Jerry Jones – Page 2 – A Life Overseas |

Rethinking Transition Time (it doesn’t have to be time lost)

Times of transition are hard. That’s not new information.

We have training for this. Brochures. Books. Blogs.

It’s all good information that helps you push through the hard times but even for the shrewdest, sharpest most well trained serial expats, time spent figuring out a new normal can feel like time lost . . . or stolen.

The Newby fog is only mitigated by one thing.

It gets better.

They tell you that at the training. You believe it six to twelve months later.

Two quick disclaimers

ONE: There is no universal timeframe for “transition”. You’re not magically through it at six months nor are you required to feel it in any specific way. Every experience is different and each one is filled with variables and nuance.

TWO: Transition is NOT something that ONLY happens when you move from one place to another. Global lives are filled with transition whether you move or not.

But just for the sake of the point lets do some math.

If you spend six months at the beginning and end of every major life change in some kind of limbo it looks something like this.

You ramp up to the airplane and then you ramp down. The chaos gets more intense around the big move and it takes a while for it to level out.

Now let’s say you do that once every five years for 30 years.

Sidenote — If you’re not (or have never been) an expat those numbers may sound ridiculous. “Who would do that?! That sounds horrible.” If you are an expat you may have trouble remembering the last time you stayed in one place for five years. You are both normal.

Just for the sake of the math . . . let’s say that’s you — that means you would have spent SIX YEARS in the fog of transition. That’s a LOT of time lost.

Here are five ways to shift that paradigm and salvage time that would otherwise be lost.

CHERISH THE QUIRKY MOMENTS

Life is frustrating when you have no furniture and only one fork — but those are the magic moments. That’s the stuff that you’ll talk about 20 years from now. It takes time to get settled. It won’t stay that way forever. But while it lasts enjoy the picnics on the living room floor.

CREATE TRANSITION TRADITIONS

You already know how important it is to maintain your existing traditions. That’s what they tell you at the seminar. However, if consistent change is going to be a staple in your life then it makes sense to build your list of traditions specifically for times of change. Hang your family photo on the wall on the first night. Have jet lag parties. Make a big deal out of buying forks.

Get creative but do it every time.

THINK DESTINATION LIMBO

Transition feels like the time between times. The adjustment phase between the real stuff. Try reframing your thinking to allow it to be a time of it’s own. Have conversations early about what Limbo will look like. Don’t reduce this sacred time to, “we’re gonna’ make it through this” or “it will be better when . . .” Let Limbo be a destination and enjoy it while you’re there.

SIMPLIFY

They have seminars for this too. People pay a ton of money to learn how to reduce the clutter in their lives. Empty your closets. Trim the fat. Turn down the noise. Simplification is a counterintuitive discipline that most people find hard to embrace but love when they do. Good news — Times of transition are natural simplifiers. Don’t get too eager to restock everything you let go of to move. Take your time replacing all of the busyness of your former, more settled life.

CHOOSE WISE WORDS

I know it sounds cooky and cliche but it is SO packed with truth.

Words are powerful.

It’s not magic, it’s just the reality that you will be a character in the narrative that you speak out loud. If “Transition” is an excuse for you, you will constantly find a reason to place that blame. If you “can’t wait to be settled”, you’ve already prescribed yourself to be miserable until you are. If you say you “hate being the newby” . . . you will.

Don’t lie about it but don’t forget to tell the other side of the truth as well.

“We have gotten good at transition.”

“We make the best of the hard stuff.”

“We own jet lag!”

If transitions are (or you anticipate that they will be) an ongoing, significant part of your life, don’t settle for the lie that those months are a lost cause.

Reclaim your transition time.

An Expat Husband’s Manifesto

Hey.

You know that thing that happens where expats bop all over their home country in the summertime and find themselves stuck in airports getting ready to board a plane on the same day they’re supposed to write for alifeoverseas.com?

Yeah.

That’s me . . . right now.

So here’s a repost and a promise for something fresher next time.

Originally posted on The Culture Blend

Spoiler alert for the young and in love . . . marriage is hard.

One more for anyone considering a life abroad. That’s hard too.

You read it here first.

My wife and I have been living both of those realities for a good, long time and to be honest we thought we were pretty solid on both. Oh we knew they were hard (we crossed those bridges ages ago) but we’ve pushed through that part. We’ve survived BOTH honeymoon phases and the crashes that followed. We’ve learned (through repeated trial and even more repeated error) how to be on different pages and stay in the same book. We’ve set up systems for everything from fighting better fights to dealing with my crazy travel schedule.

We’re good at this. That’s what we thought.

Until we found out that we’re not.

Here’s the thing — we recently discovered that our brilliant systems have been skillfully (if not consciously) crafted for the sole purpose of protecting us from the hard stuff.

We call a “time out” when things get heated to protect ourselves from saying stupid things that we don’t really mean (man, I wish we had known how to do that in our first year). We “switch modes” when Daddy travels so she can focus on home and I can focus on work (because both of those are really important).

They’re not BAD plans . . . but they’re not enough either.

Our systems protect us. They have us playing good, solid defense but the best case scenario in any ALL defensive endeavors is that you break even . . . and breaking even only happens when your defense is perfect. Ours is not.

We want more than a break even marriage AND we want more than a so-so life abroad.

So here is my Expat Husband’s Manifesto

My wife will be my first choice.

I am blessed. Super blessed. Hyper blessed. Hashtag blessed with good friends. I genuinely feel guilty sometimes when I think about the number of BFF’s that I have all over the world and I absolutely love spending time with them. They are worth every long trip and every late night.

But my wife will ALWAYS be the one that I pursue the hardest, invest the most in and sacrifice more for.

I will connect when we are disconnected.

