transition

Settled

One of the most frequent questions I get here is, “So do you feel settled?” Honestly, I’m not sure what being settled means. Does it mean we aren’t eating off lawn furniture anymore? That everything’s up on the walls? That it feels like home?

When people see our house, they are usually a little amazed that it does look settled. In fact, we usually get comments about how quickly we’ve done it, how they haven’t finished painting the house they’ve been living in for 10 years, etc.

It never occurred to us not to do it this way, so we started talking about why. When Erik and I move into a new place, we unpack and settle in like we’re gunning for a new HGTV show called “Instant House.” When people share that they still have boxes unpacked after years of living somewhere, I am baffled. Don’t you need that stuff? Usually within a week we’ve unpacked 90% of our boxes or more. That’s just how we roll.

But we do it because we know that feeling settled in our hearts is connected to where we live. When you’ve moved as many times as we have (seven so far in 16 years), your sense of home gets fuzzy. It’s become important to us to create the space around us that says, “You’re welcome here. This is known.”

Many of my expat friends embrace an opposite view – why bother settling in when you’re likely to have to move in 2 years? (FYI we are not planning on moving in 2 years). It does feel like a lot of unnecessary work. But if we had lived by that mentality, we would have spent the last 13 years without ever feeling like our house was our home. No thank you.

I find it spills over into relationships as well. It’s SO easy, when you’ve lived the transient lifestyle of an expat, to learn to guard your heart in relationships. Our kids learned it quickly. After just two years in Singapore, where life was a revolving door, I introduced Ethan to a new boy. His question to me was, “How long is he going to be here?” It can begin to feel safer, better, to choose not to settle in to relationships when the end point seems so close.

Home. Relationships. These are places where we need to settle our hearts, even if it means that just around the corner the roots will be pulled and the emotional dirt will fly. We’re learning to be all in, to dive in deep, to make the most of whatever time we get wherever, with whomever.

Are we settled? We’re trying to be, just as fast as we can.

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Practically Perfect

“It was practically perfect!” he sobbed.

The “it” to which Ethan was referring was life in Asia. Yes, life in the country where pollution levels make LA look clean, where people stared and laughed and spoke at him in a language he could barely understand, where we lived in concrete high rises and fought to stay alive on the lawless roads, where we were thousands of miles from family, was practically perfect. That place, in his mind, was about as good as it gets.

In many ways, it truly was. Those last few years we had about 60 school age kids, mostly homeschooled, living within about a 2 mile radius of each other. They played together or had activities together nearly every day. Many of them were kids he’d known most of his life. China might not have been the most beautiful, convenient, easy place, but it was his place. It was his home.

The grief comes at unexpected moments, like a few nights ago, when he cried himself to sleep remembering this practically perfect place. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy life here; he does, but it is a harder season. We all have them. As I look back on our life in Asia, I can mark the seasons like a roller coaster of ups and downs, “loving life” chapters, and “God please help us” years.

I told Ethan that this is part of his story. It’s a tougher part – maybe a part he wouldn’t have written. A story can’t be all perfect; it has to have conflict, struggle, even tragedy, for it to be a really good story. And God’s writing a really story for him. For us.

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You Got That Kid Americanized Yet?

I had to explain juice from concentrate to our kids today. I guess it just wasn’t high on my priority list, while we lived overseas, to introduce frozen juice to them. Actually, it probably just wasn’t available. It’s one of many gaps they have in their “American education.” I knew they’d be there; I just didn’t know where. They’re learning about frozen juice and soccer games and commercials and all sorts of things they didn’t have in Asia. If only that were enough.

If only it were enough to “Americanize” them. Someone honestly asked me that question the other night, “You got that kid Americanized yet?” My response was, “He will never be American.”

No, I realize our kids DO have American passports. Yes, they are American. But please understand that our kids, and any kids who have spent significant parts of their childhood outside of the U.S. will never see it the way we do, and it does a disservice to them not to recognize it.

Imagine if your parents were German, but you were born here in the U.S. Then one day, your parents pick you up and take you to Germany and say, “You’re home.” Would you feel at home? Even if you knew the language and looked German, you wouldn’t feel it the same way.

Over time, our kids will learn how to “be” American, but keep in mind that kids who have had the blessing and the challenge of spending formative years in another culture are forever changed by that experience. They see things differently.

I guess what I’m hoping for is that people don’t expect that our kids basically “get over it.” That they leave behind their expat upbringing and become like everyone else. That won’t happen, and I don’t want it to happen. After all, aren’t we who are Christians citizens of another kingdom? This world is not our home. Why try hard to make it feel that way?

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Keeping in Step

 

“How have we kept in step with the Spirit during this transition?” That was the question we were supposed to answer in a brief sharing time at a Cru day of prayer.

I’ll be honest, my first response was, “The phrase, ‘keeping in step with the Spirit’ has not crossed my mind at all during this transition. Does that mean I haven’t? And how would it go down if I just got up there and threw that out as my opening line?”

And to be more honest, I was a little afraid. Afraid that if I got up there and shared how much I’ve struggled with holding fast to God in this transition, I would be the odd man out.

