We've officially hit a lull with the ministry of The Bridge.
It is almost the end of May, and we're not quite where I thought we would be by now. Instead of already moving and settling into the ministry house and getting things up and running, I am currently house-sitting for one of the couples who attend one of the Wesleyan Methodist churches. They return at the end of June, and have family coming in July. Which means I have approximately five weeks to figure out where I'm moving to next, since we still don't have a master-plan for the finances for the ministry house. I've been in New Zealand for less than three years and have already lived in eight different homes. What's another one gonna hurt, right?
During one of our brainstorming conversations, Kara suggested I got in touch with the folks at TSCF (Tertiary Students Christian Fellowship). And so this afternoon, I met with Andy, the Auckland Regional Team Leader.
Our conversation went something like that:
Andy: Thanks for making the time and getting in touch. So, tell me about The Bridge.
Me: Well, we're still in the very beginning stages, but we're hoping to establish sort of a hub and resource center type of a community house for students. We're not particular about what church they eventually connect with, but we simply hope they will eventually become connected with a church community.
Andy: Now, where are you from?
Me: [awkward pause]
Andy: I guess I mean, where all do you claim to be from?
Me: Well, that's kind of a loaded question...
After I explained my all-over-the-place-ness, he didn't even flinch and just went on with the conversation. It hit me all over again that my "all-over-the-place-ness" isn't unique in Auckland. To quote Andy, "Almost every person in Auckland can trace back to having chosen to move here from some place else; it's just a matter of how many generations have been here before them."
Perhaps that's why I've been struggling with trying to find a way to frame the ministry of The Bridge. Yes, our focus is on international students in Auckland, but what does the term "international student" even mean? Andy shared an example of one of the student councils he worked with that had student representatives from the "Kiwi" and the "International" community. The "Kiwi" representative was born in Nepal, but is of European descent, whose parents were missionaries. The "International" representative was a fourth generation Kiwi-Chinese who was born in New Zealand. What do we make of that?
Back when I was an international student in the States, being "international" was much easier to define. I simply wasn't born and raised in the US, and I was treated differently. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't treated inferiorly, I was just treated *differently* with the understanding my worldview is most likely different from the majority. Here in Auckland, everyone's worldview differs on varying degrees, and one can never make assumptions of what cultural roots another may identify with.
At the university age, these dynamics come out to play a lot more. Standing on the fringe of adulthood, one makes decisions, whether consciously or not, about the cultural roots they may claim. For some cultural groups, not attending Sunday worship with others from their "motherland" meant that one was disowning their cultural heritage--even if they had simply gone to a different congregation with their Kiwi mates from uni. What happens when one of the young adults from one of these cultural groups are sensing that God was calling them to minister to others who were as culturally mixed-up as they were and didn't have the same sense of obligation to the culture of the motherland? Will the church be there to rally around these young adults who often come from a highly community-oriented home-culture to a more individualistic society?
Just some very beginning thoughts on some of the dynamics at play as we continue ministering in this multi-cultural community that is Auckland...
Showing posts with label TCK. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TCK. Show all posts
22 May 2014
09 May 2014
Dear Keren: "Displace Me" Revisited
Series history: This series unofficially began in 2007 in honour of Keren Berrios. We had started at Anderson University together as international students in 2004. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had come to rely on her as my sense of "home" while we lived in between cultures. In my hurry to get through life, I graduated a year earlier than most in our class. The summer between my graduation and hers, Keren's life ended unexpectedly less than three weeks after she turned twenty-one. As I grappled with grief, loss and the roller-coaster of post-graduation life, I began writing to her. In the years after, this series has brought comfort as I remember Keren's legacy and imprint on my life. More recently, it has provided a way to take me back to a time before disillusionment caused me to stop dreaming, and to keep pursuing a life well-lived.
Dear Keren,
I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.
Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.
Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.
Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?
Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.
On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.
But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.
And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.
And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.
Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.
Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.
Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.
Until next time.
Arohanui,
Me
Dear Keren,
I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.
Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.
Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.
Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?
Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.
On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.
But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.
And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.
And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.
Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.
Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.
Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.
Until next time.
Arohanui,
Me
14 September 2013
Dear Keren: Piece of Home
Dear Keren,
At student group yesterday, Amy came up to me and asked for ideas of what she could get for a Chinese friend who was turning 18. She went on to explain that this friend had arrived in New Zealand two days after she did, and so she was her first friend, which made the friendship special.
It made me think of our first days at AU. You were my first friend too, but it wasn't until years later after you died when I was processing with Jenny what "home" means to me, that I realised you were also my piece of home away from home. Sure, there were lots of great memories made especially in the summer months when the campus was quieter, but I think what made our friendship special was that you made it ok for me to feel displaced. You were my home in that displacement, and you helped me made sense of so much of what eventually became a part of my identity as a Third Culture Kid.
Dear Keren, today I thank you for being that friend, and for helping me find a piece of home. If you were still around, I'd want you to be a part of this new thing I'm starting next year because you helped me become good at navigating these transitional waters. Nonetheless, I carry our friendship with me as I begin helping these international students find their place of home as they arrive in New Zealand and begin a new chapter here.
Dear Keren, thank you.
Arohanui,
me
At student group yesterday, Amy came up to me and asked for ideas of what she could get for a Chinese friend who was turning 18. She went on to explain that this friend had arrived in New Zealand two days after she did, and so she was her first friend, which made the friendship special.
It made me think of our first days at AU. You were my first friend too, but it wasn't until years later after you died when I was processing with Jenny what "home" means to me, that I realised you were also my piece of home away from home. Sure, there were lots of great memories made especially in the summer months when the campus was quieter, but I think what made our friendship special was that you made it ok for me to feel displaced. You were my home in that displacement, and you helped me made sense of so much of what eventually became a part of my identity as a Third Culture Kid.
Dear Keren, today I thank you for being that friend, and for helping me find a piece of home. If you were still around, I'd want you to be a part of this new thing I'm starting next year because you helped me become good at navigating these transitional waters. Nonetheless, I carry our friendship with me as I begin helping these international students find their place of home as they arrive in New Zealand and begin a new chapter here.
Dear Keren, thank you.
Arohanui,
me
16 April 2013
Where We Come From: Homesick
The year was 2007, and it must have been either June or July. Holly, Keren and I had, on this random night, decided we were going to "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's for ice-cream, as college students spontaneously do. I don't remember what else was on the playlist that night, except for two of Keren's favourites at the time. The windows were down, and we were singing at the top of our lungs, "Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend!" and "Oh, **** it, I'm gonna have a party!"
I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.
You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.
I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.
Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.
That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.
It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.
Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."
It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.
For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.
Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.
And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.
And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.
I was scrolling through old photos on Facebook earlier and found this one, taken in front Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. It was one of the first days we were there and there were various exhibits that we could take photos with. Some were historical; others political; still others, simply funny. This little guy here though, reminded me too much of myself. By the time I got to Germany, I had come to the realisation that no matter what part of the world I move to or how many times I move, wherever I sleep that night would be home, but I would also still be homesick for at least one of the other homes.
That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.
Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.
This. This is where we come from.
I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.
You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.
I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.
Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.
That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.
It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.
Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."
It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.
For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.
Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.
And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.
And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.
That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.
Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.
This. This is where we come from.
23 November 2012
Celebrating Across the Seas
Well, it's officially "Black Friday" on this side of the world.
In all my years of celebrating Thanksgiving, I've only done the Black Friday madness once--only because Jenny and Becca convinced me that since it was my last Thanksgiving in the US, I had to at least get out there in the wee hours of the morning once, even if just for the cultural experience. I can't say I enjoyed the experience much; but maybe it's because I was more used to parking down in the Rhynard house for the Thanksgiving weekend 007 marathon with my homework or crochet, and trying to keep warm in the Michigan winter.
I remember my first snow. Danielle and I were going to pick Cody up from high-school (yes, Cody, I know you're grown-up now because you're in seminary, but I'll always remember you as that dorky high-schooler who wouldn't stop giving your sister crap, as all good brothers should) the day before Thanksgiving. We were walking in to the school when Danielle stopped me and said, "Look! It's snowing!"
Folks always talk about being excited about snow. But that first snow, I thought I was going to slip on the snow, hit my head on the side-walk and die. It didn't help that I crash-landed in a pile of snow when out on my first snow-mobile ride with Danielle and Cody. "Death by snow on her first Thanksgiving." Great headline, eh?
The years passed quicker than I was ready for them. My last two American Thanksgivings have been characteristically un-snowy--rainy at best, but snow would have been a major fluke in the weather system.
So we learn to adapt. We don't do snow or snow-mobiles, but we do stories. Turkeys cost four times as much here as they would in Michigan or Indiana, so we do chicken. Pumpkins only happen as a whole fruit and not in cans, so we puree our own for pies and coffee creamers. And we include friends for whom Thanksgivings may have never been, or will ever be, traditions, but whose stories we get to write together at least for this season.