I won’t turn our relationship off when we are apart. I won’t “check in” periodically but I will work so she knows that I have never checked out. I’ll tell her when something funny happens. I’ll let her in when I’m stressed out. I’ll text her pictures of things that remind me of her and I’ll do my dead level best with those emoji things.

If she is out of sight I will be intentional about keeping her in my mind.

I will make it real.

There are so many things in my head that rarely make it through my mouth. I will work to change that. She is so incredible. So beautiful. So smart. So creative. So fun. So many things that go unsaid and consequently never become real. I will choke the assumption that she already knows what my brain is thinking.

I will turn my best thoughts and my heartfelt intentions into tangible, touchable realities.

I will close the gap.

I travel for work. She stays home. I’m the extrovert. She’s the inny. I go places and I meet people and they become a part of my world. She has never seen those places or met those people. There is a whole part of my life that is a blurry fog to her.

We’re going to close that gap together. Not all at once and not in huge overwhelming doses but over time and as we are able I am going to take her to the far off places and connect the faces to the names.

I will get the order right.

Our marriage does not exist inside of our life abroad — or my job — or even our family. On the contrary, our lives together are the setting for all of the rest of it. The traveling, the adventures, the bumbling foreigner stories, the good things and the hard things are all side plots in a bigger story. Our story.

We could lose our visas tomorrow. “THIS THING” that we are doing could change a hundred times but we will still be doing this thing together.

I will stay on course.

We have set our trajectory towards “old and gray.” We have unanimously decided that, as we grow old, we want to do MORE of our lives together instead of less. We want to be THAT old couple who always go together.

We’re not there yet. We’re still in the crazy pace, divide and conquer, you pick up the kids and I’ll stop at the veggie shop phase of life . . . but we’re pointed in that direction. As we are able and on a consistently growing scale we are going to move towards doing more and more life together.

I will fall forward.

This would be so much better if I was already good at it. I would love it if I could just write words in a blog post and make it all true, unshakable and resolute — but we’ve been doing this long enough to know that’s not how it works.

I WILL ABSOLUTELY and UNAPOLOGETICALLY DO ALL OF THESE THINGS.

Until I don’t.

And then I’ll do them better the next day.

I love my wife and I love our life abroad.

I Am Not A Racist — and other things I wish I knew were true

This post originally appeared on The Culture Blend.com

“I AM NOT A RACIST!”

The Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan

Donald Trump

Bill Clinton

Malcolm X

(and practically everyone who has ever been accused of racism)

This post is hard for me. Here’s why.

I’m not that kind of blogger. I’m not an activist. I write about culture and raising kids abroad and what happens when you accidentally tell someone that their hindquarters are fragrant and delectable. I’m THAT guy. I have purposely and skillfully avoided the hard issues NOT because I don’t think they are important.

I steer clear because I have never considered my contribution valuable. I have opinions like EVERYONE ELSE in the world but bringing them into this conversation would be like bringing a squirt gun to a firestorm.

My labels don’t exactly lend credibility either. “Hey everybody! Pipe down, we’ve got a white, American, straight, Christian, male who has something to say about racism!”

“Gee. Great. We haven’t heard from one of those guys yet.”

But there is something rich that happens when you step away from your “home” culture and see yourself (and the world that you grew up in) through a different set of lenses. Am I right?

It’s challenging but it is good.

It hurts but it helps.

It’s alarming . . . but sometimes . . . it’s transformational.

With all of that said I think I have something to say about racists.

Ready?

I might be one — but I can’t tell. Here’s why.

The word “racist” ONLY seems to show up in two forms. As an ACCUSATION — or a DENIAL. It’s never a discovery. Never a realization. Never a confession. There is zero room for nuance. Zero range. Zero spectrum.

You either are or you’re not.

It’s used exclusively in the second and third person (positively) — “YOU ARE A RACIST AND THEY ARE TOO!!”

in the first person (negatively).

“I AM NOT!!”

(take 2 minutes and 52 seconds to watch this video)

The two-sided approach produces radically different definitions.

The ACCUSER says, “Have you EVER used a term, said a word, thought a thought or acted in a way that could be considered racist? Then you must be one.”

Justin Bieber said the n-word when he was 14.

Paula Deen said it before Justin Bieber was even born.

The DENIER says, “Is any part of my life NOT racist? Then boom! I am NOT one.”

“I have Asian friends.”

“I voted for a black man.”

“I’m not as bad as that guy.”

So by the ACCUSER’S definition — are YOU a racist?

I am (and I cried a little bit when I wrote that).

BUT as the ACCUSED I am SO quick to DENY, DENY, DENY.

My daughter is Asian.

My son is black.

Look at this picture.

How could I possibly be racist?

See how that works?

I’d love to have a different conversation. Here’s why.

“Racism” is a powerful and important word. The conversations that surround it are also important . . . in ALL of their different forms.

The venomous political debates need to happen.

The marches have changed things.

The ACCUSATIONS and the DENIALS make total sense.

AND THERE IS MORE . . . There is another side to the conversation that typically gets reduced to ashes in the firestorm.

It’s a conversation where I look at ME and not YOU.

I ask MYSELF hard questions instead of responding poorly to yours.

I come face to face with my own mess and I own it, even if I hate it.

I move forward to something better instead of being chained to my broken past.

It doesn’t start with “I AM A RACIST.” We don’t even agree on what that means. But . . .

It might go something like this.

I grew up around people who shared my labels. In my home, I was taught to love people both by instruction and example. Growing up though (although never in my family) I heard racial slurs and hateful, horrible stereotypes that formed my own prejudice. I heard banter that celebrated the misfortune of other races.

I heard “Polack jokes” before I knew that Poland was a country. I heard the term “Jewing them down” from the same people who taught me about the Jewish people in Sunday School. I heard terms like “Spick” and “Gook” and “Raghead” and “Chink” and had to ask each time which ethnicity we were talking about because I had never met any of them in real life. I listened to joke after joke that mocked the physical features, the language, the eating habits, the poverty and the crime rate of the African descended people who lived on the other side of town.