But I wasn’t. We were the last to share that day, and the encouraging thing was that everyone who got up front talked about how they struggle to keep in step with God. By the time I got up there, I knew I was among friends.

Even better news is that I DO see how I’ve been trying to keep in step with the Spirit during this transition. For me, it’s meant learning to slow down, stop trying to figure things out on my own, waiting for His direction, and responding in obedience.

But the thing that encouraged me the most that day was something from one of the other speakers. He talked about being expectant. I have been in the habit recently of starting my day by saying, “Ok God, it’s you and me. In it together. I know you’re at work. Show me what to do, and I’ll do it.” All good. Good stuff. Good way to start the day. But I realized that I can do that, and yet not really expect God to do anything. Or maybe just expect not much. So I’ve been trying to do that this last week, to go beyond, “I’m willing” to “I’m expectant.”

What are you expecting Him to do today?

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Our Anchor in Transition

Is God your anchor in the midst of transition?

I have this picture in my head today of me in a tiny rowboat on a vast ocean. I know I’ve talked about boats a lot through our transition, but it’s fitting – we are on a journey.

So back to my rowboat. Imagine me in a tiny rowboat, riding the waves, and as I look around I see nothing recognizable in any direction. In fact, forget the boat – it’s actually more like a raft, Castaway style. Except unlike Tom Hanks I have not, at any point of this move, made a disemboweled volleyball my best friend and confidante. I am, thankfully, still far from that. Praise be to God.

We want life to be like a swimming pool. We want something manageable, something with defined edges, something with a dimension that doesn’t wear us out. The walls of the pool are the roles and relationships we form that give boundaries to who we are. We can stretch out on an inner tube and enjoy.

Any kind of transition – getting married, becoming a parent, changing jobs, kids leaving home, moving across town – will affect the roles and relationships we have. They stretch our boundaries – maybe to an Olympic size pool, maybe a lake, maybe the whole big ocean. We have to learn to reorient ourselves, to manage this different shape. We need to find those places where we can rest, to become familiar with the edges again.

And so there’s me, imagining the ocean around me with no land in sight. I long for the edges, the boundaries, the things that make me go, “Oh right, this is where I am, where I belong, who I am, what I’m capable of.” My temptation is to look around, paddle frantically, screaming, “WILSON!!” I find myself looking to others to tell me “here’s land.” I seek affirmation, acknowledgement, value, to make me feel solid again.

But the fact is, those things we think give us definition are ultimately not what define us at all. They are merely temporary boundaries, these roles and relationships God gives us for seasons. What we need, what I need, to remember, is that regardless of the size of my current situation, my identity comes from Him. He is the anchor who tells me, “I know you. I see you. You are mine. That is all you need.”

And in this, transition is a gift. It’s an opportunity to have all that I might depend on be stripped away, and to be called back (more frequently than I usually need) to who I am in Him. The truth of who I am in Him is a constant, grounding me regardless of the depth of water or the distance from land.

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Do you miss Asia?

People often ask me if I miss living in Asia. I really don’t know how to answer this question, because what comes to mind is the pollution this year that has been so high it’s unmeasurable by the current systems. Obviously I can live without that. I miss friends terribly, but several of them have also left in the last year as well, so I know that life there would be very different now. I confess I find America a little boring at times – I go to the store and nothing weird happens, ever. Is that enough to make me miss being an expat? No. I can make my own weird.

We spent time recently with friends we knew in Singapore. We talked about how, initially, my friend missed it so much after moving back here that she just wanted to go back to Singapore, but the reality was, it wouldn’t be the same. We agreed that what we miss wasn’t necessarily the place itself, it’s the intangibles.

It’s things like community. I miss meeting people for the first time and being dear friends with them a month later, because that’s how things work overseas. I miss bonding like soldiers during war time, hunkering down together when the waves of living cross-culturally are too rough.

It’s feeling competent, knowing how to be an adult in the place where you are. I don’t know how to own a house. I don’t know the norms of being a parent in America. One day I will figure out this DVR thing.

It’s being known and understood, having routine, being more comfortable being the only white face than looking like everyone else. These are the things I miss, because they are the things I think we all desire from anywhere we live (except maybe the white face thing. That was just our normal).

I had those things. I miss having them. I know I’ll gradually get them back, over time, for the most part. So do I miss Asia? Let’s just say “I miss that life.”

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Weird

I’ve said it before – I feel weird.

I don’t mean to be weird, but I find that when I try to participate in conversation with new people, I am now “the girl who tells strange, foreign, potentially exaggerated stories.” My stories usually start with “In (fill in the blank of a foreign country)” and involve statements like, “and the bathroom just had boards over a trough in the ground . . . ” or “so I was cleaning out the inside of the chicken . . . ”

Bringing these stories up in conversation with new people feels like the social equivalent of dragging the needle across the record at a party, or jumping on a couch and yelling, “Boing!” It puts me in the category of “weird.”

I don’t mean to throw conversational curve balls, but I’m just sharing what I know. I’m reminded of an interpersonal communication class I took in college, where we were taught that each person in a conversation has a circle of experience from which they speak. Where our circles overlap with others, that’s where we find common ground from which to interact and understand one another. When we try to share part of our circle that doesn’t overlap with another’s, it can be as though we are speaking another language. In living 13 years overseas, my circle has shifted away from others. I have shifted.

