screaming down the mountain

'Screaming down the mountain' is not a description of the speed of my driving. I knew I would be hoarse by the time I reached the bottom, but I didn't care. It felt like my head and heart were being ripped off of my body as I drove out of the YWAM parking lot, watching Josh slowly wander back to the center of the camp that will be his home for the next 3 months.
As we unloaded his stuff, he found the cards I'd written, tucked into his backpack. 1 of them said, "to be opened when you think this was all a  big mistake."  He looked at me and quipped, "So, Mom, you mean I'm never supposed to open this one?" We laughed.
That attitude is 1 big difference between Josh and me.
Yes, he'll be ok.

leaving home to go home

Most moms cry when their kid leaves home. When my younger brother left home, my mom looked like something had died. I understand that now. You give birth to children knowing they will grow up, become adults, have families of their own. You work hard and pray like mad that they will become self-sufficient, trustworthy, honorable people who have whatever it takes to live meaningful lives, to see their dreams fulfilled, to be happy. But if you're a parent and you haven't experienced it yet, don't let anyone kid you: when it’s time for them to leave home, there is grief. And there are additional layers of grief for ‘expat’ parents. 

Many people who’ve raised their kids outside their own home country are taken by surprise when their children have difficulty adjusting 'back home’ or who choose not to go to college or live in their passport country. Understandably. It’s not ‘home’ to them. Those parents experience a grief of separation of identity. The parents are American or British, Indian or _______ (fill in the blank). But their children see themselves as something else.

Some parents fear for the well-being and the future of such children. Other parents feel rejected, distressed that they have somehow raised rebellious, ungrateful children. While I understand their worry, it seems to me that something my mom (my first cross-cultural coach) used to tell me, applies: "It's not bad. It's just different."  These parents have successfully raised 'third culture kids' who may not tied to their parents’ place or identify deeply with their parents' people, but who are blessed with broader relationships, bigger perspective, and a greater capacity to experience life. 

But my son can't wait to get back 'home'!  I asked him one day, "Has living in Dubai been so terrible?" With a look that let me know I must be a crazy woman, he replied, "No, Mom. I'm going HOME!" 

Did we do something wrong as parents? (Well, yes. But this is not the place to write about all of that!) But one thing we did well was to grow him up in a big world. Born into a cross-cultural home, to parents who were blessed with cross-cultural jobs, our son’s life has been filled with all kinds of people from all over the planet. He’s traveled internationally since he was a toddler. He’s eaten – and enjoyed - food from everywhere. He’s met – and loved – people from everywhere. So why is he so happy to ‘go home’ to the U.S.?

Did we wait too late to live overseas? Maybe. But couldn't be helped. Would he have been different if he'd have grown up in Madras instead of Madison? Surely. But what would not have been different, I see now, is that my son is tied to a place. He feels rooted to a particular country and culture. And that's not bad. It's just different. (Different from me anyway.)

It makes me realize again that this life we have chosen to live as foreigners in a country not our own is not for everyone. A lot of expats live overseas to pursue a dream or a lifestyle. Some have simply followed work. Or a spouse. But some of us are here because it’s who we are, what we're made for. 

So there’s an added grief for me as my son leaves home to go home. I'm an expat at heart. He’s not. I feel as if I was born to live cross-culturally. He’s an all-American boy. Yes, I'm grieving for all the 'normal' reasons as my son leaves home. But there's another grief.  As I accept that we’re made for different lives, perhaps destined to live on different continents, I’m grieving because I'm losing my son to my own country and culture.

head and shoulders above the rest

We got out of the taxi at the Madras train station, pulled our backpacks out of the trunk, swung them onto our backs, and huddled together to get our bearings. It was easy to see where we were supposed to be headed. As 8 white Americans in that churning brown sea of South Indians, we were all at least a head taller than anyone else.

These 7 university students had never been to India. Most of them had never been out of the U.S. at all! It was my job to guide them - culturally, emotionally, and physically - through India.

Standing there in front of the station, the smells that were undeniably “Madras” seemed to rise up with the heat from the steaming pavement. I fended off the inevitable string of taxi drivers and ‘tour guides’ and pleaded with these college students to ignore the growing swarm of scruffy child beggars. Making sure everyone understood which train we were going to catch, reviewing the procedures we’d follow to get our tickets and get on the train, explaining how to find the platform in case they got separated from the group, and reminding them to vigilantly protect their valuables, I smiled, looked them in the eyes, and took a deep breath. 

“Now, let’s go. And try to look inconspicuous.” 