And I laughed.

I laughed because I valued the approval of people who were like me more than I valued the actual people who weren’t.

I’m sorry.

I regret all of that and it breaks me to think about it. I wish that it were not a part of my story but there is no way to untell it. Ignoring it has never made it go away.

I have grown since then. I have changed dramatically — but even now I continue to discover pieces that are packed tightly and deeply in my core that I never knew were there. Layer after layer of entitlement continue to be peeled away.

I still struggle to recognize and acknowledge the humanity of the humans around me.

But I am ready to have that conversation.

What about you?

I Might Be Amish

I felt strangely Amish today . . . in a bizarre, science fiction, alternate universe, I live in China where there are no Amish people kind of way. From now on I will be blogging by candlelight.

I grew up in a part of America that we call the Midwest. Actually, if you look at a map, most of the “midwest” is geographically closer to the East coast but no one in that particular part of the country prefers to say they live in the Middle East . . . so we call it the Midwest.

Midwestern values are simple. Sit up straight, don’t cuss in front of your mother, buy American and don’t stare at people. Like all values though, there are exceptions. For example as important as it is to buy American products (we start riots over this) it is acceptable to buy imports if and only if said imports are 1. cheaper . . . 2. better quality . . . or 3. closer to where you live. Hence Wal-Mart . . . and Toyota . . . and everything else.

The two exceptions to the “no staring” rule are as simple as the value itself.

1. Staring is allowed if the person or persons being stared at are obviously unaware that the staring is taking place. It’s a little-known fact that Midwesterners have distinctively overdeveloped neck muscles and a keen sense of peripheral vision. The neck muscles are developed by repeated “glance aways” which is the proper response when one is caught staring. The peripheral vision allows them to intuitively sense when it is all clear to turn back and commence staring.

2. It is acceptable to stare if the person or persons being stared at are the exact combination of really “unique” AND not a threat to your physical well being. Ironically “unique” can encompass a broad range of traditionally non-midwestern characteristics but non-threatening is pretty cut and dried. For example, large tattoos on a pasty white teenager with orange hair leaning against the wall outside of the Wal-Mart smoking a Virginia Slim cigarette. Ok to stare. Large tattoos on a huge, bearded man with a ponytail and black leather jacket that is embroidered with a human skull and the words “Kill em’ all, let God sort em’ out” straddling a Harley Davidson, smoking a Marlboro Red . . . Look away. Determining who fits the exception and who doesn’t is complex and confusing to the outsider but for the midwesterner, it is second nature.

The Amish fit perfectly into exception number 2.

They are a fascinating group of people who migrated to the States from Europe in the 18th century and have been led by their religious convictions to live the simple life, free of modern technology such as electricity, automobiles, telephones and iPads. They also embrace very simplistic, non-commercial fashion guidelines similar to that of Ma, Pa and Laura from Little House on the Prairie (all of which makes them really “unique” . . . at least in the spying eyes of the common mid-westerner). They are famous for outstanding craftsmanship, building barns in one day, long beards with no accompanying moustache and non-violent, pacifist living (which makes them non-threatening and even a little bit cuddly).

Prime for staring at.

When I was a kid we would occasionally drive through “Amish country”. There was a giddiness that came with the trip. My mother, who was generally the prime enforcer of the “no staring” rule, would transform into some kind of Amish marketing rep. “We’re in Amish country Jerry . . . better look out the window we might see one . . . I wonder how many we’ll see today”. Now that I have kids I realize that this was just a sneaky parent trick to buy a few minutes of peace and quiet but it worked like a charm, every time. I would sit with my face pressed against the window waiting for the adrenaline rush of a big black horse and buggy. Just being in proximity where I knew we MIGHT see a real, live Amish person was electric. In my mind I drifted to a strange place, dreaming of how awesome it would be to live the Amish life and knowing full well that I wouldn’t like it one bit.

“There’s one! There’s one!” It’s like we were whale watching.

Dad would slow down and as we passed I would wave as excitedly as if they had been Mickey and Minnie themselves. They waved back with less enthusiasm than I would have expected from the Disney’s but still . . . they waved.

Several times on our recent trip to the States we had an occasion to drive through the Amish communities and the magic lives on. The moment I would see the big yellow horse and buggy sign I would have the kids perched on their lookout. “There’s one! There’s one!” One day we counted eight. Good times.

I live in a Chinese community that is also home to a lot of foreigners (like me). While we come from all over the world most of the foreigners around here share two characteristics. We are really “unique” and generally non-threatening. Walking home today I saw a mother grab her daughter and playfully whisper something into her ear. The little girl laughed and looked at me.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what the mother was saying . . . “There’s one! There’s one!”

Nothing new. That happens everywhere we go. It’s the price of being “unique” and non-threatening but I wonder if it’s different around our apartment where so many the foreigners live. Do Chinese parents elbow their kids and say, “hey we’re in foreigner country, pay attention you might see one”? Do kids keep track of how many they see? Do they dream about what it would be like to live the life of a foreigner and know that they would never like it?

As they passed the little girl smiled and gave me the all too familiar, “HALLO!” I smiled back and with the enthusiasm of an Amish Mickey Mouse said, “HALLO!”

Sometimes its good to see myself through the eyes that I use to look at the rest of the world.

I’m so Amish.

this post was originally posted on The Culture Blend

How I Became the Poster Child for Swedish Families Living with HIV — And Why You Should Rethink Your Selfies

Someone recently pointed out that our picture pops up on a Google search for “blended family” (just a few spots behind the Brady Bunch).

That was a pretty cool moment.

I felt a little famous. Like the internet finally found out about the Joneses.

Then some more friends passed this little gem on to us.

Our picture had been consentlessly chosen to help people “reflect” on adoption and “how that decision might impact your life and the lives of those around you.”