It wasn't that many years ago that traditional celebration story-sharing started. Those first awkward Chinese New Year celebrations in the dorm rooms without a real kitchen to work with, or easy access to an Asian grocer. And we learnt to adapt anyway.
That's the life of living all around the world. We carry our stories, our food, our traditions and celebrations with us. We adapt where necessary, and we start new traditions and carry those with us to new corners of the world and fill even more pages of our stories with new friends, laughter, and always, always food.
And after the dishes have all been cleared away, we pause to sit down with a cuppa joe. And we give thanks for the stories we get to be a part of, the table of food and laughter shared, and for a rich and abundant life.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. May it be filled with love and laughter.
In all my years of celebrating Thanksgiving, I've only done the Black Friday madness once--only because Jenny and Becca convinced me that since it was my last Thanksgiving in the US, I had to at least get out there in the wee hours of the morning once, even if just for the cultural experience. I can't say I enjoyed the experience much; but maybe it's because I was more used to parking down in the Rhynard house for the Thanksgiving weekend 007 marathon with my homework or crochet, and trying to keep warm in the Michigan winter.
I remember my first snow. Danielle and I were going to pick Cody up from high-school (yes, Cody, I know you're grown-up now because you're in seminary, but I'll always remember you as that dorky high-schooler who wouldn't stop giving your sister crap, as all good brothers should) the day before Thanksgiving. We were walking in to the school when Danielle stopped me and said, "Look! It's snowing!"
Folks always talk about being excited about snow. But that first snow, I thought I was going to slip on the snow, hit my head on the side-walk and die. It didn't help that I crash-landed in a pile of snow when out on my first snow-mobile ride with Danielle and Cody. "Death by snow on her first Thanksgiving." Great headline, eh?
The years passed quicker than I was ready for them. My last two American Thanksgivings have been characteristically un-snowy--rainy at best, but snow would have been a major fluke in the weather system.
So we learn to adapt. We don't do snow or snow-mobiles, but we do stories. Turkeys cost four times as much here as they would in Michigan or Indiana, so we do chicken. Pumpkins only happen as a whole fruit and not in cans, so we puree our own for pies and coffee creamers. And we include friends for whom Thanksgivings may have never been, or will ever be, traditions, but whose stories we get to write together at least for this season.
It wasn't that many years ago that traditional celebration story-sharing started. Those first awkward Chinese New Year celebrations in the dorm rooms without a real kitchen to work with, or easy access to an Asian grocer. And we learnt to adapt anyway.
That's the life of living all around the world. We carry our stories, our food, our traditions and celebrations with us. We adapt where necessary, and we start new traditions and carry those with us to new corners of the world and fill even more pages of our stories with new friends, laughter, and always, always food.
And after the dishes have all been cleared away, we pause to sit down with a cuppa joe. And we give thanks for the stories we get to be a part of, the table of food and laughter shared, and for a rich and abundant life.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. May it be filled with love and laughter.
17 May 2012
On Shopping
I've never been much of a shopper.
It used to be that my mum and I would hit the stores once, maybe at most twice a year, spend a day or an evening there, and that would be our shopping for the year.
Then when I took on an office job right after college, it meant more shopping because my wardrobe needed a massive overhaul from the college kid's sweatshirt and jeans combinations. Part of why I'm not crazy about shopping is because I've never cared much for fashion as much as I have for comfort, and what's comfortable isn't always available or affordable when it's not also trendy. But it wasn't so bad because I had learnt where to find the good deals, and learnt about seasonal clearances. Best part: they had LONGs in their pants and jeans departments in the States.
And then I did this crazy thing called moving halfway across the world in 2 suitcases. Most of my stuff had to be either sold or left behind. Which wasn't a big deal until now that it's getting cooler here in Auckland. Because I wasn't sure how cold it would actually get here and didn't have much luggage space to begin with, most of my cold weather clothes had to be left behind. And nobody warned me about central heating--or the lack of it. And it's been too many years since I've lived without a dryer that I've forgotten that when it gets colder and wetter here, laundry takes a much longer time to dry.
So off we go shopping again. If they had Kohl's, Marshalls or even H&M here, it would have been a matter of simply zipping in, finding what I needed and moving on with my day. I wouldn't have felt like I wasted my day-off spending way too much time trying to find a pair of pants that would fit because they didn't have longs.
I got home that night more homesick for the cornfields than I had been in a while.
Now, I can handle grocery shopping. It's not so bad when I've done my meal planning for the week and have a list of exactly what I need to get. I'm learning that there's a reason why fruit and vegetable shops exist: they do actually have much cheaper fruits, vegetables, milk and eggs. And that Pak n Save is the place to go to get things in bulk, otherwise your friendly neighbourhood Countdown is still your best bet.
But send me back to Singapore, and I have a mild anxiety attack every time I get sent to the store to pick up cucumbers for Mum. I can usually figure out where most other things are, but it's been maybe 3 years in a row now that I've gone to the store not knowing where to find cucumbers and feeling absolutely ridiculous.
A grown woman who's used to living on her own, managing her own groceries in giant supermarkets in other foreign lands unable to find cucumbers in the land where she was born.
Days like these, or these make me wonder if I've ever grown up or if I ever will. Grocery shopping in Singapore make me feel like I'm 18 all over again, never stepped outside of the world of school, band, church or my parents' home. And learning the ins and outs of living in a new place all over again isn't really that big of a deal. But I cannot help wishing that after 8 months, a day would go by where I don't feel like I'm having to learn something new all over again.
Not that I'm complaining, since this is all part of the adventure. But something familiar every once in a while would be nice.
It used to be that my mum and I would hit the stores once, maybe at most twice a year, spend a day or an evening there, and that would be our shopping for the year.
Then when I took on an office job right after college, it meant more shopping because my wardrobe needed a massive overhaul from the college kid's sweatshirt and jeans combinations. Part of why I'm not crazy about shopping is because I've never cared much for fashion as much as I have for comfort, and what's comfortable isn't always available or affordable when it's not also trendy. But it wasn't so bad because I had learnt where to find the good deals, and learnt about seasonal clearances. Best part: they had LONGs in their pants and jeans departments in the States.
And then I did this crazy thing called moving halfway across the world in 2 suitcases. Most of my stuff had to be either sold or left behind. Which wasn't a big deal until now that it's getting cooler here in Auckland. Because I wasn't sure how cold it would actually get here and didn't have much luggage space to begin with, most of my cold weather clothes had to be left behind. And nobody warned me about central heating--or the lack of it. And it's been too many years since I've lived without a dryer that I've forgotten that when it gets colder and wetter here, laundry takes a much longer time to dry.
So off we go shopping again. If they had Kohl's, Marshalls or even H&M here, it would have been a matter of simply zipping in, finding what I needed and moving on with my day. I wouldn't have felt like I wasted my day-off spending way too much time trying to find a pair of pants that would fit because they didn't have longs.
I got home that night more homesick for the cornfields than I had been in a while.
Now, I can handle grocery shopping. It's not so bad when I've done my meal planning for the week and have a list of exactly what I need to get. I'm learning that there's a reason why fruit and vegetable shops exist: they do actually have much cheaper fruits, vegetables, milk and eggs. And that Pak n Save is the place to go to get things in bulk, otherwise your friendly neighbourhood Countdown is still your best bet.
But send me back to Singapore, and I have a mild anxiety attack every time I get sent to the store to pick up cucumbers for Mum. I can usually figure out where most other things are, but it's been maybe 3 years in a row now that I've gone to the store not knowing where to find cucumbers and feeling absolutely ridiculous.
A grown woman who's used to living on her own, managing her own groceries in giant supermarkets in other foreign lands unable to find cucumbers in the land where she was born.
Days like these, or these make me wonder if I've ever grown up or if I ever will. Grocery shopping in Singapore make me feel like I'm 18 all over again, never stepped outside of the world of school, band, church or my parents' home. And learning the ins and outs of living in a new place all over again isn't really that big of a deal. But I cannot help wishing that after 8 months, a day would go by where I don't feel like I'm having to learn something new all over again.
Not that I'm complaining, since this is all part of the adventure. But something familiar every once in a while would be nice.
01 February 2012
On Writing...
I haven't written in a while, I know.
Since the last time I wrote, we've sent off the Beisleys. Lots of hugs and shed tears, but at least the last time I checked, they're somewhat settling back in St Helen's.
Oh, and I moved. Yup, I found a place on the Peninsula where the rent is decent, the landlady is laidback, and I'm still close enough to Kathrin and Stefan that I can still go back and harass them and create more mayhem from time to time. Who knew such a place existed, ay?
It's been 4 days since the move and I already miss their craziness. But it was time for a change. Time to put a bit more into my life so that it didn't revolve solely around Westside Christian Fellowship, which would have been hard to do since Kathrin and Stefan are a part of WCF. Not that WCF isn't good for me or anything like that, but too much of something can make one off-balance, ya know?
