Strangers in a Foreign Land

My husband and I participated in a Missionary Kid (MK) Retreat this summer - his first, my third. My husband might have been put off by the high emotion, often teary, sometimes bitter ramblings of a large group of strangers, but I loved the whole experience. Strange, huh? - who enjoys crying and feeling wrung out?

As a group, third culture kids (TCKs) are strangers...strange. We aren't like the people among whom we live. I was born and raised in Malawi, but I don't usually look, act or think like most Malawians. I am a US citizen and I look and maybe even sound (we all speak English, right?) like part of the majority in that country. But I don't always think or act like one. It can be very confusing.

When I first came to the USA as a 17-year old, I felt and acted like a 2-year old. I was overwhelmed by all the new stimuli, frustrated that I didn’t understand anything, exploring expanded freedoms, and angry that I couldn’t communicate well with anyone around me. On good days, classmates said, "You are so weird!" and I reveled in my uniqueness. On bad days, classmates said the same thing and I felt hurt, isolated. I missed my family and friends left behind. I grieved for my far-off home and all that was familiar. I had God and I clung to him, but everything else was...foreign, alien.

I attended my first MK retreat when I was 21 – almost 4 years of trying to figure things out on my own (and I hadn’t been successful). The retreat gave me a frame of reference in which to place myself in the world - I was a TCK. It gave me vocabulary with which to communicate - Malawi is my 'birth country;' the USA is my 'passport country;' neither one is really 'home.' It revealed I wasn’t alone (there are others like me? - God help us all!).

MK retreats may be tear-jerking, gut-wrenching experiences but they are cathartic. After 3 such retreats, I am aware of many TCK issues. I can look for them in myself, in my children, in friends and family members. I can categorize the differences, label them, express them, put them to good use. They don't have to be hindrances anymore. God has given us MKs a unique set of experiences and skills that can further His Kingdom here on earth. If we can learn to deal with our experiences positively, we can be more open to his purpose in our lives.

In other words, we can live, not just exist, despite being strangers in this foreign land.

The Computer is an Addiction

As I go about my chores, I keep glancing at the closed doors of my wooden secretary. If I come within reach of it, my stomach clenches in anticipation. I could open those doors. Inside is my laptop. I could lift the cover, switch it on. Inside is my blog, my pictures, my email, the Internet, my writing...Facebook! My fingers itch to tap-tap on the keys.

But there are my children, and dinner, and cleaning, and shopping... No way I can lift that cover even for one little peek; no time to lose myself. Because I surely will. I can sit down to check my email and lose a couple of hours in one blink. I can start writing and lose three hours easily. Don't even get me started on Facebook!

On busy days, the closed secretary is a disease I treat with sub-conscious fear. I give it a wide berth: if I ignore it, maybe I can resist. On school days, I open the doors and try to find myself again before 3:30.

Visiting My Parents

Visiting my parents in the mountains isn't the same this time. Maybe it doesn't feel like old times because it is hotter in August than in June, when we usually visit: mountains are not supposed to be hot! Maybe it didn't feel like the mountains at first because we spent time in town with it's bustling traffic and constant racket. I did feel more at peace when we walked down to the playground in the late evening of our second day. It was cool in the late dusk, quiet, except for the soothing music of the cicadas and frogs, the occasional bark of a dog. The great trees on their mountain sides smothered all other sounds and surrounded us in a green bubble of calm.

It is quiet at my parents' house too, but not peaceful. My father dozes, hanging off the edge of a chair in the sun room. Or he shuffles around the house slowly, like an old man. With every movement, his skin splits open a little more, flaking off and floating around him in his own personal blizzard. His shoulders fold forward, weighted by gravity and 30-40 extra pounds of retained water. His thin, grey hair points in all directions, moved by probing, stiff fingers trying to find relief from his constant itch.

This is my Dad. The man who used to enthusiastically lead his gaggle of griping daughters and his wife on all sorts of wild hikes up fire-blackened hillsides, through unbroken thorn brush, and untrodden "paths," all in pursuit of finding the highest point. This is the man who used to enjoy a killing game of squash three time a week in Malawi. This is the man who usually breaks into song as he putters around the house, who sees some humour in almost any situation, who always smiles when he sees his daughters. But he didn't smile once during my visit.

Dad says he can relate with Job from the Bible - the sores, the itch, the pain. I hope God doesn't take it so far as to allow all his children to die, and Mum says she definitely doesn't want to give birth to five more daughters! Dad doesn't even smile for this. He keeps his head bowed and rolls his eyes towards us in reprimand. He appreciates that Mum doesn't tell him to "curse God and die," as Job's wife did. And the friends who come to visit offer him encouragement through God's word, unlike Job's friends. So his situation isn't quite as bad as Job's. It just feels that way sometimes.

We try to tempt him with drives or walks in the mountains, touring the Biltmore Estate, which he usually loves. He doesn't come with us even once. He doesn't have the energy or the motivation. He does play cards with my son a few times, but you know he has to be bad if an eleven-year old beats him 2 times. Scooter crows his success - first time beating Grandpa at anything except Wii bowling; Dad doesn't say anything. My daughter is scared of Grandpa. She keeps asking him if he is dying, to which Dad replies, "Not this minute." I'm sure those conversations cheer him no end.

In the end, all I can do to help him is make some hummus and print a few recipes for his new vegan diet. It isn't much. He thanks me profusely anyway. I feel almost as defeated as he does.