Sweet.

I think “flattered” is probably the word that best described me at that point. Not only were we showing up on Google’s front page but someone, somewhere out there in Arkansas Cyberland went looking for photos to represent adoption and they chose us.

I love that.

I mean look at us. We scream adoption. Right?

It made up for at least half of the horrible, “picked last” moments from 5th grade gym class.

Then came this one.

Umm. Ok.

I suppose technically we’re not ACTUALLY “foreign-born step parents” and these are not ACTUALLY our “stepchildren” but hey . . . semantics, right?

That’s how it works in the modeling world . . . even though technically we weren’t ACTUALLY models and this is just our family photo that we received ZERO compensation for.

Semantics.

Right?

I was curious.

So I dragged our photo into the Google search bar (you can do that).

And this is what I found.

We were also the poster child for Marriage and Family Counseling.

AND “Cooperation during the holidays” (for “blended families” because it’s different for us than the “normal” families).

AND “Intensive In-Home Counseling”

And quotable quotes . . . about blended families.

And maybe my favorite . . . We represent the happiest, blended family in all of Sweden living with HIV.

I mean look at us.

We don’t even seem phased.

I sought the wise counsel of my friends and got a wide range of reactions.

“You can send them a take down notice.”

“You should get paid for that.”

“That is a violation of privacy.”

“That’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

I found myself swinging back and forth on the whole spectrum.

Flattered and violated.

Laughing and frustrated.

Ready to call a lawyer . . . or maybe just write a blog post.

And then TWO things happened.

ONE: I stumbled across this one.

Now we had become the “Not Safe for Work” representatives for in-vitro fertilization, sperm switching in which shocked, white mothers gave birth to the children of (and I quote) “random Negros.”

Wow.

Before I vent I should mention — this webpage is a discussion forum. I’ve shown you the first bit and intentionally cut out the rest.

So you can see that they cropped my daughter out of the picture (because she didn’t fit the story).

But you can’t see the bit where they repeatedly use the “N-Word” about my son.

Or the part where they say “look how happy the whore is.”

Or the part where they say “Just f•••ing imagine having to resort to artificial insemination due to medical problems and your baby comes out as a f•••ing disgusting mongrel.”

Let me be clear — I don’t feel for a moment like this is about my family. These people don’t know us and the sickness in their hearts is not directed at us. They are idiots. Twisted, broken, sick, sick fools leaning on the misguided strength of perceived anonymity.

But DON’T EVER call my son a n**ger.

And DON’T EVER call my wife a whore.

And if you’re going to use my picture without my permission then DON’T crop it to fit your sick, selfish agenda.

That’s MY picture. NOT YOURS!!

I’m done venting now.

Curious about the second thing that happened? Here it is.

As I vented sarcastically via social media about our new found fame and violated personal space. Marilyn Gardener, the brilliantly, humble matriarch of alifeoverseas.com dropped this bomb (which ironically, I use here without permission).

Boom.

Wow.

I have to admit . . . In my self-centric rant, it hadn’t crossed my mind . . . but challenge accepted.

For a brief moment, I got a tiny taste of what it is like to be dehumanized. It was genuinely non-threatening and non-fearful but it in a small way I felt exploited.

Cheapened.

Used.

My entitlement swelled.

My “How Dare You” was ticked.

My Westerness roared.

Because somewhere, someone treated me as less than human.

Not real.

Just stock.

“Sobering” is the right word and so I’ll offer this challenge (but I’ll do it without shaming).

Please. See people as people. Even the people in your pictures.

Don’t make them a poster child for something you don’t know they believe in.

Don’t wrap them around your agenda without their consent.

Don’t force them to represent something they don’t.

Don’t tell the story first and then find the picture.

Don’t degrade, demean, dismiss or devalue.

Look at pictures . . . and see people.

Look at people . . . and fall in love.

Here’s the “non-shaming” part.

If you’re like me you’re scanning your brain for the times that you have done EXACTLY this.

Overseas selfie.

“Look at me — I’m helping poverty.”

Grab a photo from Google.

What if instead of feeling guilty.

Or getting defensive.

Or making excuses.

You just said, “yeah, we’re all kind of figuring this out as we go?”

“But something needs to change.”

And then you stopped and pondered what you might do differently.

That’s a big step.

No pressure — but the world would be better if you took it.

Here are some resources for the pondering.

Woman’s Instagram Post About Kenyan Child Ignites Fury

How to Get More Likes on Social Media

How to Communicate to the World

White Savior Barbie is Here to Save Africa, One Selfie at a Time

The Problem With Africa Selfies

Serving Overseas? 3 Kinds of Selfies You Should Never Take

Thoughts?

How a 40 Year Old Camel Changed My Life

In the interest of integrity — the title to this post is slightly misleading.

I’ve been reading up on clickbait and I’m just trying to stay current.

Click here to catch up: 33 Clickbait Headlines for Expats — Number 12 Will Make You Gasp

The full truth is the camel (actual picture above) was only a child when he changed my life AND he was not the sole life-changer. There were others. A black pleather book bag, some cheap wooden shoes, and a one peso coin from the Phillippines, just to name a few.

Here’s a question: If you’re a global person, how did you get that way?

You’ve had this experience, right? Home for the summer. Meet somebody new (feel free to change the proper nouns) . . .

“Hey, I’m Bob.”

“Hey Bob, I’m Jerry.”

“Nice to meet you Jerry, where ya’ from?”

“Uhhhh . . . well . . . I was born in Illinois but now I live in China.”

“CHINA!!! WAHHH. I could NEVER do that.”

I have “literally” had some variation of this conversation one billion times. So if there are so many people who could NEVER do this, what is it about YOU? What makes you so different than the normal people?

And maybe more importantly, can you put “literally” in quotes like that?