What else is new? Hmm... I've (surprisingly) kept up with the Bible reading AND the exercising twice a week. The birthday isn't too far away, and I actually have a pretty good feeling that I might be able to keep this up past the birthday this year. We shall see.
Oh, and I've also picked up Anne Lamott all over again. No, I didn't get very far into Bird by Bird the last time, and probably wouldn't this time either (not because it's a bad book by any means--it's more a reflection of my ADD). But even just reading the introduction reminded me of why I love writing, and made me pause to think of why I hadn't written in so long. Between Anne Lamott and reading the Goldmans' last newsletter last night, I figured out why.
Somehow I got carried away with trying to meet the expectations of my new role.
See, I write because I love writing. I love trying to find the right way to craft words so that they mean something more than just scrawly letters appearing across a page (or screen). I love giving a little more meaning to life than just reporting the events of the day-to-day mundane.
But as Dwayne and Kara wrote,
Because I had become a "missionary" by some awkward standards, I felt like I lost my voice as simply Jael. (Which, if you know me well, tends to happen a lot thanks to my chameleon/keep-everyone-happy/TCK personality)
I felt like I couldn't blog unless I had "glowing reports and newsy tales of success".
By any standards, I feel like I've messed up more than I've had successes. The messes were never beyond redemption, like the egg in the microwave or the ridiculous cheese-sauce experiment (story for another time), or getting way too involved in areas where I should have trodden more carefully. These stories of messes remind me of how much I need grace.
But ask me about successes, and really the only concrete thing I can think of is the tea-party we had for a bunch of the little ladies. But even that, I hesitate to call a success. Just because we've had an "impressive" showing of twenty-seven little ladies didn't make the event a success.
Any good student of ministry will tell you success isn't measured by numbers. I'm learning more and more that "success" is measured by God-sightings, and lately I've had a lot of those because of the messes I've created.
And all good missionaries should have good stories to tell. At least, that is the expectation. My stories are often silly, sometimes weird, and usually involve a heck lot of laughing or some bits of crying.
You see, life in Aotearoa has been anything but boring. And even though no one has vocalised the expectation for me to write good missionary stories, I've given myself the pressure. (did I mention I'm learning about grace?)
But I'm breaking out of the box I've put myself in. I may not have glowing reports and newsy tales of success, but I'm writing anyway.
Besides, what fun is there in writing if I can't take the mundane and craft it into something whimsical? :)
Since the last time I wrote, we've sent off the Beisleys. Lots of hugs and shed tears, but at least the last time I checked, they're somewhat settling back in St Helen's.
Oh, and I moved. Yup, I found a place on the Peninsula where the rent is decent, the landlady is laidback, and I'm still close enough to Kathrin and Stefan that I can still go back and harass them and create more mayhem from time to time. Who knew such a place existed, ay?
It's been 4 days since the move and I already miss their craziness. But it was time for a change. Time to put a bit more into my life so that it didn't revolve solely around Westside Christian Fellowship, which would have been hard to do since Kathrin and Stefan are a part of WCF. Not that WCF isn't good for me or anything like that, but too much of something can make one off-balance, ya know?
What else is new? Hmm... I've (surprisingly) kept up with the Bible reading AND the exercising twice a week. The birthday isn't too far away, and I actually have a pretty good feeling that I might be able to keep this up past the birthday this year. We shall see.
Oh, and I've also picked up Anne Lamott all over again. No, I didn't get very far into Bird by Bird the last time, and probably wouldn't this time either (not because it's a bad book by any means--it's more a reflection of my ADD). But even just reading the introduction reminded me of why I love writing, and made me pause to think of why I hadn't written in so long. Between Anne Lamott and reading the Goldmans' last newsletter last night, I figured out why.
Somehow I got carried away with trying to meet the expectations of my new role.
See, I write because I love writing. I love trying to find the right way to craft words so that they mean something more than just scrawly letters appearing across a page (or screen). I love giving a little more meaning to life than just reporting the events of the day-to-day mundane.
But as Dwayne and Kara wrote,
We realize that newsletters are typically glowing reports and newsy tales of success, and this has been a dilemma to us as we have wanted to write an update but felt the news wasn’t ‘good’ enough.
Because I had become a "missionary" by some awkward standards, I felt like I lost my voice as simply Jael. (Which, if you know me well, tends to happen a lot thanks to my chameleon/keep-everyone-happy/TCK personality)
I felt like I couldn't blog unless I had "glowing reports and newsy tales of success".
By any standards, I feel like I've messed up more than I've had successes. The messes were never beyond redemption, like the egg in the microwave or the ridiculous cheese-sauce experiment (story for another time), or getting way too involved in areas where I should have trodden more carefully. These stories of messes remind me of how much I need grace.
But ask me about successes, and really the only concrete thing I can think of is the tea-party we had for a bunch of the little ladies. But even that, I hesitate to call a success. Just because we've had an "impressive" showing of twenty-seven little ladies didn't make the event a success.
Any good student of ministry will tell you success isn't measured by numbers. I'm learning more and more that "success" is measured by God-sightings, and lately I've had a lot of those because of the messes I've created.
And all good missionaries should have good stories to tell. At least, that is the expectation. My stories are often silly, sometimes weird, and usually involve a heck lot of laughing or some bits of crying.
You see, life in Aotearoa has been anything but boring. And even though no one has vocalised the expectation for me to write good missionary stories, I've given myself the pressure. (did I mention I'm learning about grace?)
But I'm breaking out of the box I've put myself in. I may not have glowing reports and newsy tales of success, but I'm writing anyway.
Besides, what fun is there in writing if I can't take the mundane and craft it into something whimsical? :)
30 October 2011
If Home's Where My Heart Is...
With the "honeymoon" phase wearing thin, homesick is starting to sink in a little bit. So yesterday, while sitting outside the Beisleys' home, I made a list of things that I'm homesick for:
* City lights at midnight
* Freshly-picked cherry tomatoes, sweet corn and strawberries
* Beading and solving the world's problems till 2 am
* Smells and smiles from Schwarze Olive
* Watching people line up to board planes
* Hymns and liturgy
* Reading Pride and Prejudice on the bus/train home
* Driving through acres and acres of cornfields with healing music, my emotional roller-coasters, and the Creator
* Popping bottles into the machine at Kaiser's and getting groceries with store credit from the recycling
* Community dinners
* 2 ams with the BFFs saying, "I don't understand yet why the heck you do what you do. But simply because of friendship, I will support and encourage you, and I will push you to keep walking when you're tempted to give up prematurely. And if necessary, I will arrange a boycott if you try to run home when life doesn't seem to go the way you'd hoped."
The list ended there for the day, but there was so much more I could have added.
For years now, I've wrestled with the idea of home.
My first TCK friend Will once explained it as, "home is where I lay my head that night."
My friend Nichele has never set foot on the African continent, but because that's where her ancestors came from, a part of home is in Africa.
My friends John and Jodie may have been born in the States and still return there every summer, but home is Haiti.
My friends Kathrin and Stefan moved to Auckland a few years ago, and home has been New Zealand ever since.
My friend Steve says home is in his pocket. It's what happens in community.
My friend Ian has made the cruise ship he's been working on for the last couple years his home.
My friend Laura once said home is wherever her parents are--no matter which French-speaking country it might be.
Tonight, it hit that home is all that and more.
Home is roots. Roots that go beyond Singapore, to the ancestral homes in China.
Home is blood. Lay a finger on one of the blood-kin and I'll pray fire and brimstone.
Home is together. Coffeeing, eating, laughing, crying... together.
Home is possibilities. Possibilities of roots that give wings to dreams.
Home is nowhere, anywhere and everywhere all at the same time.
And all is well and good until trouble hits too many homes at one time.
And then we wonder how the heck to explain that one part of our world is crumbling even while the rest of it still appears intact.
And then we take a deep breath.
And pray.
And cry.
And (eventually) let go.
I close my eyes and I see your face
If home's where my heart is then I'm out of place
Lord won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
I've never been more homesick than now
- MercyMe
P.S. Finally posted photos from our Holiday Programme on Facebook. Click here
* City lights at midnight
* Freshly-picked cherry tomatoes, sweet corn and strawberries
* Beading and solving the world's problems till 2 am
* Smells and smiles from Schwarze Olive
* Watching people line up to board planes
* Hymns and liturgy
* Reading Pride and Prejudice on the bus/train home
* Driving through acres and acres of cornfields with healing music, my emotional roller-coasters, and the Creator
* Popping bottles into the machine at Kaiser's and getting groceries with store credit from the recycling
* Community dinners
* 2 ams with the BFFs saying, "I don't understand yet why the heck you do what you do. But simply because of friendship, I will support and encourage you, and I will push you to keep walking when you're tempted to give up prematurely. And if necessary, I will arrange a boycott if you try to run home when life doesn't seem to go the way you'd hoped."
The list ended there for the day, but there was so much more I could have added.
For years now, I've wrestled with the idea of home.
