Life Overseas

Renovating

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Nomads move around. We are nomads. I think true nomads like moving. I do not. It’s not exciting like those international home buyers shows. We’ve pondered apartments with toilets in closets, bathroom sinks in dining rooms, and grime beyond belief. I’ve moved, pregnant with two small kids, into an apartment sight unseen.

The gold used to be an unfinished apartment. We looked for the apartment shell–concrete everywhere and holes in the walls and ground for piping. Then, we put in floors, cabinets, sinks, tubs, and toilets…just how we liked and not in the closet. Times changed and that’s out of our budget now. Now, gold is an apartment with everything but a kitchen. I like to do my kitchen my way.

The worst, though, is having to renovate an apartment. Renovate sound so exciting and new. Made to order. But first, the sledgehammers come in. The dust is kicked up and grunge never seen gets revealed. People traipse in and out. People I don’t know. Renovating is messy, loud, and if we never had to do it again, I’d not be sorry.

My life is full of some ugly stuff. I’m not an unfinished apartment and I don’t like renovations on my heart either…at first. I don’t just put on Christ over a blank shell. There’s also this bad job I did on my own that needs to be ripped out.  The trying to be functional and pretty apart from Christ that needs to go. It doesn’t come out easily either.  I usually don’t even notice how ugly it is until someone walks into my life and points it out. Or, I see the job that Christ can do in someone else and then notice the grunge I’ve lived with so long.

Then comes the bashing, the knocking down, and the unsettling. Things are removed, but behold, there’s always more!  It comes down with a bang and a cloud of dust that chokes me and the people around me. Thankfully most of them see there’s a renovation going on and are excited about what’s happening even as they cough on my dust.

What is God tearing out of your life as He renovates you? How has someone come alongside you recently and shared in the joy of what God is doing?

When Boundaries Get Crossed

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Picture me standing in line for the lady’s room at a coffee shop with my daughter mentally pondering my spiritual growth.  Just a year before at the same shop I’d struggled with impatience.  Women in our host culture seem to take eons in the restroom. Eons.

Maybe its just that personal spaces are few and when privacy comes, it must be enjoyed…for awhile.  Now, look at me waiting patiently! I felt thankful to be in such a place and be able to recognize this growth. I mentally patted myself on the back.

A few minutes later, after stepping in to have our moment, an older women enters the restroom and waits about 2 seconds before she starts pounding on our doors.  Literally, pounding.  The locks rattled, the door shook.  It was a shocker!  She loudly complained of how long we are taking and asks us to get out so she can have her moment.  She continued to grumble and berate us loudly and did not cease to pound.

I know enough language to be sassy.  I can express things I wish I could not.  What proceeded to transpire still fills me with a mixture of pride and shame.  Pride at the fluency and shame at my use of my fluency.  We conversed…ok…spoke loudly…ok…argued.  I suggested she find other places to have her moment.  She asked me to show her one.  I replied I could not do that at this moment.  She continued to loudly complain and urge me to hurry up.  I offered to learn from her vast experience about how best to do that.  And it went on. It was a charged conversation.

Ten minutes later when the adrenaline dissipated in my veins, I doubled over in hysterical laughter at the absurdity of what transpired in that restroom. To have someone literally try their level best to evict you from a bathroom stall, well, it just crosses a boundary.  Apparently, it’s a boundary I did not want crossed.  Isn’t that how it is with boundaries?  We realize their importance to us when they are crossed.

I’ve heard it called “Hulking Out”, what I did.  It’s not pleasant, attractive, or in the slightest bit useful.  I had to explain and apologize to my daughter.  Actual repentance in my heart occurred later that day.  I realized just how short my fuse can be…so very short…which humbled me.  All that pride of how I learned so much patience?  Gone. Back to square one, I stood there with a truer picture of who I was and it was not who I wanted to be!  I hulked out, tried to force my right and win by argument…by power. It’s not the first time in my life that I’ve hulked out.

A crossed boundary often kicks in my survival instincts. I try on being dangerous. But that’s not the dangerous God wants for me.  His power came in His laying aside His life and rights for others…not claiming them for Himself.  He gave everything.  Am I willing to forgo survival?  To pass on using my strength which is no strength at all?  To be truly dangerous God’s way is to be the right kind of dangerous.

I think being dangerous for God’s kingdom that day would have been using my 10 minutes of language ability on my captive audience toward a much different end than protecting my right to a bathroom stall!

Thriving or Blending In

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As we struggled to get back to thriving during a relationally dry time a few years ago, I struck out with plough in hand to turn up some ground for new friendships.  International playgroup was the ground and I was going to make some friends.  Mom’s from around the world in various stages of survival or thriving gathered to talk while kids played. So many interesting people!  Surely, a friendship could be borne.