There’s no escaping who we are. Our personality, our histories, our mannerisms and physical presence, often our very skin, becomes even more conspicuous in a new culture. Some of us, oblivious to how very conspicuous we are, carry on in expat life much the same as we did back home. Perhaps that makes life easier. It also cuts off any opportunity for self-awareness, personal growth, and expanding our capacity for relationship or even enjoying people and experiences outside those we already feel comfortable with.

I’ve also observed another group of expats. People who deny who they are in an attempt to belong, to fit in, to be inconspicuous in a new culture. It’s especially obvious when those people are Americans. You can identity these people by such remarks as, “I’m not like those Americans”, or “Those Americans ______ (fill in the blank with something negative.)”

I understand it. (In fact, I’ve done it!) Our dominant culture (the one that’s marketed so successfully all over the world), our history, even our own families or forebears have not always looked good or done good. It’s tempting to distance ourselves from a sketchy history, an unjust system, or the negative perceptions of Americans that dominate the world in this era in history.  

But there is no escaping who are. Even if we change our geography, our values and behaviors, our citizenship, those of us who have been brought up in the U.S., whose personalities, histories, and sense of self have been molded by the hands of American culture, we are Americans. And that’s not a bad thing.

Every culture, every race, every peoples are not all bad – or all good. If we can’t embrace both the good and bad of our own culture, our own social, political, historical and racial identity, then we are not able to embrace others, either, with all their good and bad.

Cross-cultural living is an immense gift. We can toss it in the trash, and carry on as if we are all good (or at least ‘better than those people’) and have nothing to learn from others. We can try to ‘look inconspicuous’, disconnecting ourselves from the very things that have defined us.  (It all gets to be a bit ‘emporer’s new clothesish’ unless you have a true friend outside your own culture who’s willing to tell you just how ridiculous it is to think that you’re ‘not like those Americans’, no matter what your personal values or foreign policy.)  Or we can accept who we are, the good and the bad, offering the gift of our true selves to others. Not because we don’t need to change. But so that we can. As we become aware of – and accepting of – who we are, we can make choices that honor others without dishonoring ourselves.

Lenten reflections on coffee

Not having grown up in a liturgical church, the 'church calendar' and some of the traditions that many Christians around the world take for granted force me to do what, I think, those seasons and traditions are intended to do: make me think. 

Today Lent begins. I'll leave the historical explanations and theological musings to others who know better.  All I know is that:

• I am not big on fasting. Or giving up things. But I’m sure there is something good to be received by doing it.  
• I know that whatever is given up during this season does not make God love me more or win any kind of spiritual brownie points with God, as if He can be bribed or bamboozled.  
• I don’t believe in fake fasts. So I’m not ‘giving up’ something that doesn’t matter to me.  
• But I am not giving up coffee.

Concerned for my health, my family talked me into spending 3 weeks at a natural health center in India, where various forms of fasting and a rigid regime of daily exercise and naturopathic treatments was to replace my far-from-healthy normal routine. After 3 days of a fruit juice diet, my doctor asked, “Are you ‘regular’ since coming here?” As I shook my head, she wrote something down on the card I was required to carry outlining my daily treatments and ‘meals’. I explained, “My body is missing coffee!” She smiled and said, “I have just prescribed coffee for you!” “Really?!” My eyes lit up with excitement. Showing me the card, I read “coffee enema”.

looking up remix

I thought I'd been there, done that. But here I am again - looking in front of me, around me, inside me for some light for my next steps. I forgot. I've gotta look up. 

Just as a reminder to self, I'm re-posting my first blog entry about the experience that prompted this blog in the first place. 

If I want to see the light, I have to look up.


I have been praying for months that I would learn to “walk in the light of God’s presence” (Ps. 89:15). Last week, in 5 minutes of silence, I understood the frightening reality of what I had been praying for. And it was too late to take it back.

There I was, standing alone in a beam of light. And all around me, only darkness. The whole world was full of darkness- except for a faint light on the other side. Sure, it was God’s light. Certainly it was an affirmation of God’s presence. A sign that He was, indeed, answering my prayers. But it surely was not what I’d expected.

As I’ve pondered that picture, one thing has become clear: I like to see. All it takes is a little bit of light in front of me to start planning next steps, to be encouraged that I’m moving in the right direction, to adjust expectations of what should be and to create expectations for what could be. When I asked God to teach me to walk in the light of His presence, I expected Him to shine a beam of light down the road, so I could step into that light. I expected to be able to move ahead - in the direction of “His will” or “my destiny” or “a significant purpose”. But the only thing illumined is me. My pitiful neediness. My inability to be still. My ineptness at intimacy.

