"It was practically perfect!" he sobbed.
The "it" to which Ethan was referring was life in China. Yes, life in the country where pollution levels make LA look clean, where people stared and laughed and spoke at him in a language he could barely understand, where we lived in concrete high rises and fought to stay alive on the lawless roads, where we were thousands of miles from family, was practically perfect. That place, in his mind, was about as good as it gets.
In many ways, it truly was. Those last few years we had about 60 school age kids, mostly homeschooled, living within about a 2 mile radius of each other. They played together or had activities together nearly every day. Many of them were kids he'd known most of his life. China might not have been the most beautiful, convenient, easy place, but it was his place. It was his home.
The grief comes at unexpected moments, like a few nights ago, when he cried himself to sleep remembering this practically perfect place. It's not that he doesn't enjoy life here; he does, but it is a harder season. We all have them. As I look back on our life in Asia, I can mark the seasons like a roller coaster of ups and downs, "loving life" chapters, and "God please help us" years.
I told Ethan that this is part of his story. It's a tougher part - maybe a part he wouldn't have written. A story can't be all perfect; it has to have conflict, struggle, even tragedy, for it to be a really good story. And God's writing a really story for him. For us.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Monday, May 20, 2013
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Do you miss China?
People often ask me if I miss China. I really don't know how to
answer this question, because what comes to mind is the pollution this
year that has been so high it's unmeasurable by the current systems.
Obviously I can live without that. I miss friends terribly, but several
of them have also left in the last year as well, so I know that life
there would be very different now. I confess I find America a little
boring at times - I go to the store and nothing weird happens, ever. Is
that enough to make me miss China? No. I can make my own weird.
We spent time recently with friends we knew in Singapore. We talked about how, initially, my friend missed it so much after moving back here that she just wanted to go back to Singapore, but the reality was, it wouldn't be the same. We agreed that what we miss wasn't necessarily the place itself, it's the intangibles.
It's things like community. I miss meeting people for the first time and being dear friends with them a month later, because that's how things work overseas. I miss bonding like soldiers during war time, hunkering down together when the waves of living cross-culturally are too rough.
It's feeling competent, knowing how to be an adult in the place where you are. I don't know how to own a house. I don't know the norms of being a parent in America. One day I will figure out this DVR thing.
It's being known and understood, having routine, being more comfortable being the only white face than looking like everyone else. These are the things I miss, because they are the things I think we all desire from anywhere we live (except maybe the white face thing. That was just our normal).
I had those things. I miss having them. I know I'll gradually get them back, over time, for the most part. So do I miss China? Let's just say "I miss that life."
We spent time recently with friends we knew in Singapore. We talked about how, initially, my friend missed it so much after moving back here that she just wanted to go back to Singapore, but the reality was, it wouldn't be the same. We agreed that what we miss wasn't necessarily the place itself, it's the intangibles.
It's things like community. I miss meeting people for the first time and being dear friends with them a month later, because that's how things work overseas. I miss bonding like soldiers during war time, hunkering down together when the waves of living cross-culturally are too rough.
It's feeling competent, knowing how to be an adult in the place where you are. I don't know how to own a house. I don't know the norms of being a parent in America. One day I will figure out this DVR thing.
It's being known and understood, having routine, being more comfortable being the only white face than looking like everyone else. These are the things I miss, because they are the things I think we all desire from anywhere we live (except maybe the white face thing. That was just our normal).
I had those things. I miss having them. I know I'll gradually get them back, over time, for the most part. So do I miss China? Let's just say "I miss that life."
Monday, January 28, 2013
Acquainted with grief
This past year, through a variety of means, I feel like I have become more acquainted with grief. I am often caught off guard by how quickly I am brought to tears by a song on the radio, a gracious comment from a friend, a conversation with a loved one, ponderings about all that we have been through this year.
This reminds me of a couple things: first, of Much Afraid from Hind's Feet on High Places. She is given two companions which are Sorrow and Suffering. When I first read that book, I was in college and I can't say I was much acquainted with sorrow or suffering. The argument could be made that I really don't know them now either. I would say I am coming to know them.
