transition

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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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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Now What?

My extended family is currently heading north through Florida on their way back to the chilly midwest, and we’re left asking, “Now what?’

Up until now, we’ve been in a process of going somewhere. Our last months in China were preparation for getting everything from that side of the world to this one. This whole fall has been a time of waiting for all of that to get here. We were living in limbo.

But now we’re here. The waiting is done. Now we’re supposed to start doing life like we normally do, except I have no idea how. There’s no rhythm, no routine.

Oh sure, we’re figured out a few things, like the fact that we need to learn how to stock up when we’re “in town” because the nearest store is 15 minutes away. We’ve got running routes determined around the neighborhood which does wonders for getting us going in the morning (and for the dog!). We have food in the refrigerator and laundry running. We’re functioning.

But I look at Megan’s new guitar and think, “She needs guitar lessons. I don’t know where to find a guitar teacher.” Ethan wants to join soccer. Where? And where is the library? Our kids ask me daily, “What are we doing today?” and I don’t how to answer them. Who do they play with and when? And who do I get to play with? I don’t have a “this day we do this” mentality yet (and if you know me, you know that structure is my very good friend).

Yes, it’s all a little overwhelming, but nothing we haven’t done before. It’s just a new wave of transition, a bigger one, that will be a bit harder to ride.

So I take a deep breath and say, “One day at a time. We’re going to figure this out.”

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Adventures in Our Odyssey

See what I did there? Not just Adventures IN Odyssey, but in OUR Odyssey. That’s clever only to those of you whose young children are entertained by Focus on the Family’s Adventures in Odyssey series, and even then maybe only a small percentage of you. I thought of it though because it was one of the ways we passed the time in our Odyssey during the 4 day journey to our new home.

On paper, driving a total of 29 hours with two mini-vans, seven adults, two children, three dogs and a trailer sounds like a National Lampoon’s vacation. In reality, it wasn’t bad at all.

I’ll confess, learning to navigate the interstate at reduced speeds with a larger, crazy heavy load because of the trailer was a little hairy. I wasn’t even driving, but within 15 minutes I was having thoughts about turning back. I took the wheel halfway across Wisconsin. The last 45 minutes or so through Milwaukee in the dark with heavy traffic managed to squeeze some fairly inhuman squeals from me. I’d rather drive in China any day.

We went to Milwaukee to pick up two of the aforementioned adults and one of the dogs. As we looked ahead to what was a planned two more days of driving, we realized that it seemed a bit infeasible without driving 15 hours the first day and leaving our transmission somewhere in the hills of Tennessee. We decided to stretch it to three which only required finding new hotels to accomodate three dogs. It was an excellent decision.

Ethan was busy making decisions of his own. We’d told them that the whole way could not be spent staring at their 7″ TV screens or iPads, so he developed a schedule which went something like, “First hour, we rest. Then we watch a movie for two hours. Then we read for an hour. Then we listen to Adventures in Odyssey . . . ” We didn’t realize how serious he was until he asked to put in a movie. Erik told him, “We’re going to stop soon buddy,” and Ethan replied, “But we have to stay on schedule!” That wasn’t the only time that happened.

I have to say I’m surprised at how diverse the US geography isn’t, at least the way we took. Illinois and Missouri were incredibly flat and Mississippi had some beautiful rolling hills through the woods, but for the most part if you’d told me I was in Minnesota at any given time, I wouldn’t have doubted you. Our only stop of interest was Graceland, and that was because in our quest to find the cheapest gas around ($3.04!) we happened onto Elvis Presley Blvd and figured why not? So we took a picture from the fence and called it good.

I swear the minute we crossed the state line into Florida the skies cleared, like this state is hogging all the sunshine. We pulled into our house around 6:30 pm last night. Now the real adventure begins!

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Torn

I am torn.

We spent a few days at the beach attending a debrief conference for people from our company who have returned from overseas stints. It was all a bit theoretical for us because we haven’t landed in our “planting” spot yet where we’ll have to try to figure out where to buy food and make friends and tame our wild yard.

But not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to hear from God, I tried to pay attention to my heart. As I did I realized I was feeling a new feeling about the whole transition: guilt.

That surprised me, until we had a session on grief and loss and they reminded me that it is one of the stages of grief. But still, guilt? I didn’t see that coming. I’m more of a denial or anger stage kind of girl myself.

Why do I feel guilty? Well, I’ll tell you. I feel guilty because I think the US is awesome. I can plug my computer in to ANY outlet in the house. That’s big, people. No hunting down an adapter these days. The shower has consistent water pressure and temperature. Have you ever thought about what a gift that is? I do, every day.

And where we’re going to live is practically tropical! I’ve done tropical before and it’s not shabby. Sure, it gets hot and humid but who cares when you have a pool? And . . . and . . . and . . . I could go on and on.

Why feel guilty about that? I feel guilty because I know that my friends who I left don’t have a lot of these things. Why do I get to have them? More than that, several of them are going through difficult things and I am not there to walk through those things with them, and I hate that. I’m here enjoying sunshine and raspberry m&m;’s. There’s a strange feeling as though I have abandoned them, betrayed them even, by leaving. I remind myself that this is where God has led us, and that He has kept them there, but I feel guilty all the same.