Straining to see the significance of what’s past is useless. Behind me, only darkness now. Panicking to see something in front of me to hold on to is pointless. Ahead of me, I see darkly. I long to look into the light and move ahead. But yesterday, in 5 minutes of worship, I understood. If I want to see the light, I have to look up. It's there I see God’s encompassing love for me. His mercy poured out on me. His yearning for relationship with me.
The past is past. And the future, a mystery. But God. He is present. And He, not some plan or pathway, is my destiny and the answer to my prayers.

"Blessed are those who have learn to acclaim you, who walk in the light of your presence, O LORD." Psalm 89:15

Take 5 minutes in silence.What longings arise? Lift them to the LORD. Let Him lead you.What dark places in you become visible? Allow God to cleanse and heal you as they come into His light.
Take 5 minutes to worship.How are you experiencing God's love? Love Him back.How is God making Himself visible to you? Acclaim (applaud or to salute with shouts of joy!) Him.

what could be

I’m an activist. I can’t help it. I see ‘what could be’ and move towards it with all my might. That’s probably why it took over 20 years of hearing the same refrain from my husband AND my mom, “You should write a book”, for me to start writing.

Maybe it’s different for other writers. But for me, writing is a discipline. One I’m not very disciplined at. I paid for an online writing class last May.  But cold hard cash couldn’t seem to get me started. (Money's never been a motivator.) My friend, Dawn (who’s always keen to learn and is always looking for ways to grow that big, beautiful creative streak of hers) decided in December to take the class, too. So we started it together.

Even so, (sorry Dawn), by January it took a back seat – again - to activist pursuits. I could say I can’t help it. It’s how I’m wired. But when, at the end of a satisfying day of vision-driven activity, I sit down to think about what I need to do next to move towards ‘what could be’, I remember writing. And somewhere in the back of my brain (perhaps the part that’s connected to my heart) a wispy thread of a thought tries to break into my consciousness. Something I’m not quite able to grasp: some seed of unformed idea; some remnant of untapped wisdom; some fissure that might crack open a new reality...if I could only let go of ‘could’ and ‘should’ and my idealistic activist visions long enough to sit still and reflect on what is. And, if I’m brave enough, to give my imagination over to what isn’t.

Maybe that’s all this writing class is. An opportunity to see ‘what could be’ if I would just sit still and let go.

                                     ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed.  I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty:  at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction.  

Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet

Our first assignment in Write Your Life Story class:

Write about an experience of the first time you entered a place.

Do it in 15 minutes.

Don’t edit as you go.

Read it to someone who will 1) tell you what they like about it and 2) tell you what more they’d like to know.

We did it.

We enjoyed it.

I hope you do, too.

what Becky wrote

Oh the wonder of it all! Weaving our way through the crowds – the happy crowds – as my Dad, Mom, little brother and little me enter The Magic Kingdom. We went to Disneyland so many times while I was growing up that the experiences have merged in my memory as a single delightful event.

 “Here! Here!” screams Dee, dragging my Mom into the candy shop on Main Street. He’d spied the round rainbow suckers that were bigger than his head.

 “Where do you wanna go, Beck?” asks my Dad with that deep, slow Midwestern accent of his.

 “You know.” I reply with my eyes fixed on the castle in the distance. “The tea cups.” (It had always been my favorite ride. Spinning round and round until dizzy with laughing I begged, “1 more time!”)

 Buying us each a sucker (not quite as big as our heads), Dad gathered us up and steered us into the colonial blue and white theater where we watched as President Lincoln gave that speech of his that seemed to have the power to bring tears to my eyes, though I was too young to understand why. 

 Blinking in the light of the sun, feeling the joy of a bright blue day we couldn’t help but laugh out loud as Dee and I shouted together, “Tea cups!” and ran towards the castle gate.

 

what Dawn wrote

I didn’t know where to stand to not be seen. Heavy dark curtains fell around me. My heart was in my throat and thumped like a drum in my ears. Anticipation and excitement filled the air inside my enclosed space. I had never been a surprise at a surprise party before. I felt both honored and emotional. The vision of my cousin entering the family-friend-filled hall and seeing him for the first time in four years brought a tear to my eye. Deafening roars of “Surprise” and “Happy Birthday” were my cue– pulling me out of my melancholy state. I take the unrehearsed step from behind the curtain and tripped into the unsuspecting arms of the man I had once shared a playpen with.

reflection on the story of Joseph

God with us in our fears

in our confusion, our darkness

in our humiliation and shame

in our loss and grief

in alienation and isolation.