My first TCK friend Will once explained it as, "home is where I lay my head that night."
My friend Nichele has never set foot on the African continent, but because that's where her ancestors came from, a part of home is in Africa.
My friends John and Jodie may have been born in the States and still return there every summer, but home is Haiti.
My friends Kathrin and Stefan moved to Auckland a few years ago, and home has been New Zealand ever since.
My friend Steve says home is in his pocket. It's what happens in community.
My friend Ian has made the cruise ship he's been working on for the last couple years his home.
My friend Laura once said home is wherever her parents are--no matter which French-speaking country it might be.
Tonight, it hit that home is all that and more.
Home is roots. Roots that go beyond Singapore, to the ancestral homes in China.
Home is blood. Lay a finger on one of the blood-kin and I'll pray fire and brimstone.
Home is together. Coffeeing, eating, laughing, crying... together.
Home is possibilities. Possibilities of roots that give wings to dreams.
Home is nowhere, anywhere and everywhere all at the same time.
And all is well and good until trouble hits too many homes at one time.
And then we wonder how the heck to explain that one part of our world is crumbling even while the rest of it still appears intact.
And then we take a deep breath.
And pray.
And cry.
And (eventually) let go.
I close my eyes and I see your face
If home's where my heart is then I'm out of place
Lord won't you give me strength to make it through somehow
I've never been more homesick than now
- MercyMe
P.S. Finally posted photos from our Holiday Programme on Facebook. Click here
06 June 2011
Dear Keren #5 - Summer Nights
Dear Keren,
Favourites of my Anderson summers:
Bonfires/Cookouts
Playing in the warm rain
Sno Castle
Tonight I went on my first long walk of this season. A little later in the calendar year than usual, I guess. But we've had so much cold rain in the last month that it wasn't even worth it.
But tonight, I poured my heart out to a dear friend. Stories I've never told before, they all came tumbling out.
Ad this is why I love summer nights. School is out, and after we get off work, we're done for the day. Except for you. You always had the same job every summer that kept your schedule so full that hanging out entailed the usual, "What are you doing? Can I come over?" instant messages before I find you traipsing across the neighbour's yard in my direction. Then we'll sit or walk to Dairy Queen, and talk... or not talk. Sometimes it would be about your brother, and how he took the car and didn't fill up the gas tank again. Sometimes it would be stories that revealed the transparency of our friendship. Sometimes the silence between us spoke the depths of our friendship that ran deeper than words, in a way that I don't know how to explain besides borrowing from the Na'vi's "I see you."
Summer nights are when I miss you most.
Jenny made an observation tonight as I poured out my stories. I miss you because you were home to me. In the busyness of the school year, I hardly paid attention to how homesick for a sense of belonging I was because there was enough to distract me. But summer nights came and sitting around wishing for "home" would have become an uncomfortable norm if not because I had already found "home" in our friendship.
I've known many who uproot as easily and adapt as quickly as we do. But you taught me the importance of not just learning to uproot easily and adapt quickly, but also to quickly sink roots that are so deep that when we try to evaluate or take measurement, we find that we can only measure in the volume of heart that had been shared and not time. You taught me that sinking roots meant mutuality and accountability, and not the flighty "get up and run away" when the going gets tough.
Dear Keren, I miss you not because of the summer nights we spent hanging out watching Daria clips on youtube, or you introducing me to songs that no one else had ever heard. I miss you not because I want to watch movies on your balcony while snuggling with you and Holly. But I miss you because you had become "home" to me even before I came to terms with my loss of cultural identity. I miss you because even in the silence, I knew you understood displacement the same way I did.
And leaving Anderson isn't hard because I have 7 years of junk that need to be reduced to 2 suitcases and 2 carry-ons. It's not because I will miss the academia. It's not because I will miss the roads that are never plowed quite enough during the winters.
It's hard because I'm leaving the place that holds memories of you, memories of "home," and memories of the journey to redefining "home" not as a physical place but as a sacred space in which I hold the ones I love.
Dear Keren, this is my last summer in Anderson. Even in Berlin last year, I had an inkling that I still had one more summer in Anderson. This time, I really don't know anymore. I could sit around and mope and just keep missing you. But I think if you were here, you'd nudge me to make the moments count.
So I will pack up my junk. I will meet all the datelines I promised. But I will also take time to dance in the rain, watch movies on the balcony and simply... live.
Miss you,
Me.
Favourites of my Anderson summers:
Bonfires/Cookouts
Driving with the windows down
Flip-flops
Friends
Hanging out with missionary friends
Late night heart-to-hearts by the Helios
Long evening walks
Minnetrista's Farmer's MarketPlaying in the warm rain
Sno Castle
Tonight I went on my first long walk of this season. A little later in the calendar year than usual, I guess. But we've had so much cold rain in the last month that it wasn't even worth it.
But tonight, I poured my heart out to a dear friend. Stories I've never told before, they all came tumbling out.
Ad this is why I love summer nights. School is out, and after we get off work, we're done for the day. Except for you. You always had the same job every summer that kept your schedule so full that hanging out entailed the usual, "What are you doing? Can I come over?" instant messages before I find you traipsing across the neighbour's yard in my direction. Then we'll sit or walk to Dairy Queen, and talk... or not talk. Sometimes it would be about your brother, and how he took the car and didn't fill up the gas tank again. Sometimes it would be stories that revealed the transparency of our friendship. Sometimes the silence between us spoke the depths of our friendship that ran deeper than words, in a way that I don't know how to explain besides borrowing from the Na'vi's "I see you."
Summer nights are when I miss you most.
Jenny made an observation tonight as I poured out my stories. I miss you because you were home to me. In the busyness of the school year, I hardly paid attention to how homesick for a sense of belonging I was because there was enough to distract me. But summer nights came and sitting around wishing for "home" would have become an uncomfortable norm if not because I had already found "home" in our friendship.
I've known many who uproot as easily and adapt as quickly as we do. But you taught me the importance of not just learning to uproot easily and adapt quickly, but also to quickly sink roots that are so deep that when we try to evaluate or take measurement, we find that we can only measure in the volume of heart that had been shared and not time. You taught me that sinking roots meant mutuality and accountability, and not the flighty "get up and run away" when the going gets tough.
Dear Keren, I miss you not because of the summer nights we spent hanging out watching Daria clips on youtube, or you introducing me to songs that no one else had ever heard. I miss you not because I want to watch movies on your balcony while snuggling with you and Holly. But I miss you because you had become "home" to me even before I came to terms with my loss of cultural identity. I miss you because even in the silence, I knew you understood displacement the same way I did.
And leaving Anderson isn't hard because I have 7 years of junk that need to be reduced to 2 suitcases and 2 carry-ons. It's not because I will miss the academia. It's not because I will miss the roads that are never plowed quite enough during the winters.
It's hard because I'm leaving the place that holds memories of you, memories of "home," and memories of the journey to redefining "home" not as a physical place but as a sacred space in which I hold the ones I love.
Dear Keren, this is my last summer in Anderson. Even in Berlin last year, I had an inkling that I still had one more summer in Anderson. This time, I really don't know anymore. I could sit around and mope and just keep missing you. But I think if you were here, you'd nudge me to make the moments count.
So I will pack up my junk. I will meet all the datelines I promised. But I will also take time to dance in the rain, watch movies on the balcony and simply... live.
Miss you,
Me.
28 April 2011
Dear Keren: #1
This series is titled "Dear Keren" not because it's written only for Keren, but because Keren was friendship personified to me. I've learnt much not simply from her life, but the time that has passed since her death. This is dedicated to all the "Kerens" whose paths I've been privileged to cross over the last seven years here in Anderson, Indiana. Call it my chapter closing series, if you would like. We'll probably have a different perspective on some of these events that we were both at, but these are some of mine. These may not always be in chronological order, but I'll try to write in a way so that you know where things fit on a time-line.
Dear Keren,
The date was August 22, 2004. I remembered sitting across from you in that Admissions office that... morning? Or was it afternoon, I don't remember. Only two days before (or three, depending on which side of the world we're talking about) I had packed up my two suitcases of stuff and made the reluctant move halfway across the world.
I'll confess I'm still not sure of what the notion of romantic love looks like. But at eighteen years of age, I thought I was in love, and moving halfway across the world from this "love of my life" at the time felt like I was being asked to give up half of my heart. Ok, so maybe I was over-dramatic. But I was also eighteen.
I remembered crying most of the plane-ride over. In fact, I think I might have even scared away the guy who was sitting beside me because he asked for a change in his assigned seat. Ok, so maybe that might not have been completely true, but that was my perception at the time because I was miserable. Did you feel that way too? Or was it that you've already made a big change similar to this previously (well, you might have made that move with your parents, but still... It was a big change, and it counts) so this plane-ride over to this "glamorous" United States wasn't as much of a life-changing experience for you?
