Temporary Home

Heart burdened with the world's fears
Longing to hold the babies close and say
"You're safe now"
My reality is so much bigger than
the acre on which I reside
Revival and Reformation buzz
while I wonder where
is the love in black and white Jesus' hands

Here, There

It's everything you wanted, it's everything you don't
It's one door swinging open and one door swinging closed
Some prayers find an answer, some prayers never know
We're holding on and letting go

~Ross Copperman, "Holdin On and Letting Go"

Flashes of Memories

It was late fall, early sunset, listening to "Lonely Eyes" as the country music beat accompanied my feet restless for a destination. Thought of my sister, heard her laugh, saw her mischievous smile, then clenched my fists tight to try to stop the tears. I missed her. Thousands of miles and time's invisible barrier now separated us. It wasn't fair. In that moment I understood why my room was still just a room, why the driveway wasn't friendly, why the back deck was just a place to sit, and why the memories of each life remained in carefully sealed boxes. I was waiting. I was waiting for my sister to come home, but she had found a home. I was waiting to go back home, but I never would be able to. I was still the teenager trying to comprehend how her world could fall apart in days and never quite come back together again. My life had rushed on ahead of me; now I wished I had lived those moments just a little bigger, taken more heart snapshots, been grateful for each breath instead of waiting for something to change.

15 years 11 months today. Will I ever stop sitting by the window, nose pressed against the glass, waiting for Daddy to come home?

Kleenex and 1 am Blogs

I want to go home, she said. Tears streamed down her face, tears of loneliness, of longing. It had been too long, she was weary, she wanted to feel loved again. Safe again. Home was where she felt understood, where she could curl up under a blanket and listen to the rain, where she tore off large chunks of roti and wrapped it around steaming curry, where she rollerbladed to the quick beat of 80's music.

She sat silently, cross legged on her bed, and thought about home. There were at least 4. None of them were less than 5,000 miles away. And she was 34. She was home. Even if it would never feel like it. . .

A Bible and a Bunny

It's a fire evacuation, what will you take? The first time we prepared for evacuation yesterday, I threw my Bible, a stuffed bunny I've had since I was 1 1/2, and my wallet in my bag. We grabbed photo albums, important documents, and sleeping bags. At the last minute I took my laptop. The second time, when we actually did leave for several hours, I took the same things but this time I remembered my phone charger and diaries. That was it. No spare clothes, no huge flat screen TV, just a few snacks in case we were gone for long. I didn't have piles of shirts on hangers, or suitcases of things. I rushed about wearing a simple dress and flip flops.

The fire is not out; it doesn't pose an imminent threat but the winds can shift at a moment's notice. So we sleep ready to leave, our phones on, waiting for morning when we hope to see a larger containment percentage. Always praying for the firefighters. Grateful for those who serve. And thinking about what's really important.

If I'd had just moments to leave, like some in the nearby community had, I would have taken my wallet so I could prove my identity, the photo albums so I could remember, and left. My past and my present preserved in those simple items.

For this TCK, it was a potential loss too close for comfort. Thankful that God kept His protecting hand over us this time. Praying He will continue.

God Saw

Defined by sin

this burden I have carried 

for so long

I am not me

I am wrong

filled with evil

Falling short of the glory

seen only in the filth

of my confused choices

I struggle to understand

a Father who can love

when there is nothing good

in me

why would He choose

unless it was to,

in some strange way

redeem me only because

it made Him look good

Then I read the words

simple yet so strong

Sin is not what defines

created humanity, my humanity is

and then I understand 

why a Father who loves

chose to do so 

because He saw in me

reflection of Him

and He said, it was very good

(c) Maria Lombart

Please note: this is not intended to imply that I have goodness of my own; rather it is to honour God as my Creator, who sees in me His reflection, who created me purposefully in that way, and who forgives because He does not define me by my sin but as His daughter lovingly created to serve Him. The inspiration for the poem was taken from What a Woman Is Worth, a collection of essays edited by Tamara Lunardo.

Turn Around

Don't forget us! she said as she nodded vigorously, her contagious smile mixed with nostalgia as the thought of a passage in time coming to a close. I returned the sentiment, vowing I would not forget, even as I thought of the class before who had come and gone and wondered about the next one just three months away. I could not forget. I never would.

This is what it means to be a TCK, or third-culture kid. You learn to blend all cultures into one single experience that shifts and alters as the shadows in the late afternoon. In one moment you are Korean, eating kimbap with fried egg at the corner restaurant and wearing a mask over your mouth and nose to shield you from Seoul's pollution. In the next you are Egyptian, hanging on to a single strap in the train as the crush of people tightens and eating foul medammes with thick torn pieces of wholewheat baladi that contain pieces of grit. You blink and you are Dutch, drinking karnemelk with your breakfast of hagelslag on buttered bread and riding a bicycle on carefully marked paths with their own red and green bicycle traffic lights. You turn around and you are African, squealing at night when you unwrap the mosquito net as a fat scaly brown lizard drops onto your bed and eating juicy ripe mangoes and deep pink guavas sweeter than sugar. You look up and you are American, eating an enormous sweet green pickle at the state fair and standing in solemnity as the missing man formation flies overhead at the yearly airshow. You nod and you are Mauritian, having yet another birthday celebration with no fewer than 50 people in one small house and eating bhajia and dholl puri with achar.

Each moment is rich with sensory experience that I absorb to its fullest. Years later, when I try to remember, I must go deep down into my consciousness to bring the memory and its meaning. Yet as soon as I remember, I am there, standing, riding, squealing, laughing, and eating. The memories are as rich as they were in the moment. In the same way, I see each class, each person. I cannot forget, though years pass, for when I pause to remember, the memories will shine as beautiful as in the moment they were created. The experience will always remain because it has shaped a small part of who I am.

So in answer to your question, no. I will never forget.