Eventually, mom’s night out came around.  I, of course, went and ended up sitting next to a woman who loved to pepper me with questions about what we did, how we did it, how we got paid, what our plans for the future were and so on.  We’re not exactly forthcoming with all that information for some good reasons so to say I was uncomfortable is an understatement.  She then proceeded to ridicule another family in the city for doing religious work.  She did not know I did the same type of work.  And, now, I did not want her to know.  I really did not want her to know.

I shut down.  Survival became my goal.  Blend in to the group.  Be just another mom living life overseas.  Don’t stick out.  Danger!  It seemed an appropriate time to visit the lady’s room.

One friend who knew our more important work, observed the whole encounter.  She observed my walls go up, my survival instincts kicking in.  Later, as the cab dropped off first one and then another and another person until my friend and I were alone in the cab, she leaned forward and told me clearly she did not hold the views of this other woman.  In fact, she respected what we did.  I breathed.  I’d found a friend.

I realized after a long while and am still reminded now that blending into the group does not lead to survival but slow death.  It seems on the surface the right thing to do.  Friends are lacking, so go make friends…but not at any cost.  Never at the cost of who I am.  That’s not survival and it doesn’t lead to thriving….it’s just the long road to a slow death.  The wrong death.

The life Christ calls me to is so much more than blending in.  In fact, it’s the opposite of blending in.  It’s being willing to stand up knowing life as I know it probably won’t survive.  As I think on it more releasing survival seems to be the first step on the path to thriving.

How to Survive: Graceful Synchronize

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Beneath the hustle and bustle of Bangkok rests a wonderful aquarium.  Fish swim serenely through beautiful blue tanks as skytrains intersect and the world shops above.  God’s creatures beneath the world’s creations.

Darkness shrouds aquariums which means I’m constantly counting heads instead of gazing into tanks and reading signs.  But, yesterday, four signs caught my eye.  “How to Survive in the Ocean” they read.  They could easily have said “How to Survive in the Hustle and Bustle of the World.”

I’ll go first…Graceful Synchronize.  I get this one.  This is the one I do more than all others.  Go with the flow, blend in, be careful, don’t offend.  Synchronize.  Don’t stand out too much.  And do so gracefully so no one notices either. That’s my method I’m learning to put aside…graceful synchronize.

Why put it aside, though?  I’m surviving right?  But that is not what God calls me to…survival.  The Lord bids me come and die.  survival at any cost is not His goal.  He bids me to come out of the masses, to reveal myself even if it makes me a target…even if it means I don’t survive.

Maybe that is the truth…the I isn’t supposed to survive, not when it’s the I ridden with selfish desires for personal comfort, glory, safety.  That’s the reason I gracefully synchronize to the pulse of the moment–for myself.  That I must die.

Graceful in Christ is the synchronization my heart truly desires.  Survival at any cost is becoming a cost too high.  I do not die, but yet I die.  I die in that I do not flourish in the unique ways God makes His creation to flourish.

To truly live is to not try so hard to survive.  How am I doing?  Well…I still try to survive a lot, but sometimes I share what the Lord puts on my heart and make myself a potential target…uncomfortable and unsafe.

Next week…”How to Survive: Be Dangerous.”

Old Chickens

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My name in Chinese sounds like “I love you” in some dialects.  Imagine me standing in an apartment helping negotiate a rental contract and introducing myself.  Picture the surprised expression on the landlords face as he replies, startled, “you love me?”  Why didn’t I change my name at that point?  I have no idea.  I’d already picked it?  I knew how to write it in characters?  I’m stubborn.

Learning a new language means becoming a child again.  It means people laughing at you for the cute ways you say things, for the mistakes you make.  People don’t understand even when you’re sure you say it right.  I become a two-year old with a temper tantrum as I try to ask for food to feed myself and no one understands me.  I use my hands and face to express what I cannot with my words.  It’s humbling.

It’s also funny.  Fast forward 11 years and you have me now.  I hate sharing that I’ve lived here 11 years when people ask me.  The admiration for my language abilities fades into the truth that after 11 years I should be more fluent!  Sometimes I muddy the truth…ok, I mislead people…ok, I repent from my lying…and share only how long I’ve lived in this city to avoid the faded admiration.

But, recently I made a pretty funny foible and it brought a smile to a sad face.  I didn’t orchestrate it, I was asked if I understood something and I shared what I thought I’d heard, “something about old chickens” I said.  No, it was something totally not about old chickens but the damage, or the benefit, had already been done.  A sad face smiled and my foolish misunderstanding brought some heavy things into a little perspective.

The “Old Chickens Incident” reminded me afresh to embrace the childlike nature of being a continual learner.  To laugh at myself, to share what I don’t understand instead of giving the fluent impression, to be weak and let God be strong.

