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.
Monday, March 5, 2018
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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