"Glamorous." Ha. That word makes me laugh because I'm reminded of that conversation we had on the way to Ivanhoe's that one time. I had just gotten off the phone with my dad and I was frustrated with the way my parents didn't seem to understand what it meant to live here. I was about to graduate from college, and my dad had just told me to not be too picky about what jobs to apply for here in the US. I don't remember his exact words, but he insinuated something along the lines of... we're Asian, don't expect to be treated too well.
Could I blame my dad for thinking that way? I guess not. After all, media hasn't done the US justice at all. But that was the beginning of the shift in my cultural identity. Little did I realise... I wasn't JUST Asian anymore. I was slowly becoming what we now joke about as "the banana" - yellow on the outside, white on the inside - an identity that would become increasingly frustrating.
Anyway, back to the plane ride. In the long twenty hours or however long the first segment of my flight was on that plane, I forgot how many times I cried till I dozed off then woke up and cried some more. In between, I remembered secretly thinking, maybe when I get off the plane, it wouldn't be that scary LAX (Funny isn't it? We've started calling airports by their airport code like we're BFF rather than "the airport in Los Angeles." Funny what seven years can do to you.) where I would proceed to sit for eight hours before my next flights to MSP then to IND. Maybe, just maybe on the off-chance, it would be the same people that I just said goodbye to at SIN that would greet me at LAX. And then I would laugh at myself for being ridiculous.
At one point during that weekend, I remembered my mum telling me that the couple that would soon become my "Anderson grandparents" would be around when I got there, and that if I wanted to, I should go over and visit them. I remembered them living on the street close to the cemetary, but I didn't even remember where the cemetary was. So I walked around for a bit before I finally found their house on Maplewood. Hoping to find a friendly face where I would be "mothered" for a bit to ease my homesickness, I rang the doorbell several times. The face that greeted me at the door was... friendly, but not what I expected.
He was an Indian dude. I remembered asking myself, umm... Could this be their son here to visit? Or who was he? He proceeds to introduce himself, but as distraught as I already was at the time, I couldn't remember his name. He was going to be a student at the Seminary and was living with them for a few days until he got settled in.
As it turns out, he would very quickly become one of the persons I had great respect for. Between our food-fights in the dishroom of the Marketplace where we worked our first year in Anderson and other interactions, I found out his name was Caldwell Manners.
Well, that's all for now. A storm has been brewing for a while outside, and it's time to go home. More papers to write tomorrow. Also, I miss you. One of these days when I'm done with school, let's continue the conversation we never had the chance to have that day in August a few years ago, k?
Hugs,
Me.
Dear Keren,
The date was August 22, 2004. I remembered sitting across from you in that Admissions office that... morning? Or was it afternoon, I don't remember. Only two days before (or three, depending on which side of the world we're talking about) I had packed up my two suitcases of stuff and made the reluctant move halfway across the world.
I'll confess I'm still not sure of what the notion of romantic love looks like. But at eighteen years of age, I thought I was in love, and moving halfway across the world from this "love of my life" at the time felt like I was being asked to give up half of my heart. Ok, so maybe I was over-dramatic. But I was also eighteen.
I remembered crying most of the plane-ride over. In fact, I think I might have even scared away the guy who was sitting beside me because he asked for a change in his assigned seat. Ok, so maybe that might not have been completely true, but that was my perception at the time because I was miserable. Did you feel that way too? Or was it that you've already made a big change similar to this previously (well, you might have made that move with your parents, but still... It was a big change, and it counts) so this plane-ride over to this "glamorous" United States wasn't as much of a life-changing experience for you?
"Glamorous." Ha. That word makes me laugh because I'm reminded of that conversation we had on the way to Ivanhoe's that one time. I had just gotten off the phone with my dad and I was frustrated with the way my parents didn't seem to understand what it meant to live here. I was about to graduate from college, and my dad had just told me to not be too picky about what jobs to apply for here in the US. I don't remember his exact words, but he insinuated something along the lines of... we're Asian, don't expect to be treated too well.
Could I blame my dad for thinking that way? I guess not. After all, media hasn't done the US justice at all. But that was the beginning of the shift in my cultural identity. Little did I realise... I wasn't JUST Asian anymore. I was slowly becoming what we now joke about as "the banana" - yellow on the outside, white on the inside - an identity that would become increasingly frustrating.
Anyway, back to the plane ride. In the long twenty hours or however long the first segment of my flight was on that plane, I forgot how many times I cried till I dozed off then woke up and cried some more. In between, I remembered secretly thinking, maybe when I get off the plane, it wouldn't be that scary LAX (Funny isn't it? We've started calling airports by their airport code like we're BFF rather than "the airport in Los Angeles." Funny what seven years can do to you.) where I would proceed to sit for eight hours before my next flights to MSP then to IND. Maybe, just maybe on the off-chance, it would be the same people that I just said goodbye to at SIN that would greet me at LAX. And then I would laugh at myself for being ridiculous.
At one point during that weekend, I remembered my mum telling me that the couple that would soon become my "Anderson grandparents" would be around when I got there, and that if I wanted to, I should go over and visit them. I remembered them living on the street close to the cemetary, but I didn't even remember where the cemetary was. So I walked around for a bit before I finally found their house on Maplewood. Hoping to find a friendly face where I would be "mothered" for a bit to ease my homesickness, I rang the doorbell several times. The face that greeted me at the door was... friendly, but not what I expected.
He was an Indian dude. I remembered asking myself, umm... Could this be their son here to visit? Or who was he? He proceeds to introduce himself, but as distraught as I already was at the time, I couldn't remember his name. He was going to be a student at the Seminary and was living with them for a few days until he got settled in.
As it turns out, he would very quickly become one of the persons I had great respect for. Between our food-fights in the dishroom of the Marketplace where we worked our first year in Anderson and other interactions, I found out his name was Caldwell Manners.
Well, that's all for now. A storm has been brewing for a while outside, and it's time to go home. More papers to write tomorrow. Also, I miss you. One of these days when I'm done with school, let's continue the conversation we never had the chance to have that day in August a few years ago, k?
Hugs,
Me.
07 January 2011
Focus, Focus, Hocus Pocus
"But I remember what Susan said
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember I was your friend"
- Rich Mullins (Thanks B-row)
I realise I've been writing a lot more than usual over the last week or so, but I've also been thinking a lot the last week or so hence the writing. And since the very point of this blog when I first started it before last summer in Deutschland was for accountability to processing the life of cross-cultural ministry, I figured you'd be ok with reading some of these thoughts.
Over lunch with a couple friends from high school earlier this week, the whole spiel about the way my life is going to unfold from this point on came about. One of them pointed out that I sound like I have given up on life because of the way I was talking about the stuff that lies ahead. Basically I told them that I already know I will be poor for the rest of this life, and that the field I'm in will not lead to much material happiness, not just because of the "poor" part of it, but also because of the number of times I will move around the world and stuff like that.
Which made me reflect on whether or not I had really come to terms with what it means to continue down this path. On our last full day in Phnom Penh last week, my brother and I were riding on the back of the truck through town and out to the killing fields and genocide museum and all that fun stuff. What I saw on the streets didn't faze me much, mostly because with all the cross-cultural stuff I've been a part of since my undergrad days, I've learnt to stop having pre-conceived notions of what life is supposed to be like anywhere in the world. So everything is new, everything is surprising, but nothing is really unexpected anymore.
It wasn't until the point when my sister decided to join us on the back of the truck that it really hit me how global I've become. I grew up in one of the cleanest and safest island-cities in the world, and here I was in the dusty streets of Phnom Penh with the smells of pollution and manure all around as we rode on the truck and I was unfazed. I honestly can't say this is my own doing or my own choice, but rather, the sense of adventure that had to come from Somewhere Outside of Myself had helped with the adaptability. And you ask me how I know I'm called to cross-cultural work?
But then my sister asked me a question that, for the first time, I actually gave serious thought to. She asked if I could live there in Phnom Penh. And of course, without hesitation, I said yes. I was used to giving that answer. But that was the first time I really thought about it. Could I really live there in Phnom Penh? What would I do there? Clearly I will not have as much material wealth as our hosts for the week did, so I will not be throwing extravagant parties. Cambodia has been historically either Buddhist or Hindu, and I only remembered seeing at most two Seventh-Day Adventist churches there. And church-planting of that nature is not my thing. So that wouldn't fly either. I could try to start a business if I wanted to keep up with my parents' middle-class quality of life, but I wouldn't have the capital or the gifts of business-running to do that. Or would I be able to find work as a servant to one of the wealthy families there? Would it be culturally appropriate and acceptable for them to employ me? And how would I find a place for ministry in the middle of living life in Cambodia? It wasn't so much that I was giving serious thought to moving to Cambodia after seminary, as much as it was the serious thought of wondering if I really understood what I was saying when I keep telling people I can live anywhere in the world, but it's just a matter of where.