Fluency would be awesome but He sure does show me a lot in the areas I lack fluency.

How does God used your lack of “fluency” to show you more about Himself?

Waiting for My Club

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People gathered around me.  More and more people.  They stood in a circle.  Circles are not lines and lines are not circles. I began to grow anxious and strategize.

Waiting.  I stood at the Subway sandwich counter.  The store depends on a nice, straight line.  I was next but the line was neither straight nor nice.  Those devices that corral people into single file orderliness?  Nowhere.

Does The Way consist of being willing to give up my place in line?  Do I press my claim at the expense of another?  I have kids waiting, though.  Waiting for sandwiches.  I’m waiting, trusting God to make it right, to make even this chaotic gathering orderly.  Am I willing to be wronged? To be treated unfairly?  Am I willing to accept life in a broken world when it comes at my expense?  Will I willingly wait an extra 10 minutes in line?

The artist donned her gloves and met my eyes asking for my order.  She saw me.  My heartbeat slowed.  This time I enjoyed things as they should be…or, should I say, as I think they should be.

I know.  It’s a line at Subway but lines in this country provide the crucible which reveals my true nature.  These everyday moments stare me down.  When I’m asked to lock up my purse at the grocery store but know for foreigners its more of a desire than a mandate, do I comply?  When the cashier asks me to pay for my toiletries separately or the parking attendant requests that I re-park my car nose out like a drug dealer making a quick getaway, do I grumble?  Do I even do it?

Will I throw my lot to God and submit to what seems ridiculous…and to what really is ridiculous?  Or will I do what I like to do and fight, press my rights, stake my claim?  I who have no rights?  I who follows the One who did not hold to His rights?

Ouch.  I don’t do well at this.  It feels like a freefall…a total loss of control.  And, it is but from the few times I’ve fallen from my rights, it’s been fabulously freeing.

I may be waiting longer for my sandwiches in the future.  And, I’ll need to perfect my drug dealer parking skilz too.

What is one of your crucibles?

Feast

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DSC_068015 minutes.  Maybe 20 minutes.  That’s the time limit doctors and scientists and people on the web say we get to stuff in all the goodies before our stomachs send desperate signals to our brain to stop already.  My husband and I joke at buffets and Thanksgiving that we have 20 minutes.  20 minutes to stuff in as much food as we can before we won’t enjoy it anymore.  Feasting.  It’s really an art.

I think God’s people nailed it though.  Days.  They planned days of feasting, not just one day.  They traveled and prepared and ate and rested for days.  They even had whole years God told them to eat off the land–plant nothing–just eat what grows.

We have one day for Thanksgiving.  One day, maybe two days off, for Christmas.  A barbecue for the 4th of July.  I really need days to enjoy the feast though.  I require days to enjoy all the myriad desserts and side dishes.

A few weeks ago we took a sorrowful ride home from the airport after saying goodbyes to my parents.  I’m always so happy to see them.  We eagerly anticipate their visits.  We plan, we dream, we expect.  We prepare for the relational feast.

But, remember that 20 minute rule?  At some point I’m faced with reality.  I want to eat more at the familial relational table but I’m stuffed to bursting.  The food is good but now I’m full.  I know beyond  shadow of a doubt I’ll be very, very hungry in the weeks and months afterwards.  Famine will come.  I’ll crave the feast intensely but at the present moment, I’m about to burst.

I hate that I get full, that my words get used up, that I crave routine even.  Oh, to have a bigger stomach!  Feasting without end!  That’s what my soul craves with my spouse, my children, my family, my friends.

Maybe that’s what we’ll experience in heaven.  No.  I know that is the experience, the promise.  A place for me in the family house.  The family feast without end where I never get tired or full or stressed and neither does anyone else.  All the children gathered at the table of the Lord released from our weakness and sin.  Feasting without end.

What a day…what a day.  I do long for it!  The wait feels eternal right now.  My hope and joy is that I know it is not.

Made from Scratch

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A paradox of overseas life means that scarcity ushers in luxury.  Our first years abroad I rejoiced over every “find” in the food department.  Cheese, sour cream, and milk products illicited flurries of communication via cellphone to team mates.  Did you know such and such a place has such and such an import product from home?  Special feasts came from such finds.  Months of doing without dairy products ended up being better for me by all but eliminating some painful stomach problems.  That didn’t stop me from gorging on sour cream enchiladas when appropriate, meaning, whenever someone served them.

Over time the scarcity changed our daily lives dramatically.  Where Bisquick does not exist pancakes transform themselves slowly into whole grain, made from scratch morsels of deliciousness.  My kids grow up oddly spoiled because the price of cereal is highway robbery.  Eggs and bacon become the economic alternative.  Homemade granola serves as cereal.  Nothing pops open to eject 8 cinnamon rolls to be eaten in minutes.  Cinnamon rolls become a much anticipated treat that delivers all that cinnamon rolls should deliver when made from scratch.