God with us

not to make sense of things,

but to assure us that though we can’t see, He can;

though we have no control, He does;

though it looks very bad, He is at work to do good for us.

God with us as we question

as we cry out in hopelessness

as we search for a way out

as we grope for a bit of light in our present darkness.

God with us to instruct us

not so that we’ll be able to map out our future and feel secure,

but so that we’ll see the next step and know that we’re part of God’s story.

God with us in Jesus

born in human history and family drama

born as 1 of us so that we can be with him

born to die for us so that we might live.

God with us

not always in the ways that make sense, but surely for our salvation.

God with us in our own stories

in our families

in our past

our present

and our future.

God with us 

             as He promised.

this morning

curled up

coffee cup

christmas lights

city sights

worries here

so is fear

not home

but not alone

could cry

but why

advent wreath

and underneath

                        I’m happy

what he said

I don't have time to write a blog today because I'm busy staring at the beach from my balcony.  My friend, Denis calls that 'gaining wisdom'. I like Denis.

don’t just catch your breath. stop running.

Trying to catch my breath after weeks of running life at high speed, I realize that I’m at it again. I’m chasing activity.

That’s nothing new. But that’s the problem. After years of consciously working to develop a different kind of life, I’m back to my old crazy ways.

I want to say it’s because I’m feeling comfortable in my new city.

I tend to think that it’s just the logical – and desirable - consequence of reaching some level of competence in a new environment.

I like to believe that it’s because I finally feel free enough to get things done.

But I know better.

So why do I over-busify myself? Because over-activity makes me feel better. It’s a security blanket. A pacifier. And while those things are fine for a baby, a 54 year old should not have to suck her thumb to feel that all’s right with her world! Yes, they’re good activities. Yes, I’m capable. Yes, they need doing.

Oh really. Who am I kidding? This ‘freedom’ to make things happen, to get stuff done, to bring about change, blah, blah, blah, all too quickly becomes a burden, a trap, the very opposite of ‘free’ as I entangle myself in oh so many activities.

Ever since I can remember I have been compelled to transform ‘what is’ into ‘what could be’. 10 years ago I took an extensive motivational assessment as part of a job interview process. It accurately summarized my prime life/work motivation: “to impress, impact, make a mark, shape, effect lasting change”. Yep. That’s me. The assessment was on target, stating that my transformational motivation is triggered by the “unknown, unexplored, untried, risk, hazards and adventures” and is kept alive by “challenges, tests, and the chance to be creative”. So true. So it’s no wonder that in every new place (and there’ve been many!) I find myself chin-deep in activities that demand high-level commitment. I confess I love it. And I hope some of it’s made a difference.

But coming to Dubai was supposed to be part of a different adventure. One requiring an even greater level of risk and creativity. Not denying my primary motivating force, but viewing it from a higher vantage point; embracing a deeper kind of impact that has little to do with my areas of competency and my love of – or need for - activity.  But under the on-going stresses of this risky adventure it has felt oh so good to avoid the oh so many out of control bits of life by chasing activity. But it’s not how I want to live.

So today I remember…

…not everything needs to be changed. Some things just are.

…not everything worthwhile requires intense high level activity.

…not everything can be made better. At least not now. And not by me.

…some things are simply to be enjoyed or watched from a distance or ignored altogether. Not because they’re unimportant. But because…

…value is not measured by busyness and…

…fears are better faced than fended off.

I’m beginning to breath again. It’s a relief to be free to sit on the balcony of my 42nd floor apt. and simply enjoy the view. Or to write a blog without worrying whether or not it will change the world.

there's no place like home

“I’d say ‘Welcome home’ but I know this isn’t home to you anymore.”

Wrong, Joel. It’s still home.

For years I trained overseas employees, warning them that the best way to derail their cultural adjustment was to go back “home” before their 2-year anniversary on an overseas assignment. I should have followed my own advice and not come back here now.

4 weeks ago, as my husband drove me to the Dubai airport I had a sudden urge to call this whole trip off. I didn’t understand it at the time. But I see now that I was afraid I wouldn’t want to go back after coming “home”.  We’ve met a lot of people this past year – people from all over the world. People who’ve lived in Dubai for a lot longer than we have. And everyone we know goes “home” every year. Because the desert is not a place to put down roots.

When I stepped off the plane in Washington DC I had an experience I’ve never had in my 54 years of moving and travelling – my feet felt different as I stepped onto U.S. soil and I almost cried as I thought, “I’m home”.