That's what "acquainted" means, after all. It's from the Latin, "to come to know." I believe most people want to avoid sorrow and suffering. They even believe that as Christians we are meant to avoid them, not to experience them, that if we do we are somehow lacking faith. Me, I just want to avoid them because they aren't much fun.
But my other thought about being acquainted with grief is: Jesus was. In Isaiah 53:3, it says he was "a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief." I find it interesting that of all the things we could be told about Him, we know that. I don't doubt that Jesus was a man who exuded joy, who could throw His head back and laugh. But we are told specifically that He was no stranger to sorrow and grief. Why? I think to tell us, "It's ok. This is part of the journey."
I feel like my heart can't even wrap itself around this knowledge completely, beyond, "This is a good thing." If Jesus knew it, He knows what it is like for me, and He knows that it is working something necessary and good in my heart. Most of the time, when I rub up against grief I am grateful (although I confess when it comes in the presence of others it throws me because I'm still not particularly comfortable with falling apart unexpectedly). I am grateful because I sense that it means my heart is being opened by this, that it's hopefully developing in me a greater capacity to enter in to the grief of others and to say, "I am coming to know this too."
This reminds me of a couple things: first, of Much Afraid from Hind's Feet on High Places. She is given two companions which are Sorrow and Suffering. When I first read that book, I was in college and I can't say I was much acquainted with sorrow or suffering. The argument could be made that I really don't know them now either. I would say I am coming to know them.
That's what "acquainted" means, after all. It's from the Latin, "to come to know." I believe most people want to avoid sorrow and suffering. They even believe that as Christians we are meant to avoid them, not to experience them, that if we do we are somehow lacking faith. Me, I just want to avoid them because they aren't much fun.
But my other thought about being acquainted with grief is: Jesus was. In Isaiah 53:3, it says he was "a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief." I find it interesting that of all the things we could be told about Him, we know that. I don't doubt that Jesus was a man who exuded joy, who could throw His head back and laugh. But we are told specifically that He was no stranger to sorrow and grief. Why? I think to tell us, "It's ok. This is part of the journey."
I feel like my heart can't even wrap itself around this knowledge completely, beyond, "This is a good thing." If Jesus knew it, He knows what it is like for me, and He knows that it is working something necessary and good in my heart. Most of the time, when I rub up against grief I am grateful (although I confess when it comes in the presence of others it throws me because I'm still not particularly comfortable with falling apart unexpectedly). I am grateful because I sense that it means my heart is being opened by this, that it's hopefully developing in me a greater capacity to enter in to the grief of others and to say, "I am coming to know this too."
Friday, January 25, 2013
Better Things Ahead
This week has left me a little speechless. On top of the emotional roller coaster of starting our kids in school and Erik being gone, death came twice: a dear family friend, and my sweet grandma. The first was wholly unexpected, the kind of death where you say, "But I just saw him . . . but he just . . ." It's stunning.
The second was a long time coming. My grandma was nearing 100 years old, and in recent years has been in a slow decline physically and mentally. This last week she'd stopped eating and wasn't responding much to people. She's finally free.
All this brings into sharp focus the frailty of life, the fact that at any moment things could change. So I find myself delighting more in things I could easily miss - the sound of my son's voice from the back seat of the car, the new blossoms on our lemon tree, the sun rising through hues of pink, breath in my lungs.
But it also makes me realize how far we are from Eden, how this world is nothing compared to the next. I think of our friend, who had a beautiful voice, and I imagine him singing praises to his God in a way he never has before. I think of my grandma whole, restored, full of joy. I think about how all that we enjoy and love here is but a poor substitute for what is to come.
So let's love well and be people of gratitude and wonder for the gifts we are given, but let us put our hope in eternity where all will be made new.
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.” C.S. Lewis
The second was a long time coming. My grandma was nearing 100 years old, and in recent years has been in a slow decline physically and mentally. This last week she'd stopped eating and wasn't responding much to people. She's finally free.
All this brings into sharp focus the frailty of life, the fact that at any moment things could change. So I find myself delighting more in things I could easily miss - the sound of my son's voice from the back seat of the car, the new blossoms on our lemon tree, the sun rising through hues of pink, breath in my lungs.