Then I remembered something else I learnt in Germany. Answering my call to ministry had never been limited to geographical settings, programs, systems or organizations of any kind. And my theology had always been that above everything else, God is love, and we exist both for and because of love. And yes, there are implications and complications to the word "agape," but agape was one that transcended social structure of any kind--be it the political division of land, or the hierarchy that had been set up by human beings to help navigate and draw boundaries in relationships. Jesus, supposedly the "new Moses," the one whose example we should probably follow if we're going to call ourselves Little Christs, showed that love transcended the traditional understanding of the Mosaic Laws that the Jews had guarded with their lives. Which I guess... that meant that it didn't matter where I physically land in terms of the political division of land, or where I line up in the social structure. Agape is going to transcend.
And it's really not so much that I've given up on life because of the path I've chosen. And no, I'm not envious of my friends who have the material wealth either. That is the path they chose, and I'm happy for them. But no, I've chosen this path, and I'm happy and content even knowing that I will never have very much except for the global companionship that I know I can always depend on.
So maybe that's why it hurts as much as it does when sometimes the global companions don't show up like they promised they would. Because that's the only thing I have (aside from the Higher Being, of course). So maybe I've had too high of expectations from some aspects of my community, thinking that my commitment to community should be reciprocated at the same level. Maybe that's why they say that there are some things in life that we have to fight for, but they also say to hold loosely to the things in our hands.
Still a lot to process, especially with the reminder of Susan Hardman's life this week, and the inspiration she was to me. But some of the random fly-away thoughts from the last couple weeks are finally being plowed through, refined so that I don't just let these thoughts be fleeting moments of life that are wasted away.
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember I was your friend"
- Rich Mullins (Thanks B-row)
I realise I've been writing a lot more than usual over the last week or so, but I've also been thinking a lot the last week or so hence the writing. And since the very point of this blog when I first started it before last summer in Deutschland was for accountability to processing the life of cross-cultural ministry, I figured you'd be ok with reading some of these thoughts.
Over lunch with a couple friends from high school earlier this week, the whole spiel about the way my life is going to unfold from this point on came about. One of them pointed out that I sound like I have given up on life because of the way I was talking about the stuff that lies ahead. Basically I told them that I already know I will be poor for the rest of this life, and that the field I'm in will not lead to much material happiness, not just because of the "poor" part of it, but also because of the number of times I will move around the world and stuff like that.
Which made me reflect on whether or not I had really come to terms with what it means to continue down this path. On our last full day in Phnom Penh last week, my brother and I were riding on the back of the truck through town and out to the killing fields and genocide museum and all that fun stuff. What I saw on the streets didn't faze me much, mostly because with all the cross-cultural stuff I've been a part of since my undergrad days, I've learnt to stop having pre-conceived notions of what life is supposed to be like anywhere in the world. So everything is new, everything is surprising, but nothing is really unexpected anymore.
It wasn't until the point when my sister decided to join us on the back of the truck that it really hit me how global I've become. I grew up in one of the cleanest and safest island-cities in the world, and here I was in the dusty streets of Phnom Penh with the smells of pollution and manure all around as we rode on the truck and I was unfazed. I honestly can't say this is my own doing or my own choice, but rather, the sense of adventure that had to come from Somewhere Outside of Myself had helped with the adaptability. And you ask me how I know I'm called to cross-cultural work?
But then my sister asked me a question that, for the first time, I actually gave serious thought to. She asked if I could live there in Phnom Penh. And of course, without hesitation, I said yes. I was used to giving that answer. But that was the first time I really thought about it. Could I really live there in Phnom Penh? What would I do there? Clearly I will not have as much material wealth as our hosts for the week did, so I will not be throwing extravagant parties. Cambodia has been historically either Buddhist or Hindu, and I only remembered seeing at most two Seventh-Day Adventist churches there. And church-planting of that nature is not my thing. So that wouldn't fly either. I could try to start a business if I wanted to keep up with my parents' middle-class quality of life, but I wouldn't have the capital or the gifts of business-running to do that. Or would I be able to find work as a servant to one of the wealthy families there? Would it be culturally appropriate and acceptable for them to employ me? And how would I find a place for ministry in the middle of living life in Cambodia? It wasn't so much that I was giving serious thought to moving to Cambodia after seminary, as much as it was the serious thought of wondering if I really understood what I was saying when I keep telling people I can live anywhere in the world, but it's just a matter of where.
Then I remembered something else I learnt in Germany. Answering my call to ministry had never been limited to geographical settings, programs, systems or organizations of any kind. And my theology had always been that above everything else, God is love, and we exist both for and because of love. And yes, there are implications and complications to the word "agape," but agape was one that transcended social structure of any kind--be it the political division of land, or the hierarchy that had been set up by human beings to help navigate and draw boundaries in relationships. Jesus, supposedly the "new Moses," the one whose example we should probably follow if we're going to call ourselves Little Christs, showed that love transcended the traditional understanding of the Mosaic Laws that the Jews had guarded with their lives. Which I guess... that meant that it didn't matter where I physically land in terms of the political division of land, or where I line up in the social structure. Agape is going to transcend.
And it's really not so much that I've given up on life because of the path I've chosen. And no, I'm not envious of my friends who have the material wealth either. That is the path they chose, and I'm happy for them. But no, I've chosen this path, and I'm happy and content even knowing that I will never have very much except for the global companionship that I know I can always depend on.
So maybe that's why it hurts as much as it does when sometimes the global companions don't show up like they promised they would. Because that's the only thing I have (aside from the Higher Being, of course). So maybe I've had too high of expectations from some aspects of my community, thinking that my commitment to community should be reciprocated at the same level. Maybe that's why they say that there are some things in life that we have to fight for, but they also say to hold loosely to the things in our hands.
Still a lot to process, especially with the reminder of Susan Hardman's life this week, and the inspiration she was to me. But some of the random fly-away thoughts from the last couple weeks are finally being plowed through, refined so that I don't just let these thoughts be fleeting moments of life that are wasted away.
05 January 2011
Closing Windows
A friend from Germany once told me this: The way we function is very similar to the way the Microsoft Windows system functions. We can have several different Windows open at one time, but we can only work on one thing at a time. The other Windows can be kept in the background and we can ignore it for the time being while we're working on the one thing in front of us. But the more we keep running the background, the slower the entire system becomes. Eventually when we ignore too many of the other Windows, the system crashes. Also true with the way we function.
When I heard that, I immediately thought of some of Jim Hawkins' first words to me when we first began discussing grief counseling for cross-cultural workers. The words "compounding grief" came to mind. Such is the way we deal with grief. We can keep some of these running in the background for a while while we work on what is current. But eventually, the more grief we push behind, the more "programs" we keep pulling up, the more likely it is that the entire system will crash.
Lately, a lot of Windows have been opening up in my system. A lot that I haven't had time to go through, yet a lot more opening up, requiring more immediate attention. I've always prided myself with doing a fairly decent job processing grief, especially after the major episode some 3.5 years ago with Keren's passing. But lately with the way I've moved from one place to another, one culture to another, one support network to another, I haven't had time. And all at the same time, homework, bills, demands of the day that had to be dealt with immediately filled my time. Sure, I've had my moments of outburst, or, as one of my wiser cross-cultural friend put it, "puking all over the place." But most of it is still kept inside.
Maybe my recent decision to start writing that book about all my travels will help close some of those Windows. Who knows. Maybe "puking all over the place" then carefully choosing words to describe that "puking" in that book will help. Who knows.
Either way, this book will probably happen. It has to happen, I think. Ask me again in a while if I've done anything with this book.
Closing Windows. Time to start working on a few of those now, before I have to deal with the real world. Oh, by that, I do mean the world; just a matter of figuring out which corner to stake my claim for a little while.
Closing Windows. It's time.
When I heard that, I immediately thought of some of Jim Hawkins' first words to me when we first began discussing grief counseling for cross-cultural workers. The words "compounding grief" came to mind. Such is the way we deal with grief. We can keep some of these running in the background for a while while we work on what is current. But eventually, the more grief we push behind, the more "programs" we keep pulling up, the more likely it is that the entire system will crash.
Lately, a lot of Windows have been opening up in my system. A lot that I haven't had time to go through, yet a lot more opening up, requiring more immediate attention. I've always prided myself with doing a fairly decent job processing grief, especially after the major episode some 3.5 years ago with Keren's passing. But lately with the way I've moved from one place to another, one culture to another, one support network to another, I haven't had time. And all at the same time, homework, bills, demands of the day that had to be dealt with immediately filled my time. Sure, I've had my moments of outburst, or, as one of my wiser cross-cultural friend put it, "puking all over the place." But most of it is still kept inside.
Maybe my recent decision to start writing that book about all my travels will help close some of those Windows. Who knows. Maybe "puking all over the place" then carefully choosing words to describe that "puking" in that book will help. Who knows.
Either way, this book will probably happen. It has to happen, I think. Ask me again in a while if I've done anything with this book.
Closing Windows. Time to start working on a few of those now, before I have to deal with the real world. Oh, by that, I do mean the world; just a matter of figuring out which corner to stake my claim for a little while.