Walking towards customs, there were 2 signs: “US citizens” and “non-US citizens”, with arrows pointing us in 2 different directions. The people in both lines looked the same: all kinds of faces, many races, various colors, classes and ages, all standing in a long line after a long flight, headed for somewhere. As I looked around at the people in line with me, I couldn’t help it – I cried – as I thought, “These are my people”.

When I arrived in the U.S. and it was my turn to be inspected by the officer in Washington D.C. a smiling young man looked at my passport and greeted me saying, “You’ve been gone a long time! Welcome home! And have a happy birthday next week!” 

Everyone everywhere is looking for that same sense of belonging and shared identity. That’s very evident in Dubai. All kinds of people are born there. People from all over the world continue to go there. But no one really seems to belong to the place. People huddle in ethnic and language groups; they live in neighborhoods designed and built for “their people”; they work in jobs assigned according to country of origin. And eventually most of them leave.

But as I’ve shared meals with old friends here, I’ve thought about Carrie’s fabulous dinner parties and thoughtful conversations over coffee with Dawn and Christine. As I’ve worshipped with my big church family in Madison, I realize I miss singing, laughing and praying with my little choir in Dubai. As I’ve delighted in the beauty of autumn leaves, I remember with delight mornings with Dorett and afternoons with Nick & Jane.

I confess I don’t love Dubai as a city. But I do love the people I’ve met there. And the life we’re beginning to create in this unique city.

On the way to the U.S. 4 weeks ago I thought perhaps nowhere was “home” for me right now. But today I know that I belong wherever there are people I love and who love me. So today I leave home to go home.

from my journal

July 4, 2010

looking down on Bangalore from the plane window

I remember the first time I landed in India. June 1988. I cried for joy then. And now. It's been 14 years since the last time I landed in India. I've missed it more than I knew.

on the drive to Jindal

The roads are new. But the driving is still the same old adventure.

Signs advertise new technologies. But it's still the same old Indian English.

This is a new season of life. But I've got the same old love for India.

we're not in kansas anymore toto OR welcome to nakedness

There was a sign on the walking path: "Naturopathy requires humility, sincerity and discipline."

No joke. I had just been more humiliated than ever before in my whole life. And it was only day 1. 

I was proud of myself. I didn't flinch that first morning while being weighed and interropgated about my health and habits by strangers. I endured an enema (my first, but not my last during those 3 weeks). And now I was looking forward to 1 of the reasons I'd said "yes" to this whole thing: a massage. 

1 of the "pros" on my shall-I-really-do-this list had been massage. It was 1 of the luxuries I left behind in the U.S., along with a steady paycheck. Here at "The Farm" massages were classified as part of the daily medicinal "treatment". Thinking it would be like the massages I'd experienced in the U.S., I was totally unprepared for what came next. 

From the spa-like reception area, I was escorted to a private room by a tiny smiling woman who told to "take your clothes off and lie down, madam", as she closed the door behind her. Thinking I must not have understood her properly, I wrapped myself in the sheet from the massage table and waited for her to return. I was startled when a gruff-faced woman who looked more like a prison guard than a masseuse walked in. Giving me the once-over and mumbling something in broken English about "no clothes", she defrocked me with a simple tug. Crawling onto the massage table, boobs to the ceiling, I wondered what happened to India. Where was that unquestioned modesty in a society where women can bathe and change saris in public showing barely a bellybutton? During that first hour-long massage, I understood something of how abused children dissociate from their physical self; how prisoners of war are systematically broken.

I know that sounds dramatic. And my therapist friends may be inviting me over for unlimited free sessions after they read this. But getting naked several times a day in front of strangers was the toughest part of my whole experience. My mother didn't raise me like that. I'm one of those girls who in jr. high changed my clothes in the toilet stall. I'm still one of those girls! For the first 3 days I had to muster all of my willpower and inner strength just to go through the motions of my "treatment plan" while I tried to figure out a survival strategy for 20 days of nakedness. 

And you can bet I had a lot to say to God about it! If this was His gift to me, then why the trespass of my values? Why the assault on my sense of self? Why this pain of humiliation? I'm still not totally sure why humiliation was necessary (or perhaps the question is, why I was so humiliated by it!) But by the end of those 3 weeks, something came together for me. Perhaps it's a no-brainer for others who are more in touch with the physical. But it was a revelation for me: that pain is not the end of the road, but a gateway to a place of freedom. 