But it also makes me realize how far we are from Eden, how this world is nothing compared to the next. I think of our friend, who had a beautiful voice, and I imagine him singing praises to his God in a way he never has before. I think of my grandma whole, restored, full of joy. I think about how all that we enjoy and love here is but a poor substitute for what is to come.
So let's love well and be people of gratitude and wonder for the gifts we are given, but let us put our hope in eternity where all will be made new.
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.” C.S. Lewis
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Feed on Faithfulness
Do not let the current state of our house fool you. Though people who have visited express astonishment at how "settled" everything looks, mine is not a settled heart. I think perhaps our zeal to get the house in order quickly is partly a way to occupy our hearts, to distract them, to make them think they should be settled too. It's also evidence of the fact that this isn't our first rodeo, and we know that we'd rather go great guns at the beginning rather than to drag out the process of unpacking and decorating.
Truth be told, my heart feels untethered. Lost. I miss knowing and being known. I remember now Ethan's "my heart is tired of all the new things." The new things make my heart feel like it's climbing a mountain. The last few days I've let myself linger in these feelings a little more, shed some tears.
I search the scripture for some balm. What I really want is for something to make it all go away - something to satisfy my need to feel found, rooted, known. A part of me knows that I am all these things in God, but feelings don't so quickly follow reality. I hope that He will give me something more.
What I find is not satisfaction but hope. Psalm 37:3 says, "dwell in the land and feed on faithfulness." I know that for my heart to move toward satisfaction it will take courage, faith, endurance, and lots of time.
In the meanwhile I can feed on His faithfulness to me. I recall the transitions of my life and I have hope. He has proved Himself good to us again and again. He is El Roi, the God Who Sees. He is Jehovah Jireh, the One Who Provides. He is Immanuel, God With Us. I will feed on this.
"At an acceptable time, O God . . . answer me in your saving faithfulness." Psalm 69:13
Truth be told, my heart feels untethered. Lost. I miss knowing and being known. I remember now Ethan's "my heart is tired of all the new things." The new things make my heart feel like it's climbing a mountain. The last few days I've let myself linger in these feelings a little more, shed some tears.
I search the scripture for some balm. What I really want is for something to make it all go away - something to satisfy my need to feel found, rooted, known. A part of me knows that I am all these things in God, but feelings don't so quickly follow reality. I hope that He will give me something more.
What I find is not satisfaction but hope. Psalm 37:3 says, "dwell in the land and feed on faithfulness." I know that for my heart to move toward satisfaction it will take courage, faith, endurance, and lots of time.
In the meanwhile I can feed on His faithfulness to me. I recall the transitions of my life and I have hope. He has proved Himself good to us again and again. He is El Roi, the God Who Sees. He is Jehovah Jireh, the One Who Provides. He is Immanuel, God With Us. I will feed on this.
"At an acceptable time, O God . . . answer me in your saving faithfulness." Psalm 69:13
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Stirred
Transition is a bit like someone coming into your life with a giant paint stir stick and swirling it around in your heart. It brings to the surface a whole lot of emotions that might normally stay hidden. If you've ever stirred a paint can, you know that vigorous stirring can result in overflow.
That's how we feel these days - like it's all right at the surface, and it takes little for it to overflow. A few days ago I made a picture montage from China set to a funny song, and I found myself tearing up as I made it. It doesn't take much. A song. A commercial. Prayer. Hearing someone's story. Sharing my passions. The mention of the word "China." I am brought to tears. It reminds me that there is more grieving to be done. I'm not super excited about that, honestly. There's a point at which you want to not cry and just move on, but the problem with tears is that they aren't meant to stay inside you. Letting them out always feels better in the end.
But there's an upside to all this stirring. It's evidence to me that I've made it through with a soft heart. It's difficult to stir a heart that is hard, that refuses to be touched by pain or sadness. It doesn't always look hard on the outside - sometimes we coat it with a thick candy shell and pretend all is good. Whatever we do, I'm learning that the best route is to stay open, to be vulnerable, to let the stirring happen because good things come to the surface too. Things like being able to recognize when others are being stirred, and to enter in with them and catch their overflow; being able to give others a more authentic you; being as in touch with joy and laughter as you are with sadness and pain. That's the fun part - the fact that it opens me to being quicker to laugh as well!