Hey – no one ever said feelings were rational. But there they are.

So I am torn. Torn between wanting to enjoy these beautiful gifts God is giving us, hopes of good things in this new life, and the separation I feel from my friends who do not have what I have, who in fact have difficult things. Torn between loving the family and friends we have here and those we have left behind. It’s one of the by-products of moving people don’t always mention – the fact that you don’t get to keep all your heart with you as you go. Parts will be left in each place, and it’s possible for one part to feel something while another part experiences something completely different.

Will it ever be put back together? Probably not. But I choose to see it not as fragmented but as stretched to a greater capacity. Yeah, I’m going to call it that – not torn, but stretched.

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Reverse Culture Shock

Every good expat has heard of the dreaded Reverse Culture Shock. That’s where you go back to your home country and think, “This is weird! I don’t get it! I feel like an idiot!” and other unpleasant things like that.

I came back to the States fully expecting that at some point we would have this. I’ve had it before – those moments where I was paralyzed in the bread/toothpaste/deodorant aisle incapable of making a decision because there were so many choices. The awkward times when I hand the clerk my credit card and then am informed that I can (and should) do it myself. I still forget that, and for the record, I don’t like it.

This time I feel like all those potentially odd things that are different from Asia, to this point, don’t strike me as anything but quite pleasant. I like that there are lots of choices. I like that driving doesn’t feel like a test of my survival skills. I like that there is no one else on the streets in the morning when I exercise. I could get used to all these things.

But yesterday I hit my biggest moment of reverse culture shock. I went to IKEA.

I have never been to IKEA in America, only in Asia. So I was quite frankly weirded out by seeing prices in US dollars. It felt eerily empty. At no point did I feel like I was swimming against traffic. There wasn’t a single Asian person anywhere. I kept thinking, “Look at this – it’s all the same stuff. They brought it all from China.” (Yes, I realize this is not true). Actually, it felt like I was still in China and just happened to go to IKEA on Foreigner Day.

Megan’s cluing in to the reverse culture shock as well. In the bathroom the other day she said, “Mom, this toilet is really small. The toilets at Nonna and Babba’s are really small too. Wait – maybe ALL the toilets in America are small compared to China!” and continued on in this vein for awhile, supposing that people would think she was weird because she’s been using big toilets.

So we realize things are different, but so far we’re generally of the opinion that they’re good. I just don’t think I’ll go back to IKEA yet. That was weird.

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Looking with Eyes of Faith

Looking with Eyes of Faith
Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

 

Prior to moving back to America, I read the story of Moses sending the spies ahead into Canaan.

All but two of them came back with a report that, although the land was flowing with milk and honey, the people there were strong and the cities fortified and large. These latter things were unappealing to them.

But then Caleb stepped up and said, basically, “We can do this.”

Joshua seconded that with, “If the Lord delights in us, he will bring us into this land and give it to us . . . the Lord is with us.”

Looking Ahead to Our New Season

I read this story around the time when our son seemed to be struggling the most with our future life in America. He’s a realist, like me (it sounds so much better than pessimist), and he was seeing the difficulties of transitioning to new friends, new places.

So I shared that story with him. When I read it, I felt clearly that God was saying, “Who will you be like Gina?

“Will you look ahead and only see the obstacles, or will you look ahead with faith and hope because you believe that I am leading you to this place?”

We might see the same situation, but we could look with eyes of fear or eyes of faith. Which will we do? As we look through the lens of God’s delight in us, we can move ahead with confidence. He goes before us. He goes with us. We can do this.

It’s hard to go into an unknown place after one you’ve loved so well. But this morning as I sat on the deck, warm sun on my face, I was encouraged by recalling this story. I’m not saying Orlando is the promised land. But it is the place to which He is leading us. We will trust in His goodness as we anticipate life there.

 

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Plan to Stay Where God Calls You

Doubting in the Darkness

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If They Only Knew

This morning I was just another runner in a race on a typical Minnesota fall day.

I was just another mom watching her kid play soccer.

In both, I felt a little like the secret weirdo.

I mean I was the only person who didn’t blink an eye when I saw that the three stalls in the women’s bathroom didn’t have doors. I was probably the only one who was breathing a lot easier during that 5K, or noticed that people were cheering in English.

During the game, I have to say I was pretty proud of Megan, who despite her only experience in soccer being bi-lingual coaching from a Swiss German with dredlocks alongside a gang of Chinese boys, seems to be one of the most skilled on her team. If not, then at least the fiercest and most determined. I didn’t feel like explaining all that to any of the other moms.

Let them all think this is as normal for me as it is for them. They don’t need to know how many times I’ve used bathrooms in the full presence of strangers, how I’m used to people staring at me like I’m insane when I run. They don’t know that we’ve never seen this many American kids playing soccer in the same place before, or that Megan’s not used to her teammates calling her name.

If they only knew.

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