili paste by rolls wrapped in pungent seaweed and salty fish soup.

I am all and I am none. 
I end where I began. 
I flew before I ran. 
This rhyme of who I am
Still searches for its song
For now, for this, for me
I write to be at peace

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Broken Yet Beautiful

He stood at the glass door, his hand on the wooden half-moon handle, dressed in a navy blue tracksuit and his bulky winter jacket, as he looked wistfully in. The room was filled with people, women in black leggings and tank tops sporting motivational quotes as they ran on treadmills, men in shorts and tight tees as they concentrated on lifting weights. Even after the remodel, there were still many good memories from this place. Now he was leaving. Not out of choice; out of necessity. They seemed to think they would manage fine without him. 

He stepped in for a moment and was quickly surrounded by a small cluster of people. One young woman stepped forward, shyly handing him a bag, mumbling her thanks for his help. Several asked for his help with a workout routine and one picked up their final supply of supplements. Carla gave him his final white envelope, he went to the heavy wooden front doors, opened them, and walked through. This was goodbye.

After handing him the bag, I returned to the treadmill where I turned my Mandisa mix up higher and carried on my brisk 5K pace. I would miss seeing the coach every time I went to the gym, yes, but this was life. People came and went and really, why should I mourn this loss any more than not seeing the cleaning lady in the cafeteria who would smile when I said thank you as I pushed my empty plate through the slot to be washed. 

Except it wasn't just one more loss. Every loss I grieve is all the losses previous wrapped up into one.

I don't know why I must compound loss in this way. I think it would be easier if I could somehow mourn a loss individually. Then it would be hard, yes, but manageable. This way, though, it makes it hard to breathe sometimes as a simple moving on of a gym coach becomes a boss, little tots, the dearest of friends, a close mentor, family, even places and time gets mixed up in there somehow.

In Marilyn Gardner's book, Between Worlds, she ends with the beautiful story of a broken teapot, mended with thick staples to become what would ordinarily be seen as something worthless now transformed into a piece of art. She says, Despite the original break, despite the cracks it continues to be useable and stronger than if it had never been broken. . .life can crack and mar us but it doesn't have to destroy. 

I'm going through one of those breaking times right now. I wake up crying. I wake up feeling sad. I know it's because the losses have become too much and the community around me doesn't understand or if they would, I am afraid to be vulnerable enough so they can see the tears and offer empathy.

As a Christian, I also struggle with the misguided belief that I should be strong enough to handle this on my own. I should be able to go to God and He will give all the comfort I need because He is more than enough. I shouldn't expect family or friends to have to carry this burden because they have enough of their own, so I should focus on giving because it is in giving that we are blessed. 

Except sometimes I need someone to just sit and cry with me

I am the one who sits with the grieving, the frustrated, the lonely, the lost. I put my arms around them, pray with them, write them a little note of encouragement, send a text to tell them I'm thinking of them. But I'm not brave enough to put my hand up and say, Can someone sit with me for a while? I'm feeling sad and I don't want to be alone.

I worry, though, that this struggle to reconcile losses means I'm too much. That those closest to me will keep their distance so I keep mine first. I step back and I don't let them see the longing for companionship because I'm afraid they will think that I need them too much and I should be a strong woman whose life is only enhanced by life. 

Are they the staples that hold me together? 

The Christian mentality says that God should be our all in all. I'm sure there's a praise song that says that somewhere. So the staples holding me together should each be imprinted with God's image. I'm not saying God isn't enough. I know He is. He has proven Himself to be in my darkest times. I know that He is my Sustainer and gives me breath each day. Yet somehow there seems to be a flaw in the logic somewhere. 

God created us to be in community. 

Right now, my community is going through a lot. It's not just me who is working through loss. So I'm hesitant to reach out because I feel like my needs are not as significant as theirs. There are times, though, like today when I need to see God with skin on. When I need to hear His voice and feel His touch through those closest to me. 

The other misguided belief is that I should learn to rely on God alone.

It seems every time I get close to someone, they leave. I went through several years in my 20s when I lost the close knit group of friends I'd had as they moved on for jobs and marriage. Those were very lonely times and often during that time, I struggled with the expectation that I should be able to find all my emotional needs met in God. I think ideally we can go to God first, pouring out our hearts to Him, but then we need to talk to someone. To sit with someone. To reach out and know someone's hand will hold ours.

Today, I'm thankful for my mother who patiently turned on her iPad, plugged in her earphones, and listened through a crackling broken internet voice call to her adult daughter work through some of the emotions that threaten to overwhelm at times with their intensity. Though it was after 10 pm and she had worked a full day, she was there when I said I needed someone to listen.

I can't guarantee tomorrow will be better. It may take time to walk through this dark valley and it may be that there will be more days like today. Yet there is one thing I know with certainty.

I am sure that God, Who began the good work within you, will continue His work until it is finally finished ~Philippians 1:6 NLT

Til one day that small teapot is covered with staples and stands proudly on display for all to see. Broken yet beautiful beyond belief. 

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Where I Belong

And then suddenly, just like that, home becomes here. 

It's happening more frequently now, this sense of being home. Every time it settles my soul, I find myself sinking into the familiarity of a feeling that seems to have been a part of my reality before and yet I know this is a new sense of feeling I belong. This is no longer sensory, a whiff of freshly-cut fall grass, a taste of deep-fried bhaja with its spicy chilies making my mouth burn, the wooden packing box on the roof that the boys used as a clubhouse, or the automated train stops being announced in a foreign language that I understand just enough of to keep me from getting off at the wrong one.