God has tried before - at least since 1997 - to get me to face my physical self. But I couldn't - wouldn't - believe that "the real me" is not just soul, mind and heart, but body as well. But this time, for some reason I've yet to fathom, when God brought up this touchy subject with me again, I was ready. A concerned family member offered to pay for 3 weeks in India at the Jindal NatureCure Institute. India - I'm always ready! Fat farm - hmmm...not so much. It took me 3 days to make a decision. Another 3 days to adjust to the Jindal routine. And now, 3 weeks after the experience, I'm still sorting out what it all means and where to go from here. I haven't figured it all out yet. But I'm still moving forward - soul, mind, heart AND body.

closet gnostic OR "blue pill or red pill?" OR too old to deny it any longer

I started this blog last year

• to process my latest transition
• to share cross-cultural insights that might help others
• to have a format and some motivation for writing.

But a couple of months ago I couldn't do it anymore.
Maybe I was adjusting to life in Dubai.
Maybe I was finding other ways to satisfy my craving to teach.
Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a blogger.

Maybe.

I wrote lightspot as a cross-cultural journey blog with a bit of spiritual insight thrown in. But my writing urges were taking a different direction. Something less cross-cultural and more spiritual. And I wasn't ready to go there on a blog. At least not on this blog.

Gradually, I became conscious that something else was going on, too. Something hidden. Something I couldn't quite wrap my brain around. Something wasn't sure I wanted it brought into that Divine lightspot. So deep and disturbing that I could not blog about something else. 

One day in May I realized that this journey was taking an unexpected turn. And I didn't like where it was going.

Like it or not, God used 4 strangers, an art project, an in-law, and a 3-week stay in an Indian naturopathic clinic to get it through my thick skull that I am not just mind, emotion and spirit. I am also body.

It's been 2 weeks since I returned from what proved to be a difficult and enlightening physical-spiritual experience in India. But already I see myself moving away from the light, longing for the darkness of denial, wanting to go back to the path I'd been on. But there's no going back. 

So I think it's time to tell a bit about it all. Time to bring not only my mind and heart and soul into the light, but my body as well.



highlight
I wanted this art project to be the introduction to the things I'll be blogging over the next few weeks. You can find my piece on the top row, center. 


reflection
I have a body. That conclusion should have been easier to come to in my nearly 54 years of living. But like so many other things, assenting to a truth mentally is no guarantee that that truth is connected to ones heart, soul and body.

What do you "know" or "believe" that is not evident in how you live?
What parts of 'you' feel disconnected from the rest of you?
What aspects of life or self do you tend not to pay attention to or shy away from? 

spoiled. but not spoiled rotten.

It's been a year since I left the organization I'd worked for for nearly 30 years. There's been a lot of water under the bridge since then. But not enough. Lately I've been shown - again - that there's still a lot to forgive and a lot to be healed from. But it's also clear - every day - that I have a heck of a lot to be thankful for, too.

I knew my years in InterVarsity had shaped me. But I didn't realize how much I had learned both on purpose and by osmosis. I knew we'd been given many good gifts through the people and the organization, through our experiences and our opportunities. But we had no idea how very useful it all would be in our new life and work here.

My husband and I talked about it again last night as we walked through the Ibn Batuta Mall. (Some last minute shopping before my trip to India today.) We have been spoiled. Spoiled by decades of outstanding teaching, high level training, strong work ethic, expectations of excellence, commitment to personal development and intentional learning, and by so very many people of integrity and character, not only in the US, but all over the world through our precious relationships in the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students.

Being spoiled like that makes moving to another country and a different kind of work environment and worldview challenging. (To put it nicely.) We realize here that what we took for granted as "normal" is not normal at all. Far from it. Our standards and expectations - some that we weren't even aware of - must be constantly evaluated and revised for our own sanity as well as for the sake of others. We are committed to living lives of grace and freedom here. (Something which everyone needs but seldom finds.) So we are trying to use the wonderful skills and exceptional experiences we've been given in ways that bless and release others rather than condemn and shame them.

We came here thinking we had nothing in our hand to give. We've been caught by surprise at the rich treasures that are being made visible as we open our hands and hearts to others here. Thank you, InterVarsity, for blessing us richly. We are trying to be good stewards in our new life, passing on to others all the good that we've been given. And forgiving the rest.

InterVarsity Christian Fellowship is 1 of over 150 indigenous national student movements affiliated with the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students, working and praying together to see God transform students, campuses, communities and cultures.

I feel a bit like the disciples who were given a tiny sack lunch by a tiny boy and who watched Jesus turn it into a banquet for 5000 families! You can read the story in the Bible in the book of John, chapter 6. 

we've turned a corner

After my husband became a U.S. citizen 6 years ago, I occasionally preface remarks to my family with, "So, Peoples of America..."  A few days ago I said it again to my 16 y/o son. To my surprise, he corrected me saying, "Mom, I'm a Dubaian, too! So make that 'Peoples of America AND Dubai!"