The reality is that we’ve all got a different story that led us here. For some, it was a blinding Damascus zap that dramatically reset your trajectory in one afternoon. For others, it was more of a decades-long yearning that finally came true.

Regardless, if you have never sat and processed the previous chapters in your book (that is still being written) . . . you should.

I’ll go first, but as I do — HERE ARE FOUR QUESTIONS TO HELP YOU GET STARTED.

WHEN DID IT START?

When did you first start showing an interest in global things?

This is where the camel comes in for me. He was a gift from my grandparents who had traveled to the other side of the planet and stopped off to see the pyramids along the way. They weren’t what I would call “travel savvy” but they knew better than to come home without some souvenirs for the grandkids.

Click here to read: The Day Grandma Got Us Kicked Out of Mexico

I know now from my own experience with airport gift-shop, guilt purchases how the trinkets made their way to my cousins, my siblings and me.

I also know roughly how much they cost.

None of that mattered when I was five. They might as well have been The Crown Jewels or the Holy Grail or a real camel. I was giddy.

I didn’t notice it then but I loved those things more than anyone else did. I thought we were all as excited as I was. They just thought I was weird.

WHAT TWEAKED YOU?

What experiences stirred your global interest?

I vividly remember riding home on the bus and digging through my new bag (Mom’s yard sale find). It was cheap, used, fake leather with a tag that rocked my world.

“Made in Taiwan.”

Endorphins must have blasted my 2nd-grade brain because I could paint you a picture of that exact moment to this day. I leaped off the bus, ran inside and screamed, “MOM! MOM! LOOK AT THIS!!”

Her response was underwhelming.

“Uh, honey, everything is made in Taiwan.”

Cynic.

It was still a big day for me.

Other world-rocking experiences include but are not limited to:

Scrounging through my Grandfathers WW2 memories.
Meeting a real live foreign exchange student from a whole other country.
National Geographic Magazine.
Eating Taco Bell for the first time (don’t even try to steal my joy).

WHO WERE THEY?

What people expanded your horizons?

A missionary to the Phillippines handed me a one peso coin at the Mt. Zion General Baptist Church which was located 30 miles into a cornfield in any direction. I was 6 and it was the first time I had touched non-U.S. currency. Another moment imprinted on my brain.

My Grandpa told me one story about meeting a Chinese boy in the war . . . 14 times.

My wife had spent 6 months in Taiwan before we ever met. She acted like it was no big deal. It so was.

WHAT ARE YOU GIVING BACK?

How are you influencing the next generation of global people?

Not everyone gets excited about global things. That makes no sense to me but I’ve finally come to realize that I’m the weird one.

I’m good with that but every once in a while another weird, younger version of me pops up.

The kids that go bug-eyed when they find out where we live.

The ones that ask, “how do you spell my name in Chinese?”

The high-seas adventurers who feel like they’ve struck gold when they get their first set of chopsticks.

Consider this a challenge to simply keep an eye out for those golden moments and be willing to hang out there for a bit. That’s a solid investment in the future of global people.

Alright — I went first. What’s your story? Why are you the way you are?

Takes some time and think about it. Comment below.

Oops, I went home for Christmas — How to readjust to life abroad after a quick trip “home”

Ahh, busyness . . . sneaks up on you doesn’t it? Especially this time of year.

Caught me off guard and I’m a bit overrun by cookies, carols and Christmas cheer to pause and post something fresh.

So . . . please accept my apologies and this repost from The Culture Blend.

Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year to boot.

Oops, I went home for Christmas

This post is specifically for the masses who have been transitioning to a new life abroad and thought that a quick trip home for the holidays might be exactly what they needed to crush their culture shock and get rid of that pesky homesickness.

You know who you are.

Fetal position?

More homesick than ever?

Pricing airfare again?

I used to say don’t do it — EVER — don’t go home in the first year. Give yourself a chance to work through the mess and the bumbling of learning how to be a foreigner before you run back to everything familiar.

I stopped saying that for two reasons:

ONE: No one listened. A bit of advice (no matter how spot on) always loses miserably to Nana’s pumpkin pie. Hands down. I get it.

TWO: Some people do it really well. They go. They come back. They re-engage and it’s good. I won’t argue with that.

However, it is a harsh reality that a quick trip home in the middle of a cultural transition CAN be more painful than you expected.

Maybe you’ve seen something similar to the diagram below.

It’s the standard culture shock continuum that charts how we process things that are “DIFFERENT” (namely everything) when we move abroad. It happens to most of us although it takes on a million different forms since . . . you know . . . we’re all different.

Point is . . . transition is a process.

So it makes sense right? If you’re at the bottom of the curve and everything is stupid, you need a break.

A fast infusion of familiarity would do the trick.

A hug from mom.

A night out with old friends.

A Ribeye. Medium Well. With a loaded baked potato.

What were we talking about?

Oh yeah . . . a quick trip home.

That’ll fix it.

In our heads, it looks like this.

It will be a nice little taste of the well known in the middle of the dip so I can recharge and come back refreshed . . . ready to move forward.

But home doesn’t live in the dip.

Going home (especially for the holidays) can be more of a super spike of hyper-charged emotions . . . on crack . . . and steroids . . . and Red Bull . . . and Nana’s pumpkin pie.

It actually looks more like this.

Think about it.

Detaching from all of the sources of your greatest frustration and plugging in to all of the sources of your greatest joy ONLY to reverse that moments after you get over jet lag is not a sustainable solution to the frustration.

Au contraire (pardon my French).

Here’s the thing — this scenario doesn’t apply to everyone but the principal probably does:

For some people going home IS the pain.
For other people the holidays are the pain.
Some people don’t go home but they go somewhere warmer, or nicer, or more exciting or just less frustrating.
Some people do this in May or September.
Some people don’t even leave but they still detach.

The point is that you can’t FIX transition by stepping away from it. It’s a process. You’ve got to go through it.