I'm sure it will be awhile before the swirling settles down. In the meantime, I hope to make the most of what it does in my heart. And don't be surprised if you see me cry. Or laugh! It's all there, and it's all good.
That's how we feel these days - like it's all right at the surface, and it takes little for it to overflow. A few days ago I made a picture montage from China set to a funny song, and I found myself tearing up as I made it. It doesn't take much. A song. A commercial. Prayer. Hearing someone's story. Sharing my passions. The mention of the word "China." I am brought to tears. It reminds me that there is more grieving to be done. I'm not super excited about that, honestly. There's a point at which you want to not cry and just move on, but the problem with tears is that they aren't meant to stay inside you. Letting them out always feels better in the end.
But there's an upside to all this stirring. It's evidence to me that I've made it through with a soft heart. It's difficult to stir a heart that is hard, that refuses to be touched by pain or sadness. It doesn't always look hard on the outside - sometimes we coat it with a thick candy shell and pretend all is good. Whatever we do, I'm learning that the best route is to stay open, to be vulnerable, to let the stirring happen because good things come to the surface too. Things like being able to recognize when others are being stirred, and to enter in with them and catch their overflow; being able to give others a more authentic you; being as in touch with joy and laughter as you are with sadness and pain. That's the fun part - the fact that it opens me to being quicker to laugh as well!
I'm sure it will be awhile before the swirling settles down. In the meantime, I hope to make the most of what it does in my heart. And don't be surprised if you see me cry. Or laugh! It's all there, and it's all good.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Torn
I am torn.
We spent a few days at the beach attending a debrief conference for people from our company who have returned from overseas stints. It was all a bit theoretical for us because we haven't landed in our "planting" spot yet where we'll have to try to figure out where to buy food and make friends and tame our wild yard.
But not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to hear from God, I tried to pay attention to my heart. As I did I realized I was feeling a new feeling about the whole transition: guilt.
That surprised me, until we had a session on grief and loss and they reminded me that it is one of the stages of grief. But still, guilt? I didn't see that coming. I'm more of a denial or anger stage kind of girl myself.
Why do I feel guilty? Well, I'll tell you. I feel guilty because I think the US is awesome. I can plug my computer in to ANY outlet in the house. That's big, people. No hunting down an adapter these days. The shower has consistent water pressure and temperature. Have you ever thought about what a gift that is? I do, every day.
And where we're going to live is practically tropical! I've done tropical before and it's not shabby. Sure, it gets hot and humid but who cares when you have a pool? And . . . and . . . and . . . I could go on and on.
Why feel guilty about that? I feel guilty because I know that my friends who I left don't have a lot of these things. Why do I get to have them? More than that, several of them are going through difficult things and I am not there to walk through those things with them, and I hate that. I'm here enjoying sunshine and raspberry m&m's. There's a strange feeling as though I have abandoned them, betrayed them even, by leaving. I remind myself that this is where God has led us, and that He has kept them there, but I feel guilty all the same.
Hey - no one ever said feelings were rational. But there they are.
So I am torn. Torn between wanting to enjoy these beautiful gifts God is giving us, hopes of good things in this new life, and the separation I feel from my friends who do not have what I have, who in fact have difficult things. Torn between loving the family and friends we have here and those we have left behind. It's one of the by-products of moving people don't always mention - the fact that you don't get to keep all your heart with you as you go. Parts will be left in each place, and it's possible for one part to feel something while another part experiences something completely different.
Will it ever be put back together? Probably not. But I choose to see it not as fragmented but as stretched to a greater capacity. Yeah, I'm going to call it that - not torn, but stretched.
We spent a few days at the beach attending a debrief conference for people from our company who have returned from overseas stints. It was all a bit theoretical for us because we haven't landed in our "planting" spot yet where we'll have to try to figure out where to buy food and make friends and tame our wild yard.