8 months in and we've already turned a corner. It feels good.


I recently joined an online artist community - No One Way Arts. (Just one more unexpected outcome of the visit from the 4 amazing artists I wrote about in the last blog.) It felt like a huge risk to me. (I'm not an artist. And I'm don't fit the demographic of this online collaborative arts community.) But it also felt like 1 more invitation from God to move towards prayerful reflection, creative expression, and cross-cultural relationship. Our first project - Daily Bread - is due later this month.

Identity is shaped not only by our family of origin and our past, but by our present relationships, environment, and choices.
Who do others say you are? How do you feel about that?How does your environment provide space and opportunity to be or to discover yourself?What choices are you making today to expand your world, your worldview, your capacities, abilities, relationships, and your confidence in who you are - and are becoming?
 

the last word is love

I picked up 4 strangers at the airport Tuesday night. I had no idea I'd fall in love.

Friends of a friend, these 4 artistic-types had a long layover in Dubai and wanted a (free) place to catch a few hours of shut-eye. But they never made it to bed. Stopping for a bite to eat, we fell in love over shwarma. Talking, laughing, telling stories and sharing our passions, we drank in every word - along with a lot of coffee til with big hugs and sincere promises to meet again, they climbed into a taxi to catch their next flight.

It has been a while since I pulled an all-nighter. 14 months ago, in fact. Then Jo Parfitt's inspiring writer's workshop kept me up all night. Creative energy came uncorked, spilling words on to paper. Like blocks tipped out of a toy box or colors splashed by a child learning to finger paint, ideas and snatches of stories tumbled out all night long in uncontrolled phrases and messy pages.

Jo and my 4 new friends are, I believe, Divine encounters. Arranged by Someone with more creative power and artistic passion than me, for my good. These artists have unlocked treasures in me I didn't even know existed. And probably wasn't ready for til now. I'm still recovering from this week's all-nighter. (I'm not as young as I felt on Tuesday night!) But I don't plan to recover from the love connection I have with these folks or the gifts they've given to me by just being themselves. 

One of those finger-painted ideas following Jo's workshop was a book: The 31st House. I had not yet moved from Wisconsin to Dubai, but had already begun the grieving process. Writing about some of the places I've lived and the cross-cultural and life lessons I've learned in each place is 1 way I'm helping myself create a new life - again - now in my 31st house. 

Here's an excerpt from 1 of the chapters that tumbled out that night.

25th House

Durga Kund, Varanasi, India

There was no way we could sleep. Not when it was 100 degrees inside and 130 outside. Not when the electricity went off - again - and you felt the muggy stillness closing in on you in the darkness. Not when you had to lie naked under a silent fan in a sweaty puddle. 

Groaning and exhausted, we slid out of bed. Air. We need air. Hoping for some breeze, we stepped out onto the balcony.  The skin-sizzling heat and clinging humidity blasted us and  the only thing moving was the mosquitoes. At least the mosquitoes were enjoying themselves! As the hordes moved in for the kill, I started to cry. Tears of tiredness were followed by great big sobs of despair. I couldn't even go to Roy's arms for comfort. It was too damn hot.

"Damn it. DAMN IT!" (Even Roy's angry tirade couldn't scare off the mosquitoes.) "I'm sending you away from this hell," he fumed. "You can go stay with my parents til the hot season is over."

The thought of leaving my husband of 4 months made me cry even harder. "I'm not leaving you! If you stay, I stay" I said between sobs. 

We survived that summer in Durga Kund. Together.

Why put up with unimaginable heat, without fans and running water? Why endure fiery flesh by day and stupid flesh-eating creatures by night? Why do any of us tolerate the million hardships, inconveniences and frustrations of living in another culture? For love. Love of a person. Love of a people. Love of adventure. Love of a way of life. Love of God.  Some days the love factor is all you've got when everything else is turned off. It's love that lasts when the heat is on. 

More was said that night on the balcony in Durga Kund, between mosquito bites and cursing the heat. But the last word was love.

a psalm of the desert

The desert.
The desert rises up.
The desert rises up in waves.
The desert rises up in waves to greet you.

You, Lord of the desert
       of sand
       of wave upon wave of amber sand.

Camels come, too, to meet their Master.
Turning their faces at the sound of your approach
Bowing knobby knees in recognition and honor
Even while you are still far off.

Desert shrubs release their blooms.
Wishing they could be something other than they are
(Majestic redwood or scented cedar)
So they, too, could bow.

"It is enough", you say.
       for you made them as they are
       and they are yours.