That said — don’t despair if you’ve already made that choice. It doesn’t need to be a bad thing.

Here are some quick thoughts on moving forward:

ONE: Don’t blame your host country for not being your home

That’s not fair and all of the facts aren’t in yet. You knew it would be different when you came. Now you know “how” it is different. Keep learning.

TWO: Don’t compare the end of THAT with the beginning of THIS

It took you years to build the great relationships that you are mourning as you adjust. It makes sense if you don’t have deep roots yet. Give it time. Give it a chance.

THREE: Focus on how far you’ve come

Especially if this is your first year abroad . . . think about it . . . the last time you took that flight you had NO IDEA what to expect. You didn’t know the people, the places, the customs, anything. You’ve actually come a long way in a short time. Keep moving forward.

FOUR: Compartmentalize

It’s ok for your trip home to be wonderful. It’s supposed to be. It’s also ok for your time abroad to be tough. It’s supposed to be. You don’t have to feel guilty for either one of those and they can actually exist perfectly in tandem. Trust me, in time they can do a complete 180.

FIVE: Engage even if you don’t feel like it

You can’t kick your roller coaster emotions out of the car . . . but you don’t have to let them drive. Do something, eat something, learn something you don’t necessarily want to right now.

SIX: You are not alone

Really. You are not. I’ve had this conversation at least 30 times this year. You are not the only one who feels like this right now and there have been millions before you. Myself included.

SEVEN: Accept the truth and move ahead

If you went home for Christmas (or otherwise detached) it COULD do something like this to your transition.

Detaching momentarily doesn’t come without a price. There is a good chance it’s going to take you a little longer to work through the transition process and feel at home in your new normal.

Ok.

But you had a great Christmas.

You made some great memories.

If you’re in this for the long haul then accept the penalty and move on.

There is nothing like the experience of living abroad. There are great things waiting of the other side of the dip. In fact, there are probably some pretty great things all along the way.

Don’t miss them just because they’re not as good as Nana’s pumpkin pie.

Nothing is.

What’s your experience? Have you left and come back? Flying out this week? Share your story below.

The Challenge of Thankfulness

Blah. Blah. Blah. That was my gut reaction when I got this challenge recently.

Identify three things that you are thankful for and start every day focused on them. See what happens.

In fairness to me — I come from a place where “thankfulness” has been sugar-coated, watered down, sucked dry and beaten to death. A place where “count your blessings” is an overused, last-ditch, trump card response when we find ourselves paralyzed by another person’s pain. Where once every November we go around the table and belch out slight variations on the same three platitudes.

“I’m thankful for family.”

“I’m thankful for friends.”

“I’m thankful for money.”

sidenote: we don’t come right out and say “money” but . . .

So I’m a little jaded on the whole thankfulness exercise and quite frankly “challenges” seem to be spinning a bit out of control too . . .

Ice bucket challenges.

Extreme duct tape challenges.

Bathing in hot Cheetohs challenges.

For real.

People are bathing in hot Cheetos.

I don’t really need a challenge . . . but then two things happened.

One, I got even more jaded about the fact that I was jaded about something like thankfulness. Who gets jaded about thankfulness? What’s next?

Jaded about happiness?

Clean air?

Puppies?

Two, We had a really annoying financial month.

I’ll spare you the whiny, first world problem details but it is one of those “too much month at the end of the money” situations. You’ve been there, right?

Irritating.

Frustrating.

Stressful.

It was a slippery slope. One thought spawned another and it didn’t take me long to move from, “we need to be super careful this month” to “do I even make enough money?” to “is this all I’m worth?” to “I’m not getting younger” to “my kids will never go to college and they’re going to end up broke and living in cardboard boxes.”

My stress levels were through the roof and I was feeling strained thin.

Overwhelmed

Undervalued.

Discontent.

So I took the challenge but I was resolved not to make it fluffy. It took multiple days of hard digging to even get close. I waded through the masses of “things to be thankful for” and honestly, I felt stuck in a cliche . . . “I have SO much to be thankful for.”

Blah Blah Blah.

But really . . . I do have SO much to be thankful for.

Picking three, however, is hard. Here’s where I landed:

ONE: I am thankful for the flavor of my family

I LOVE what makes my family absolutely unique. I love the adoption bit. The globe-trekking bit. The China bit. The curly hair. The introversion. The extroversion. The airports. The summers home. The family traditions. The quirks. The journey. The pitstops along the way . . .

This list doesn’t stop . . . ever . . . and it all blends to make something so rich and so good that I can’t hardly stand it.

I love the flavor of my family.

TWO: I love the width and depth of my friends.

Easy there . . . I’m not fat shaming.

I have good friends. All over the world. It’s ridiculous.

Friends that I can not see for years and instantly jump in where we left off. Friends that make me laugh until my ears hurt. Friends that I can philosophize and theologize with in such a way that we’ll both feel like we’ve figured out the worlds problems (if only we could get anyone else to listen). Friends that would walk with me through anything but would be the very first to smack me in the back of the head if I stepped out of line.

I love the width and depth of my friends.

And then I got stuck.

Couldn’t find my third one.

Maybe there are just two.

Until one day (in the middle of the hard money month) I was walking to work. My work walk is not typical.

9 kilometers.

Along the ocean.

Stunning.

Seriously. Who gets to do this?

Turns out that question was another slippery slope but it was a much, much better ride. My thoughts jumped from “I’m walking by the ocean” to “I’m going to a job that I love” to “I have EVERYTHING I could ever need” to “I have so much more than I could ever even want.”

I was embarassed of my whininess.

I was waylayed by flavor and width and depth.

And I found my third thankful.

THREE: I am thankful for the value of my finances.