But not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to hear from God, I tried to pay attention to my heart. As I did I realized I was feeling a new feeling about the whole transition: guilt.
That surprised me, until we had a session on grief and loss and they reminded me that it is one of the stages of grief. But still, guilt? I didn't see that coming. I'm more of a denial or anger stage kind of girl myself.
Why do I feel guilty? Well, I'll tell you. I feel guilty because I think the US is awesome. I can plug my computer in to ANY outlet in the house. That's big, people. No hunting down an adapter these days. The shower has consistent water pressure and temperature. Have you ever thought about what a gift that is? I do, every day.
And where we're going to live is practically tropical! I've done tropical before and it's not shabby. Sure, it gets hot and humid but who cares when you have a pool? And . . . and . . . and . . . I could go on and on.
Why feel guilty about that? I feel guilty because I know that my friends who I left don't have a lot of these things. Why do I get to have them? More than that, several of them are going through difficult things and I am not there to walk through those things with them, and I hate that. I'm here enjoying sunshine and raspberry m&m's. There's a strange feeling as though I have abandoned them, betrayed them even, by leaving. I remind myself that this is where God has led us, and that He has kept them there, but I feel guilty all the same.
Hey - no one ever said feelings were rational. But there they are.
So I am torn. Torn between wanting to enjoy these beautiful gifts God is giving us, hopes of good things in this new life, and the separation I feel from my friends who do not have what I have, who in fact have difficult things. Torn between loving the family and friends we have here and those we have left behind. It's one of the by-products of moving people don't always mention - the fact that you don't get to keep all your heart with you as you go. Parts will be left in each place, and it's possible for one part to feel something while another part experiences something completely different.
Will it ever be put back together? Probably not. But I choose to see it not as fragmented but as stretched to a greater capacity. Yeah, I'm going to call it that - not torn, but stretched.
Monday, September 24, 2012
I miss my friends
For the first week that I was in the States, I literally did not want to talk to anyone. I had used up all my words, all my social capacity, in the weeks prior to leaving. The introvert in me was crying, "Uncle!" and I couldn't imagine a day when I would actually want, let alone need, to interact with people again.
Ok, so now I can.
I am immensely grateful that we are here staying with family. Right now that also includes my brother and sister-in-law who make life fun and meaningful. I've missed them terribly. My oldest, dearest friend Laura lives just minutes away and that too is very good. I love that I can text and call my stateside friends now (although I keep thinking about the time difference before I call, which is unnecessary).
But I still miss my friends. I am reading Addiction and Grace, and I wish I could talk to Karen about it because she read it too. I know that my friend Sung is moving and I wish I could be there to help her pack and watch her kids and consult with her on how to cover the landlord's left behind furniture. My friend Tammy's family had yet another trip to the hospital (they should really open a new wing in their name) and I wish I could be there to process it with her. I want to hear about Martha's trip to Thailand in person. And on and on it goes.
I am thankful that God is surrounding us here with people we love. I am confident that in Orlando we will find new friends. But I can't help feeling that I don't just want new friends - I want my old ones here! This is when I start praying that they will all feel strongly led to move to Orlando. :)
Ok, so now I can.
I am immensely grateful that we are here staying with family. Right now that also includes my brother and sister-in-law who make life fun and meaningful. I've missed them terribly. My oldest, dearest friend Laura lives just minutes away and that too is very good. I love that I can text and call my stateside friends now (although I keep thinking about the time difference before I call, which is unnecessary).
But I still miss my friends. I am reading Addiction and Grace, and I wish I could talk to Karen about it because she read it too. I know that my friend Sung is moving and I wish I could be there to help her pack and watch her kids and consult with her on how to cover the landlord's left behind furniture. My friend Tammy's family had yet another trip to the hospital (they should really open a new wing in their name) and I wish I could be there to process it with her. I want to hear about Martha's trip to Thailand in person. And on and on it goes.
I am thankful that God is surrounding us here with people we love. I am confident that in Orlando we will find new friends. But I can't help feeling that I don't just want new friends - I want my old ones here! This is when I start praying that they will all feel strongly led to move to Orlando. :)
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