Along the way I stopped feeling sorry for us, made from scratch is way better.  Don’t get me wrong, we still enjoy mac n cheese from a box and there are plenty of times when a baking mix is just the thing on a Saturday morning after a busy week.  I still cost it out when I see bag of pre-shredded cheese to see if I can justify avoiding the task of cheese shredding myself.  And, I rejoiced when IKEA sold premade cookie dough.  From scratch still tastes better though.

Spiritual life seems similar to me.  There’s no shortcut to maturity just as there is no real shortcut to good cinnamon rolls.  The road to maturity like good cooking is a recipe, time, quality input, and a result of trial and error.  Most of my best creations in the kitchen meant that I risked too.  I tried and sometimes…maybe even often… failed.  I gain maturity in much the same way.  More lessons got learned when it didn’t go so well.  Sometimes I’m so afraid of making mistakes that I’m afraid to risk.  I pull out a recipe of life and think “Hmmmm…I’ll try that no gossip thing another day…seems pretty hard.”

I’m realizing that risking is the path to maturity.  Taking God at His word and stepping out is the path.    Maybe that’s another way of thinking about faith…taking a risk with God.  Do I want my life to taste like Bisquick pancakes?  No.  Made from scratch, please!

Losing Face

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Living in a culture of face wears on me.  Once I became aware of the importance of keeping face and giving face I felt pressure to remember and consider face.  In America we’d say its something like keeping up appearances or giving and receiving respect.  Really it’s just plain old pride.  I thought back to all the times I’d unknowingly lost face or caused someone else to lose face.  The effect paralyzed my relationships for a time.  Every step in the culture felt fraught with the danger of my unintentionally building a wall with someone because of face.

Last weekend I attended a wedding.  Half the dining room sat family and friends of the bride and groom’s parents.  The other half sat the Christian friends.  When it came time to toast the bride and groom the split down the middle became even more evident than the level of wine in the wine bottles.  One side belted out maxims and sayings of the culture that reflect nothing personal.  Prosperity!  Long life!  The other half bared their heart of appreciation for the individuals promising their lives together.  My heart heard and my eye saw the split open like a chasm.  Strong v. Soft.  Closed v. Open.  Tough v. Tender

I also saw the tears of the strong, closed, tough side when their soft, open, and tender children spoke face-losing words of love to their parents.  Hugs welled up from deep places in the soul that could no longer be held back.  I hear Asian families do not generally hug.  They rarely if ever say “I love you.”  Tears sprung from the eyes of tough men with crew cuts, bellowing voices, and cigarettes.  Had they lost face?  Not to me.  I pray their wall of face will begin to crumble with this first crack.

The fear of face passed through my heart to some extent a while ago.  The wedding gave me new encouragement not to believe that people want more than anything to maintain face.  I don’t think they really do.  I don’t think I do either because I have my face I like to keep too.  It’s not unique to Asian culture.  I think I (and others) really want love and our faces get in the way.

I respect my friends who step into soft, open, and tender in this culture.  It’s terrifying.  Their lead I endeavor follow.

Lifting Weights

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We set off on a new family activity a few weeks ago.  Hiking.  I hiked 5 years ago in the California redwoods for a few hours with the other adult in our family, my husband.  I remember enjoying that hike more than I’d ever enjoyed a hike before.  Rustling wind.  Crunching pine needles.  Sunlight streaming through thick branches.  A rest from the clamor of life.  A time when our family could enjoy a hike together seemed so distant I don’t think the idea even crossed my mind!

Our family hike consisted of a 10 minute walk up the street to a rugged trailhead.  Trash and broken concrete provided the ruggedness.  We folded up the stroller and walked up steps for 15 minutes to a pagoda that stands at the top.  The children, having known nothing like hiking through redwoods in California, felt a great sense of accomplishment.  At the top we ate peanut butter jelly sandwiches made with bakery fresh bread, Lays potato chips, and crisp apples.  As I finished up someone else’s apple my eye caught a rock with wire wrapped around it.  A weight for weightlifting.

Some things I carry in life look like these weights.  They’re ugly, the thin handle cuts into the hand, it knocks against my body and scrapes up my shins.  It’s unpleasant, a weight I would choose not to carry.  But, in my heart of hearts, I know it’s the weight that is making me strong and fit in all the spiritually right ways.  I’d choose to carry one of those rubber coated ones with smooth sides if I had a choice.  But, it doesn’t seem I have a choice in these things.

I wonder if this weight is not unlike the thorn in the flesh Paul talks of, a weight that I’d rather be taken from me.  One that keeps me humble by the sheer pain of it.