It hit me (like a ton of bricks) that I am not in poverty. In my absolute worst financial month I can’t even see the poverty line. My kids are going to eat and go to school and play with their friends and fight over what to watch on Netflix. Another payday was coming and we were going to make it but even if we couldn’t, we have layer after layer after layer of people who would instantly help us waiting just on the other side of my pride.

This is a hard month.

This is not poverty.

And then it hit me even harder. I am not a billionaire. In my best financial month, I can’t even imagine the billionaire line.

But show me a billionaire as rich as me.

My financial stress doesn’t even compare. My family gets my attention. I GET to do my job and I love every minute of it. I GET to live cross-culturally and travel and meet people who look at the same thing I am looking at and see something completely different.

“Not fair” took on a whole new meaning and suddenly I felt empathy for everyone who wasn’t me. I’m not saying my money is worth more than a billionaire’s . . . but it kinda’ is.

Nothing had changed.

Different perspective.

So content.

I see the irony and the hypocrisy here.

Family

Friends

Money

Blah Blah Blah.

But it was worth it — to pause — and wrestle with a challenge without involving ice buckets . . . or duct tape . . . or Cheetohs.

Just the challenge of genuine, unfluffy thankfulness.

Tag. You’re it.

Should Debt Disqualify a Missionary?

I don’t usually start a blog post with an “I’m sorry” . . . but I’m not above it.

I offer my sincere and heartfelt apologies to anyone who clicked on this link looking for a solid, definitive answer. I don’t have one . . . but maybe you do so I would love to engage in the conversation.

Here’s the scenario:

Young couple. Just had a baby. Know that they know that they know (or at least think that they know) that God has called them to live and work overseas. They’re willing to do the due diligence. Hit the road. Raise support. “Develop partners”.

Everything lines up with the org they’re applying to. Good fit theologically. Passed the psych evaluation. References check out.

But.

They have debt.

And so . . . rejected.

Here’s the question:

Should debt be an automatic disqualifier (or postponer) for missionary deployment?

I want to be careful here.

If you’re like me you probably have a visceral reaction. “Absolutely it should” or “No. Absolutely not” but I dare you to try to argue for the other side (whichever side you land on) if for no other reason than to see from a different perspective.

It’s a two handed issue.

On the one hand, you have qualified, clearly called, willing and able candidates who have been duped into a system that says, “we won’t send you unless you have a degree” and “we won’t give you a degree unless you pay us ridiculous amounts of money” and “the only way you can realistically get that money is to borrow it” and “now that you have borrowed it . . . we won’t send you.”

On the other hand, you have supporters giving hard earned money for the sake of the Kingdom. They want return on investment and frankly paying off someone else’s bad decisions doesn’t qualify.

On the one hand, saying, “get a job and pay down your debt first” may make it harder for people to quit that job five or ten years down the line once they have settled into a certain lifestyle. We might lose them.

On the other hand if they are really called . . .

On the one hand, debt is a heavy weight to carry when you’re adjusting to an already stressful, cross-cultural life.

On the other hand, so is a newborn baby or a new marriage, or a new language, or EVERYTHING ELSE IN YOUR WORLD.

On the one hand the Bible and Dave Ramsey say certain things about debt.

On the other hand do past choices make you ineligible for future service?

On the one hand I support you because I believe in you.

On the other hand I support you so I’ve earned an opinion in your finances.

On the one hand God is patient and His mission is timeless. We can wait.

On the other hand . . . last days and urgency. Hurry up.

On the one hand stewardship.

On the other hand respect.

On the one hand school debt. Like Bible college. Jesus degrees.

On the other hand credit cards. Car payments. Couldn’t afford pizza one night so . . .

It’s not an easy topic. There are multiple angles to consider.

So consider away.

What has been your experience?

Where do you land on the issue?

Can you see the other side?

Comment below . . . I look forward to learning something.

The Five People Who Shape You the Most

“You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” (Jim Rohn)

Soak in that for a minute. Think it through. Is it true?

For you personally?

For everyone?

For me it is one of those brilliantly profound and profoundly frustrating statements.

It makes sense. A lot of sense. So much sense that a piece of me instinctively wants it to be wrong — a feeling which increases in intensity the more I hear it. I have a visceral reaction to anything so quotable it shows up everywhere but that’s the world we live in isn’t it?

A world of instant cliches.

I’ve pondered this quote though and I wonder if it applies in the same way for people like you and me. You know . . . the cross-cultural types. Help me out because I’m curious to know if this is just me or if it goes with the territory.

Here is my dilemma. I don’t know who I spend the most time with. I literally do not have an answer for who those five people would be. I’m like a TCK trying to tell you where he is from.

Even if I could identify the top five right now (simply based on time spent together) they would be completely different from my five three years ago . . . and three years before that . . . and three before that.

My life moves in rhythms that naturally divide my closest friendships into sections of time and geography. I have a BFF at every port but I have never seen any of them in the same room (which makes me think that maybe they are all actually the same person . . . or Batman).

I love that part of my life. I really do.

I love that I can travel almost anywhere in the world and catch up with an old friend. I love the “hello agains”. I love the picking up where we left off as if we never left off at all. I love that the only indicator of time passed is our growing kids. I love the reminiscing about the seasons when we did spend most of our time together and I even love the falsely hopeful farewells.

“Come visit us.”

“Oh we will . . . one of these days.”

I also love that I’m building more of those connections right where we are . . . in this season.

I love talking work stuff and figuring out life problems. I love wrestling through the challenges of the transition that never ends with newbies, stayers and goers. I love bumbling through cross-cultural things with other bumblers and I love deep, heartfelt, sincere conversations that lean heavily on sign-language and Google Translate.

But five?

Just five?

In one place?

Can’t do it.

I could narrow it down though, to the five that I HAVE spent the most time with. The five who have impacted me the most. The five who would go anywhere and do anything for me and know that I would do the same.

They are the five people that I WOULD spend the most time with . . . if we all lived in the same country . . . at the same time . . . and they weren’t too busy fighting the Joker.