This sense of belonging is grounded in my being.

I belong because I am. My search for belonging used to be tied to a desperate longing to find the pieces of myself in my past and place them in the puzzle of who I was today. I had pushed those memories down further than time because I didn't know how to be more than two people at once. Only in my 30's did I begin to try to understand why I'd never felt fully at home in a place I'd lived for half my life. And it was only when I returned to the place of belonging before that I began to understand why I'd never felt fully at home anywhere else.

If I'm completely honest with myself, this country was not the place I completely embraced as home as a teenager. Each country I'd grown up in had its pull and push and this was no different. Yet perhaps after one becomes an adult, one realizes that belonging no longer comes with a culture, a language, a race, a clique, or the way you cook your couscous. Belonging is now found in a person you grow close to, in a place that captures your heart, in yourself when you are still long enough to accept it.

The flashbacks used to come sudden-like and when they did, I snatched a moment from the past and tried to define myself in the present as such. In that moment, brief though it was, I felt satisfied that I had belonged at one point, somewhere. Then the moment would vanish and I would disconsolately return to a world where the mundane replaced wonderment.

Until I realized I had found home.

Home for now is where I am. I would like to think that if I leave one day, I will take that feeling of home with me, much like the turtle carries its home on its back, secure in knowing it always has a safe place to tuck away its vulnerable head. It is enhanced by the setting, as I dive into sensory experiences as often as I can escape to delectable seaside restaurants or exquisite choral concerts. It is held in the heart of the one dearest to me, as they offer a haven of understanding and commitment. Yet home in its deepest sense is found in knowing that I am who I was created to be. A joyful, vibrant, searching, faithful, adventurous, loving woman eager to discover the purpose God has given me.

Home is here because I am. 

Friday, January 5, 2018

Round Like the Circle

Growing up, we weren't really encouraged to wear a lot of jewelry. My mom didn't mind the friendship bracelets we wove ourselves from embroidery yarn, I remember making matching black ones for me and my on-again-off-again boyfriend when I was a teenager, and later I wore a small silver ring my Muslim friend from the building across from us threw down to me in a paper packet. It said Love on the front. My sister desperately wanted earrings but we were raised in a conservative church setting in the mission field so her wish wasn't granted.

We bought matching silver chains with another friend once and we all dressed in blue jeans and black t-shirts to best show off our necklaces as we posed for pictures by the tall pine tree in the middle of the campus. I was 17 and my sister and friend were 14. That was the year one of the guys I had a crush on wanted to buy me something when we went on a school trip together and I chose a silver chain with my initial on it. I'm not sure which one I was wearing under an oversized t-shirt, ready to head down to the basketball court to play a game with the guys, when my dad saw me and proceeded to read to me from the Bible about how slaves wore chains.

After I entered my late teens, I lived for more than 15 years in yet another conservative closed system where any kind of jewelry was heavily frowned upon as it denoted lack of spirituality and commitment to standards. Then I finally left and found myself completely free to wear what I liked when I liked. I could pierce my ears if I wanted, I could wear a ring on each finger, I could load up on the bangles, and while I might get a look or two, eventually people would get used to it as my look. Yet I had too many years of conditioning to feel completely comfortable with figuring out who I was.

Today I wear a silver twisted ring with a familiar phrase on it. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. It's a constant reminder that in the midst of uncertainty and a cloudy future, taking those single steps forward are what eventually add up to the thousand miles.

My biggest journey that I have been walking on in the past year and continue to walk is learning to trust God. Our heavenly Father does not close the avenues of joy to any of His creatures. . .He will. . .satisfy the heart-longing of all who consent to wear His yoke, to bear His burden. It is His purpose to impart peace and rest to all who come to Him for the bread of life. Steps to Christ Chapter 5

I'm very good at planning out my life. I budget my money for big expenditures, I book international trips to see the world, and I prioritize my free time with friends. Being single means I have more control over circumstances as there is nobody to throw me off course with their unpredictable humanness. However, I'm finding that the closer I get to others, the less I can control my life. This lesson of trust is one I'm having to learn not only with God, but also in my relationships with others, and it's not an easy one for me. I'm a Type-A personality, I need to know reasons behind decisions being made, and I expect others to act from a similar framework of reference to mine.

Then I find out that is not the case. The reality is that I would be just as frustrated if someone else assumed I should operate from their viewpoint on life. So I'm learning that this journey of a thousand miles begins with one step--acceptance. I used to think I was good at accepting others, after all I'd lived my life across continents and cultures, learning how to adapt and adjust so I could fit in with the least amount of turbulence in the community around me. Yet the more introspective I grow, the more I see that my tolerance for accepting others who are different than me needs to be put into a cocktail shaker and turned upside down.

A lack of trust is closely connected to struggling to accept others. All this time I'd been frustrated with those who failed to see my opinions as valid and valuable while I was failing to accept others as valuable regardless of how they deal with life, biases, prejudices, and all. I cannot dictate to another how they should approach life. I can only learn to adjust my pace so together we can walk towards a common goal--perhaps their stride is longer than mine at times or I may forget and rush ahead occasionally--but if we can take that first step of acceptance the trust will be close behind. Then the thousand miles will soon seamlessly weave itself into our lives as a single step of a journey worth living.