It’s hard to imagine the familiar life around me vanishing into only a memory with a select group of people to share it with. As hard to imagine as it may be, it happens. It happened.
Everything I knew to be familiar and stable in the
physical world faded into the distance as the plane left the ground. The sights, scents, words and customs were
gone. The darkness of night folded in
over the world I called home for eleven years as the aircraft took us higher
and farther away from land. It felt
unreal. Almost like a dream.
A couple months passed and the ache to go home hit
hard. It was time to go back to normal,
but I couldn’t. I tried to face reality,
but reality was harsh. He stared me in
the eyes with a cruel and lonely look that only transition and death can
bring. Transition and I have a love/hate
relationship. There are parts of change
that bring comfort to me and at times almost feel like they need to occur to
keep me sane. Death, on the other hand,
has been a little too cold for me. Death
to homes, relationships, people and familiarity are not something I have ever
enjoyed. As much as death keeps me focused
on what’s important, there’s a dark side to him I don’t enjoy encountering.
Here I am today thinking back over the past twenty-five
years of my life. Fourteen years ago we
set foot on a brand-new county (to us).
In my lifetime of traveling I had never faced a fourteen plus hour
flight. Not to mention Asia being an
entirely new continent and set of cultures for me to grasp.
The air was warm and the scents were kinda weird. The food was decent, but boy was I
tired. The following days took us to
lots of empty houses and left us with the decision of whether we wanted to rent
one of them or not. I didn’t like
it. I really didn’t want to be there. My heart was still in the Caribbean where all
my friends were. Let’s not even start on
the cousins and family in the North. My
heart was torn…no, not just torn. It was
broken and my eleven-year-old mind didn’t know how to fix it.
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months and months to years.
Meanwhile the funky scents became familiar and almost comforting, the language
made more sense to my confused mind, the food was incredible and daily life was
so ordinary. It was home.
There were countless times I messed up, used the wrong
word, didn’t like a certain dish, had bad manners and offended someone; but the
Thai people were so forgiving. There
were days when I was tired of fighting the cultural battle deep within me and
wished that I could just live without all the frustrations, miscommunications
and expectations. At the end of every
day, though, my friends and people around me knew that no matter what happened
I would always be a white, American girl.
Because of that, they gave me grace to find my way, learn, make mistakes
and be myself. I could not have done it
without their grace, care and love for me.
Eleven years and two months later my family boarded a
plane for the U.S. All of our belongings
were packed up and the house we called home for years was in the hands of
someone else. Being warned by people
with great years of experience told us the journey before us was going to be
deep, tiring, lonely and long. As much
as I believed them, I honestly didn’t know it would be quite like this.
December will mark three years of life in the
States. I can’t say I’m that excited
about it. In fact, I find myself embarrassed
to even tell people that sentence. I
guess I thought it would be a little different.
That the American people would be a little more gracious. For some reason I expected them to care more
than they have. I was wrong.
You see, Journal, I look like this group of people
called the Mennonites. The state we are
currently residing in contains tons of them…no, like really. TONS! You remember
the days I’ve told you I wish I looked different, don’t you? Ok. You’re right.
I am Mennonite, but the Mennonite culture here is so….different might be
the best word. I don’t think people ever
even think about the fact that my brain doesn’t comprehend why they are doing what
they do, Journal. So, subconsciously,
they assume I like to eat browned butter with everything, have ham balls for
Sunday lunch (which, tell me, Journal, how do you even make those things?) and
determine the food’s level of spice the same way they do.
Oh, and Journal, the truth is that I can hardly pay
for toll with my left hand because that feels rude, but using my right hand
causes embarrassing stunts. When we go
to someone’s house, it feels rude to not take them something, but is that the
way it’s supposed to be done? Why do
people wear their shoes in the house and hang out with their little group of
people all their lives? It’s
uncomfortable for someone to freely worship in church and work is part of their
identity, I guess… People don’t really
know how to be needed by others apart from their families and Journal, it must
be rather important for Christians to be self-sufficient. It all seems rather backwards to me, but then
again, I don’t know how all this works.
I guess I just subconsciously thought I’d find that community feeling I
grew up having, but reality is that life in America is different.
So here’s to swimming through the waves of transition,
Journal. Some days they’re huge and
other days it almost feels like they’re hardly there…Which means we are making
progress, right?
Oh, and Journal, HAPPY 14th MOVING ANNIVERSARY
a day late.