Closing Windows. It's time.
14 December 2010
Processing TCKness
Forgive the thought spillage here, but the last few weeks have been spent running from one thing to another, with a few minutes in between to stop and think. So tonight there might be a bit of verbal diarrhea, but we'll try to keep it contained.
It's that time of the year when the identity crisis of the third-culture kid in me hits its lowest point trying to figure out these transitions not just between one culture to another, but one home to another. You know how they say, you can be in a big crowd of friends but still feel lonely? Well, you can also blend in with a culture but still not feel like you belong anywhere.
Blending in is not belonging.
And maybe it's wishful thinking for someone with my vocational call to want a sense of belonging in some culture of the world considering the rest of my life probably entails continual transition from one culture to another.
Just thinking about sitting in the room tonight with a bunch of seminary friends that I know I've done a fairly good job of being intentional about being relational with. God only knows how much easier it would be for me to hide behind tasks so I don't have to deal with the risks of getting hurt by love. God only knows how much easier it would be to keep doing life in isolation as I have for so long.
And God only knows how hard it has been trying to focus in the here and now.
Sitting at a party with acquaintances, checking my phone every once in a while for updates on a friend's health.
Sitting in a room amongst friends watching a movie and trying to chill after an exhausting week, heart hurting for friends on one side of the world and trying to figure out how the heck I am doing with my own emotional health.
And getting antsy about that dreaded 30 hours on the plane, finally getting some down time, yet being afraid of having to deal with myself again this year.
And trying to figure out how the heck I've gotten so culturally messed up that others can relate to pieces of my story but not the whole deal.
I've always known my cultural adaptability and chameleon-like personality would come in handy with my vocational call. But at the same time, I really just long for community that would know the ins and outs of the story and still stick with me through the rest of the developing story, rather than hear the stories because they are fresh and fascinating and they've never met a more culturally messed-up person than me.
But I know community is hard. And my level of commitment to being community to others is my own, and I cannot hold others to my same standard.
And while I'm frustrated with life at the moment, I would never trade any of this mess for anything else in the world. Because it is out of my messed up cultural identity that I can do well with the post-modern, post-Christian world, and without the story that backs up this mess of cultures, I have no understanding or credibility in that world.
I'm frustrated. And I'm getting tired so I should end this one before more ridiculousness ensues. For whatever reason, I'm REALLY looking forward to my decompression time at that favourite place in the world this year.
It's that time of the year when the identity crisis of the third-culture kid in me hits its lowest point trying to figure out these transitions not just between one culture to another, but one home to another. You know how they say, you can be in a big crowd of friends but still feel lonely? Well, you can also blend in with a culture but still not feel like you belong anywhere.
Blending in is not belonging.
And maybe it's wishful thinking for someone with my vocational call to want a sense of belonging in some culture of the world considering the rest of my life probably entails continual transition from one culture to another.
Just thinking about sitting in the room tonight with a bunch of seminary friends that I know I've done a fairly good job of being intentional about being relational with. God only knows how much easier it would be for me to hide behind tasks so I don't have to deal with the risks of getting hurt by love. God only knows how much easier it would be to keep doing life in isolation as I have for so long.
And God only knows how hard it has been trying to focus in the here and now.
Sitting at a party with acquaintances, checking my phone every once in a while for updates on a friend's health.
Sitting in a room amongst friends watching a movie and trying to chill after an exhausting week, heart hurting for friends on one side of the world and trying to figure out how the heck I am doing with my own emotional health.
And getting antsy about that dreaded 30 hours on the plane, finally getting some down time, yet being afraid of having to deal with myself again this year.
And trying to figure out how the heck I've gotten so culturally messed up that others can relate to pieces of my story but not the whole deal.
I've always known my cultural adaptability and chameleon-like personality would come in handy with my vocational call. But at the same time, I really just long for community that would know the ins and outs of the story and still stick with me through the rest of the developing story, rather than hear the stories because they are fresh and fascinating and they've never met a more culturally messed-up person than me.
But I know community is hard. And my level of commitment to being community to others is my own, and I cannot hold others to my same standard.
And while I'm frustrated with life at the moment, I would never trade any of this mess for anything else in the world. Because it is out of my messed up cultural identity that I can do well with the post-modern, post-Christian world, and without the story that backs up this mess of cultures, I have no understanding or credibility in that world.
I'm frustrated. And I'm getting tired so I should end this one before more ridiculousness ensues. For whatever reason, I'm REALLY looking forward to my decompression time at that favourite place in the world this year.
11 July 2010
Fritzlar. And the Countdown Begins...
And so it's Saturday morning, and I find myself sitting in the Philips' dining room, having just had breakfast and now on to my second cup of coffee, listening to 陶喆, my favourite Chinese singer, and writing this. And the rest of today will be spent hanging out with Patrick, Jamie and Marco Nachtigall - some of my favourite people in the world, doing some painting for the Teenfreizeit (the annual teen camp for the Church of God in Germany) banner, and watching football, cheering on Deutschland in the 3rd-4th placing match tonight. Life can't get any better, right?
False. This all ends in 18 days and I'll be making my way back to the cornfields of good ol' Anderson, Indiana. I'll write more about this in a bit, but first let me tell you about my second adventure - to Fritzlar.
Fritzlar
So Fritzlar. It's a little German town southwest of Berlin, close to Wabern. It's a little bigger than Chesterfield, Indiana except it actually has its own downtown area that's like your cute little German town. I know we've talked about how much I love the big city, so you're probably wondering what brought me to Fritzlar.
Well, Fritzlar is where CB-F (Christliche Bildungsstätte Fritzlar) is located. This is the Bible school of the Church of God in Germany. I may or may not have mentioned this in an earlier entry, but a part of my internship in Berlin involves traveling around Germany, connecting with churches and pastors, and getting a better understanding of how what we're doing in Berlin fits into the greater context of the Church of God in Germany. My trips to Hannover and Pforzheim (and stopping briefly at Calw) made those connections with the pastors and churches. So Fritzlar was the piece that connected me with the ones in preparation for ministry, and Teenfreizeit in a little over a week would bring the connection with the younger generation of the Church of God.
So Fritzlar. It's a little Bible school that has a bit of a monastic feel to it. Birte, whom I had met a couple weeks ago when she was in Berlin, said there are currently about 18 students, and they basically live and have their classes in two buildings. One building houses the offices of the Bibel schule, the Klinners who are the ones currently giving oversight to the running of the school, the kitchen, dining room and community space, and on two separate floors, the single male and female students. For those of you who have paid your dues at Anderson University, this haus (building) reminds me a lot of Myers Hall. And in the other building that's owned by the church, there's the room where we've been watching all the football matches, and a few other community spaces. This is also where the classrooms and library are, as well as where the married couples live. Small setting, small school, so it's like Birte said, "we're all like a family."
So I arrived on Friday, and that evening we went out to the lake and had a game of volleyball. I was also "initiated" into the group with the Mate ritual, except it was cold lemonade instead of hot water. So much fun.
Saturday, of course, was the big game day. If I thought Berlin was crazy with the way they celebrated a football victory, I clearly hadn't been with the students at the Bibel schule. Families from the church came over to watch the game with us. Between the students, the kids and the black, red and yellow vuvuzelas, we were a riot. After the game was over, we walked up to the downtown area where the guys went crazy with their celebrations. As we were walking up, we were greeted by car after car honking and waving their black, red and yellow gear. One older couple had even made a sign that read, "Auf Wiedersehen! We cry for you, Argentina!" The battery for my camera had died by then or I would have taken a photo of it.
Sunday came around, and we went to the little chapel close to the school for church. That night, we also had a Bollywood party. A couple of the girls had just returned from spending some time in India and wanted to share that. Sunday was an interesting day for me because I was reminded again of how we who have spent some time living cross-culturally always have a strange knack finding each other even in a big crowd - and my "strange" interest for relating to people with stories like that.
That afternoon, I met Inthira for the first time. Inthira was born in Thailand to an Indian father and Burmese mother. After the tsunami hit in 2004, she lost everything. By some strange twist of fate, she and her sister somehow found a way to Germany. There she decided to give her life back to God by enrolling in the Bible school at Fritzlar. We chatted for a bit as we, together with Birte, Fabiano and Nabil made dinner together for our Bollywood party. I also got to practise a few words of Mandarin with her since she said she wants to start practising her Mandarin again as she's feeling called to China. If you know my call to ministry story, you're probably laughing because that same call to China was where this whole crazy journey started for me.
Then that night at dinner, I got to visit with Monica Klinner for a bit as well. Andrew Gale and Steve Rennick from Church at the Crossing in Indianapolis were there as guest teachers, and it was Fourth of July, Independence Day in the United States. So of course, I wished Andrew a happy Fourth, to which he got all excited because someone besides him and Steve remembered an American celebration. So he turned to Steve and said, "Here's another ... oh wait, you're not American..." To which of course I had to laugh because I was reminded again of my "Third-Culture-Kid"ness. So we then went over and wished Monica as well, who's American, but she's married to a German and had lived in Germany for so long that she sometimes forgets American celebrations as well.