This cross-cultural life is anything but average but if I can be the average of my global list of five guys, I’ll be in good shape.

How about you?

Do you know your five? Are they all in one place or spread out?

When Hard Things Happen Back Home

There is something surreal about being on the other side of the world while major events unfold in your home country. It leaves you feeling both connected and disconnected at the exact same time.

It is 7158 miles (11,520 kilometers) from where I am sitting right now to Charlottesville, Virginia (USA) but there is a part of me that is right there. Thanks to the marvels of modern technology I can tune in anytime I want. I can get lost in the news feeds, and sucked into the endless vacuum of clickable links. If I’m feeling brave I can peek into the opinion pieces which are on the same page as the comedians which are just one careless click away from the babblers which are right next to the loud mouths which hang out with the trolls.

It’s a slippery slope.

The difference though, between my two sides of the planet, is that on this side I have to chase that information. There is no avalanche of “this just in” unless I go looking for it. The intensity, the tension, the boiling blood and the inescapable super-charged atmosphere is all taking place on that side. I can see it on my 13 inch screen anytime I want — and I can feel it because it is my home and those are my people . . . but it’s not the same as being there.

Connected and disconnected at the same time.

And as much as this life abroad has taught me to zoom in it has also conditioned me to zoom out. Like a lot of expats I wrestle with global guilt. I find myself instantly consumed by the overwhelming events from back home and just as quickly reminded that back home is not the only place on earth where overwhelming events are consuming people.

In the exact same week that a man in Virginia drove a car into a crowd killing a woman and injuring 19 others another man drove a van into a crowd killing at least 13 and injuring 100 others in Spain.

And a mudslide killed almost 500 in Sierra Leone.

And 24 people were killed after an election in Kenya.

And 32 drug dealers were killed in the Philippines.

And dozens were killed in a train wreck in Egypt.

And there were floods in Bangladesh.

And a food crisis in Yemen.

And fires in Greece.

Come on fellow expats . . . tell me I’m not the only one who does this. In one moment I am caught up in the whirlwind of news from my passport country and in the very next moment (if I’m being totally honest) I’m judging them because no matter how big it is, there are bigger things going on in the world.

Connected and disconnected at the same time.

And then I realize that I would strongly defend the rights of anyone in Sierra Leone or Kenya or Yemen to be consumed by their own news and less concerned about Charlottesville .

And then I realize that I haven’t extended that same grace to my own people.

And then it hits me that I have also withheld it from myself.

And then my heart aches for my homeland. Tension. Intensity. Frustration. Empathy.

Connection and disconnection at the same time.

There is something surreal about being on the other side of the world while major events unfold in your home country.

You who once were far off (disconnected) have been brought near (connected) by the blood of Christ.For he himself is our peace, who has made us both one (connected) and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility (disconnection)by abolishing the law of commandments expressed in ordinances, that he might create in himself one new man in place of the two, so making peace,and might reconcile us both to God (connected) in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility (disconnection).And he came and preached peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access (connection) in one Spirit to the Father.So then you are no longer strangers (disconnected) and aliens (disconnected), but you are fellow citizens (connected) with the saints and members of the household of God (connected),built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone,in whom the whole structure, being joined together (connected), grows into a holy temple in the Lord.In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit.

Ephesians 2:13-22

The Fine Line Between Expat Chaos and Rhythm

People living a life overseas are a special breed. We don’t so much make sense to the normal people do we?

My family is on the tail end of a whirlwind, six week “home” (finger quotes) visit and we’ve been reminded every moment of it what a ridiculous life we have chosen.

Seriously. Who does this?

By the time this trip is over we will have changed our entire existence eleven times, each one strung to the next by a 4 to 12 hour road trip on the hottest days of the summer in a car with two children and lukewarm air conditioning. We will have done countless heartfelt, emotionally charged, “we missed you so much” hellos only to turn right around for equally heartfelt, emotionally charged, “we’ll miss you so much” goodbyes.

We live out of suitcases which seem to be gaining weight as fast as we are.

Every few days we switch to another guest bed, couch, futon, air mattress or (on very special occasions) hotel.

We’ve learned how to use other people’s washing machines and we leave at least one sock or one pair of underwear at every stop (you’re welcome).

We’ve sat perched like a dog at a dinner table waiting for someone to ask for a China story and we’ve fine-tuned our skills of pretending we’re not disappointed when they don’t.

We’ve successfully dodged knock-down, drag-out political battles over issues we probably don’t care about, full on relational melodramas with people we barely know and annoyingly offensive jokes about Chinese food and cats.

Hygiene still matters but I’m not even sure what day yesterday was . . . let alone whether I showered or not.

For weeks we have been “ON”. Big smiles. Happy faces. Intentional eye contact from the moment we landed — and we had jet lag that day.

It’s exhausting being “home” — and to be honest the whole life overseas thing can feel equally chaotic at its most settled points.

BUT . . .

I’m learning that there is such a fine line between chaos and rhythm.

Trips “home” would feel like total mayhem to any normal person . . . but we covered that right? We are so not normal.

I love that the longer we do this the more pages there are in our story are filled with 3 am, jetlag induced Daddy-Daughter milkshakes at any place open.

It has been rich beyond words to pick up right where we left off with dozens of “hello again” friends and we’ve got this whole switching from cousins in one place to old friends in another thing to an art form.

We are expert packers, flexible sleepers, versatile launderers and accomplished lip biters.

We know how to deflect awkwardness and my kids intuitively sense when family at one stop would be horribly offended by things that were fun at the last.

Even in constant ON mode we find moments of OFF.

We are good at this. We have found our rhythm and in some confusing way a part of our stability IS the movement.

If that makes no sense at all . . . congratulations . . . you might be normal.

If it does . . . you’re probably living a life overseas.