Those living in the desert do not understand
These rising sands and sudden blooms.
"A change of season", they say.
And so it is.

They wait for the rain.

it may not be a job. but it's still work. and it's definitely meaningful.

My work over the past 30 years has brought me into relationship with a lot of amazing people. Many of those people, like me, no longer work in the same organization. They have gone on to teach, counsel, pastor, train, advocate, rescue, and do business in the U.S. and in many parts of the world. It’s a joy to still be in touch with many of them – thanks to the wonder of technology.

1 of those amazing people from my past life contacted me recently for an interview. Brent Green and his wife Stephanie are now career consultants and life coaches in the U.S. and Eastern Europe. You can hear my interview - about pursuing meaningful work - on Brent’s website, Pursuing Meaningful Work.

moving forward in reverse

Some people live in the past.
Stuck in old dreams. Old loves. Old regrets.
Reliving past glories and triumphs. Taking satisfaction in achievements long forgotten by everyone but them.

Some people run from the past.
Blinded by the pain. Confused by the questions.
Looking for new loves. New purpose. Something to make them feel alive.
Or at least to fill life till, still running, they drop dead in their tracks.

I could be those people. Perhaps I am.
I think that's how I ended up in this lightspot. Unable to make complete sense of the past. Unable to grab onto anything tangible in the future. God's way of getting me to pay attention to Now. To God. To me.

I had a flash of insight last week in the lightspot. And I'm not sure I like it.
In fact, I'm sure I don't.

After the stress of moving to another country and starting over in a new kind of life; after submitting the manuscript of my first book to my editor (that's another blog), I have space and time to sit and pray and to wonder, "What's next?" Instead of some beautiful plan revealed to me (which is what I hoped would happen), I see something else: Me. The ugly me. The bitter me. And a flash of clarity that the only way forward is in reverse.

Sometimes, looking back on the past decade, instead of feeling gratitude for a job I loved (which I did), joy in the wonderful relationships I had (and there were many), and satisfaction with what was accomplished (both the visible and the invisible), I become a seething mass of painful memories, volatile emotions and vengeful inclinations. I've been surprised at the level of pain I've experienced in those recollections. Not because I was unaware when it happened. But because I thought I’d forgiven.

So I've been looking backwards. Not just at what others did. But at how I responded. In the light I have, I see that I did forgive. And forgive. And forgive. Not because I’m just that good. But because I had to. (I've learned the hard way what unforgiveness can do.) Forgiveness has proven to be critical for my own health and my own capacity to do the things I love to do with any measure of integrity. It’s been necessary for relationships that matter to me, including my relationship with God. It’s been the only way to move towards the destiny I believe I was created for. So I’ve worked hard at it, persisting, with God’s help, even when I thought at times it was impossible. (And, humanly speaking, at times it was.)

But this time, it’s different. Harder. Because I see that there’s another kind of forgiveness needed. One I've never learned to give. So I have to go back and forgive a few folks not just for what they’ve done, but for what they are.

When I forgive doing I can somehow hope that they will stop doing it. That they will change their behavior. If not with me, then with others. But when I see that I have to forgive being…well, that’s a different story. A story I don't know how to write. A story that feels as if it will not have a happy ending. But how do I know? It's not a story I've told before.

After a lifetime of experience in forgiving, I realize that I don’t know how to forgive like this. This demands a different kind of self-reflection and learning, another type of prayer and faith. Vindication, transformation and repentance are not necessary outcomes. Ever. And I begin to get that bitter taste in my mouth again... Until a flash of light startles me and there I am - in the light, with God, seeing that this is the kind of forgiveness He's given me. And that bitter taste in my mouth begins to fade...

So. Moving forward in reverse. It’s 1 more new challenge – a never before attempted feat – in this new life of mine. In this lightspot I see my future options: I can look back and let go, walking into the future as I, by God’s grace, forgive not just behavior but being, without expecting those forgiven to be sorry or to be different. Or I can stay where I am and continue to mentally and emotionally wrestle with my past in some sad and twisted effort to fix it.

That's not really a choice. I may be bitter. But I'm not a fool.

My friend, Dr. Gayle Reed, has a professional practice that includes forgiveness workshops, individual forgiveness recovery consultation, and classes at the University of WI extension. Gayle’s forgiveness workbooks are also available for those entering into the forgiveness process related to either personal or professional relationships.

http://www.forgivenessrecovery.com/

Whether you’re on a cross-cultural journey or

the journey of following Jesus,

1 of the inevitables is that

on the road to where you’re going,

you will have to face yourself.

If you don’t have the guts for that, better to stay home.