Oh, I wish I had time to tell you all these stories, but I guess you just have to be there.
Hey, if you want to see pictures, you should click here
So the Countdown Begins...
And so it begins. Only 18 days left in this beautiful part of the world. Not that the other parts of the world I've been to are any less beautiful, but... you get the point.
I'm not about to get all melancholic about the last 2.5 months... At least, not yet. But my time here has been really good. Frustrating at times, nerve-wrecking at times, exciting at times. But in all, REALLY good.
Patrick, Jamie and Marco Nachtigall arrived in Berlin last night and I got to go meet them at the airport. As I manouevered my way around the city, I found myself being reminded - and surprised - of the fact that I've really only been here 2.5 months. I think anyone who knows me will probably expect me to come back different from when I left, but I think even I myself am surprised by who I've become in a short time.
Let me rephrase that. I don't think I've necessarily become a different person over the last couple of months. But I think I'm definitely finding more of myself - and how my personality of adapting easily to living cross-culturally means that I really don't conform to the molds of any mainstream culture.
I love the postmodern, post-Christian work we're doing in Berlin. But I also miss the traditional church.
I don't think I can live in Midwestern America very much longer because of its melting pot culture. But I will always defend my American "family" (that I can't completely claim to be my own either) when the bad misrepresentations of America rear their ugly heads.
And most importantly, I learnt that just because I don't completely fit in somewhere means that I should completely reject it or want to have anything to do with it. I would definitely feel a lot more comfortable in the postmodern, post-Christian world, but I still hold the traditional church with utmost respect.
So much, so much to process. But special thanks to Arthur, Armando, MaryAnn, Patrick and Jamie (and Marco) for long e-mails, asking questions, listening, poking and probing.
For Water...
Stumbled upon this verse out of our shared reading ...
"For whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because of your name as followers of Christ, truly I say to you, he will not lose his reward." - Mark 9:41
... and it made me think of each one of you who have "given me a cup of water to drink" regardless of whether or not you knew what I was doing, but simply out of knowing I was answering to my name as a follower of Christ. In these (unusually hot by Berlin's standard) summer days and living in a country that doesn't believe in air-conitioning, this whole "give you a cup of water to drink" idea took on a whole new meaning.
To each one of you who have given me a cup of water to drink so I can take one more step on this journey, thank you.
Love you all.
False. This all ends in 18 days and I'll be making my way back to the cornfields of good ol' Anderson, Indiana. I'll write more about this in a bit, but first let me tell you about my second adventure - to Fritzlar.
Fritzlar
So Fritzlar. It's a little German town southwest of Berlin, close to Wabern. It's a little bigger than Chesterfield, Indiana except it actually has its own downtown area that's like your cute little German town. I know we've talked about how much I love the big city, so you're probably wondering what brought me to Fritzlar.
Well, Fritzlar is where CB-F (Christliche Bildungsstätte Fritzlar) is located. This is the Bible school of the Church of God in Germany. I may or may not have mentioned this in an earlier entry, but a part of my internship in Berlin involves traveling around Germany, connecting with churches and pastors, and getting a better understanding of how what we're doing in Berlin fits into the greater context of the Church of God in Germany. My trips to Hannover and Pforzheim (and stopping briefly at Calw) made those connections with the pastors and churches. So Fritzlar was the piece that connected me with the ones in preparation for ministry, and Teenfreizeit in a little over a week would bring the connection with the younger generation of the Church of God.
So Fritzlar. It's a little Bible school that has a bit of a monastic feel to it. Birte, whom I had met a couple weeks ago when she was in Berlin, said there are currently about 18 students, and they basically live and have their classes in two buildings. One building houses the offices of the Bibel schule, the Klinners who are the ones currently giving oversight to the running of the school, the kitchen, dining room and community space, and on two separate floors, the single male and female students. For those of you who have paid your dues at Anderson University, this haus (building) reminds me a lot of Myers Hall. And in the other building that's owned by the church, there's the room where we've been watching all the football matches, and a few other community spaces. This is also where the classrooms and library are, as well as where the married couples live. Small setting, small school, so it's like Birte said, "we're all like a family."
So I arrived on Friday, and that evening we went out to the lake and had a game of volleyball. I was also "initiated" into the group with the Mate ritual, except it was cold lemonade instead of hot water. So much fun.
Saturday, of course, was the big game day. If I thought Berlin was crazy with the way they celebrated a football victory, I clearly hadn't been with the students at the Bibel schule. Families from the church came over to watch the game with us. Between the students, the kids and the black, red and yellow vuvuzelas, we were a riot. After the game was over, we walked up to the downtown area where the guys went crazy with their celebrations. As we were walking up, we were greeted by car after car honking and waving their black, red and yellow gear. One older couple had even made a sign that read, "Auf Wiedersehen! We cry for you, Argentina!" The battery for my camera had died by then or I would have taken a photo of it.
Sunday came around, and we went to the little chapel close to the school for church. That night, we also had a Bollywood party. A couple of the girls had just returned from spending some time in India and wanted to share that. Sunday was an interesting day for me because I was reminded again of how we who have spent some time living cross-culturally always have a strange knack finding each other even in a big crowd - and my "strange" interest for relating to people with stories like that.
That afternoon, I met Inthira for the first time. Inthira was born in Thailand to an Indian father and Burmese mother. After the tsunami hit in 2004, she lost everything. By some strange twist of fate, she and her sister somehow found a way to Germany. There she decided to give her life back to God by enrolling in the Bible school at Fritzlar. We chatted for a bit as we, together with Birte, Fabiano and Nabil made dinner together for our Bollywood party. I also got to practise a few words of Mandarin with her since she said she wants to start practising her Mandarin again as she's feeling called to China. If you know my call to ministry story, you're probably laughing because that same call to China was where this whole crazy journey started for me.
Then that night at dinner, I got to visit with Monica Klinner for a bit as well. Andrew Gale and Steve Rennick from Church at the Crossing in Indianapolis were there as guest teachers, and it was Fourth of July, Independence Day in the United States. So of course, I wished Andrew a happy Fourth, to which he got all excited because someone besides him and Steve remembered an American celebration. So he turned to Steve and said, "Here's another ... oh wait, you're not American..." To which of course I had to laugh because I was reminded again of my "Third-Culture-Kid"ness. So we then went over and wished Monica as well, who's American, but she's married to a German and had lived in Germany for so long that she sometimes forgets American celebrations as well.
Oh, I wish I had time to tell you all these stories, but I guess you just have to be there.
Hey, if you want to see pictures, you should click here
So the Countdown Begins...
And so it begins. Only 18 days left in this beautiful part of the world. Not that the other parts of the world I've been to are any less beautiful, but... you get the point.
I'm not about to get all melancholic about the last 2.5 months... At least, not yet. But my time here has been really good. Frustrating at times, nerve-wrecking at times, exciting at times. But in all, REALLY good.
Patrick, Jamie and Marco Nachtigall arrived in Berlin last night and I got to go meet them at the airport. As I manouevered my way around the city, I found myself being reminded - and surprised - of the fact that I've really only been here 2.5 months. I think anyone who knows me will probably expect me to come back different from when I left, but I think even I myself am surprised by who I've become in a short time.
Let me rephrase that. I don't think I've necessarily become a different person over the last couple of months. But I think I'm definitely finding more of myself - and how my personality of adapting easily to living cross-culturally means that I really don't conform to the molds of any mainstream culture.
I love the postmodern, post-Christian work we're doing in Berlin. But I also miss the traditional church.
I don't think I can live in Midwestern America very much longer because of its melting pot culture. But I will always defend my American "family" (that I can't completely claim to be my own either) when the bad misrepresentations of America rear their ugly heads.
And most importantly, I learnt that just because I don't completely fit in somewhere means that I should completely reject it or want to have anything to do with it. I would definitely feel a lot more comfortable in the postmodern, post-Christian world, but I still hold the traditional church with utmost respect.
So much, so much to process. But special thanks to Arthur, Armando, MaryAnn, Patrick and Jamie (and Marco) for long e-mails, asking questions, listening, poking and probing.
For Water...
Stumbled upon this verse out of our shared reading ...
"For whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because of your name as followers of Christ, truly I say to you, he will not lose his reward." - Mark 9:41
... and it made me think of each one of you who have "given me a cup of water to drink" regardless of whether or not you knew what I was doing, but simply out of knowing I was answering to my name as a follower of Christ. In these (unusually hot by Berlin's standard) summer days and living in a country that doesn't believe in air-conitioning, this whole "give you a cup of water to drink" idea took on a whole new meaning.
To each one of you who have given me a cup of water to drink so I can take one more step on this journey, thank you.
Love you all.
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