After awhile, I’m tempted just to not speak at all. At times it feels like the easier, safer option. I might not be able to participate in the group, but at least I don’t feel like an outsider.

Then Friday morning and again last night I went to places populated with people who have also landed themselves in the “weird” category. And I heard phrases like, “In China . . .” and “the guy glued my Birkenstocks back together for $2!” and best of all, I heard, “I know exactly how you feel.”

I guess that’s all I need. I know I’ll always be a little weird here. I’m ok with that, as long as once in awhile someone comes along and reminds me that I’m not alone in my weirdness, and that they are a little weird too.

IMG_2207

 

See, my stories involve things like this. I just don’t get this kind of stuff in America.

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How to Be an American

Just when I thought I was pretty good at being an American . . .

For our kids to be in this school, we need to have them up to date on their immunizations. The first obstacle in this endeavor is finding and compiling their immunization records from two different countries in the midst of all those unorganized files in our office. Lord help us.

The other part I thought would be easy – call a pediatrician and make an appointment. The last time they saw a doctor was in Singapore, where we just walked across the street to the corner clinic, took a number, and waited about an hour to see her. If we had to see a specialist, we might have to wait until the next day.

So I naively thought I could call yesterday and get an appointment for later this week. I think the receptionist snickered a little when I asked if that were possible. I was informed that the next available well check up time for our kids would be March 6th. This is problematic, given that I am supposed to turn in their records by February 22nd.

It’s moments like this when I am reminded that I don’t know how things work here. It’s humbling. A little embarrassing. I’m tempted to try to explain myself, but the second I throw out something about living overseas, most people hear, “I have two heads!” and can’t compute what I’m saying.

So I soldier on, putting another note in my “how to be an American” file.

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Week One of Transition

It’s been a week. I haven’t even been sure what to write. The kids started school, which I hope will be the last major hurdle of “adjusting to life back in the U.S.” I’m not saying there will be no more hurdles, just hopefully none so high as this one that threatens to pull some muscles.

Pull it has. Monday was our first at home day, and since we were jumping in to the middle of things, we didn’t have quite as much as the other kids. We wrestled with feelings of anxiety throughout the day. I was trying to keep a positive outlook, but when we put the kids’ books into their fresh new backpacks right before bedtime and they didn’t all fit, all the wind got knocked out of my sails. Unfortunately, the kids were sailing in my boat, so we all sank a little bit.

By the morning, after a quick online order to L.L. Bean for larger backpacks, we were back on track. We were ready 1/2 hour early, God be praised! I am expected to help in each of their classrooms 2-3 times per semester and the only open day for Megan’s class was Tuesday. No, I don’t sit by the side of the pool and acclamate. I jump in!

It turned out to be just what Megan needed to calm her nerves. I sat in the corner and graded papers while her teachers amazed me. I saw Ethan at lunch and he was happily sitting with his best friend and some other 7th graders. All seemed well.

And then Wednesday happened, when they had to face the reality of what days at home entail, except we got to throw in things like “daddy’s gone” and “we’re still in major transition” to make it more interesting. Lets just say there were a lot of tears and a mom who needed a bath and a stiff drink by the end of the day. Not pretty people, not pretty.

Today was another school day, and they loved it. I dropped them off, ran some errands, came home and thought, “Wow. Now what?” then proceeded to do a little work and a little fun (hello OPI Samoan Sand on my finger and toenails). The kids came home and decided they love school and hate the work they have to do at home. I hope that evens out a little as time goes on.

Stretching emotional muscles. So often this week I just had to sit and cry with the kids and say, “Yeah, I get it. This is really hard. I think it’s going to get easier. Let’s remember that we’re in process here ok?” But there were plenty of times I wanted to say, “I can’t do this any more. I have my own mess. I don’t know that I have anything to give you in yours.”

Even as I type that I am reminded that His compassions are new every morning. That’s what I need to remind us each day – that He sees us in our process, He cares for our hearts, He will carry us through.

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Known, Needed, Have a Future

Known. Needed. Have a future.

These are three things that we talk about in our organization that we hope our staff are experiencing. In transition, these things go AWOL easily. As I look back on the major transitions of my life, I can see how most of the stress and other yuck I felt was because I didn’t feel one or more of these things.

So because this isn’t my first rodeo, I have been trying to be aware of my need for these things as we’ve moved to Florida. The problem is that awareness doesn’t bring satisfaction. It just gives you an answer to the question, “Why do I feel like curling up in a ball today?” But sometimes that’s enough.

Happily, I can feel these things creeping into my life in small ways: Going to a party where I actually know people and can have meaningful conversations and where I am invited to a small group. A nearby neighbor asks if her son can spend the night while she and her husband get away for some time to make a major decision. We visit our kids’ school for an interview and I talk to people about when I’ll be there helping this semester. Our neighbor invites us over to meet another family who has a daughter Megan’s age and since we all work at Cru we have common ground.

Place where I feel known. Needed. I have a future. These are good moments.

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