culture shock – Page 2 – A Life Overseas |

Missions Means Choosing the Desert

Earlier this year, I went through a season of insomnia. A chaotic furlough, a new job, and lots of life change brought on anxiety, which bred sleeplessness, which bred more anxiety, until I was a mess.

I lay awake many nights and begged God, “You know I need to sleep. You know I can’t function without it. I believe you want me to be productive. So why won’t you help me sleep?”

And the Word of God spoke to me through Deuteronomy 6:

Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the wilderness these forty years, to humble and test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands.

There I was, wandering in the desert, feeling desperate, crushed, and abandoned by God. Until I remembered that the desert is the very best place for God to meet me.

He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna….to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.

God caused you to hunger. Just like sleep, bread is necessary for life itself, yet God wanted his people to remember that their very existence depended on God and his Word.

Thousands of years later, our Savior voluntarily went into the desert, and learned for himself that man does not live by bread alone. And not long after that, he stood tall and declared himself to be our Bread of Life, sent down from Heaven.

Unlike many in the world, I’ve had the incredible privilege of never needing to worry about my daily bread. Perhaps that’s why God allowed me to be deprived of my daily sleep. And there are a myriad of other ways we can be sent into the desert involuntarily—cancer, hurricane, betrayal.

As insomnia helped me to understand the value of the desert, I realized that choosing missions is one of the ways we voluntarily choose the desert.

In choosing missions, we leave behind our support structures: family, church, friends.

Choosing missions means learning new ways of survival: how to communicate, how to care for our children, how to provide for our basic needs. Most of the time, we give up many of the comforts of home, whether it be as simple as McDonald’s Playland or as complex as feeling understood by the people around us.

Missions sometimes means we find ourselves in a spiritual wasteland: a city where we are one of only handful of believers. Where the oppression, whether seen or unseen, lies heavy on our shoulders.

Choosing missions means choosing the life of a stranger, an outsider. We are often misunderstood. We often feel alone, and as time goes by, we often feel disconnected in our “home” countries as well. Like it did for our Savior, the desert brings on temptation strong and thick. But unlike our Savior, we often cave to it.

So why, why, why do we choose this life? Why on earth would we choose this desert?

Because man does not live by bread alone, or cream cheese, or even Starbucks. Man does not live by running water, or air conditioning, or indoor heating. He is not sustained by paved roads, or fast internet, or stylish clothes. He even does not live by English education for his kids, by real turkey on Thanksgiving or by cold Christmases and the smell of pine trees.

No.

We live by every Word that comes from the mouth of God.

This desert will humble us, and test us, and we will see within our hearts whether we are truly keeping his commands. But the hunger and the thirst we experience in our chosen wilderness will enable us to have a greater, fuller understanding of our true Bread of Life. Our manna from Heaven. The gift of his presence, the knowledge of his suffering, the tremendous depth of grace—all of these things are worth more than anything the world has to offer. More than home. More than sleep. More than bread.

Just as he promised, God fed me with himself during that season of insomnia. And I was reminded: The knowledge of God’s presence is more important to him than my productivity, than my comfort, than my health. How often has he taught me that in this chosen life overseas. In the great mystery of the universe, I lose my life to find it. I choose the desert and find the Bread of Life.

6.5 Myths About Expat Life

(this is a repost from Djibouti Jones)

Myth 1: Adventure

I’m an expatriate! Cue the Indiana Jones soundtrack, give me a whip and a cool hat, and let’s have an adventure! Okay my husband does have an Indiana Jones hat and I have used an Ethiopian whip, but life as an expatriate is not all about adventure. In fact, it rarely is. Adventures in the grocery store aisles! Adventures in biology homework! Adventures in filling the car up with gas! Laundry! Dishes! Disciplining children! Resolving marital conflict! Wow. All those exclamation points are making me tired. About as tired as the thought of living a constant adventure makes me. Expatriate life is just that. Life. Sometimes we do super awesome things like swim with whale sharks and hike down into live volcanoes but most of the time we are working, loving people, not-so-loving people, and doing the mundane things of life.

Myth 2: Living is the same as traveling

You might not believe what I said about Adventure. You might be a seasoned traveler who has seen the world and had a wonderfully adventurous time doing it. But traveling is not the same as living. Travelers don’t plan for where their next pair of running shoes is going to come from in a country with no running shoes. Travelers don’t need to open bank accounts or rent a post office box or figure out what school to send their children to. They don’t need to hire and fire language tutors or deal with grumpy bosses while seeing the world. Travelers get to see the world they want to see and they get to leave it when they’ve seen enough.

Myth 3: Feels like home

If you stay long enough, you’re right at home. Right? How many times have I heard, “You’re local now”? I’m not. I never will be. Yes, I understand things much better than the adventurous traveler passing through and I have some depth of cultural insight and some history and shared experiences. In some ways, the host country does start to feel like home. We have made it a home. But it is a divided home that comes, every year or two, with a ripping feeling as we shift between homes. We use phrases now like childhood home, passport nation, global nomad, and Third Culture Kid, and home is being constantly redefined.

Myth 4: Expat life is always fulfilling and purposeful

Oh, but you do such meaningful work! Yes, yes we do. And sometimes, I feel that. Sometimes it is a humbling, awesome thing to see people thriving in a business start-up we launched or a girl earning a personal best in a race for a club that we sponsor. Other days? I see the beggar on the street and I wince. I don’t want to deal with their need. Some days, I give to someone because I am compelled by faith and compassion. Other days? I give because I just want the person to go away. And most days? Most days I don’t give. Most days are groceries, homework, friendships, and culture confusion. Most days are regular days. I believe we carry ourselves with us when we move abroad and that my husband and I would live the same way if we lived in the US – pursuing purpose and doing fulfilling work there, too. Simply slapping on an expat label doesn’t automatically make my writing or my husband’s teaching more purposeful. In many ways, it simply makes it lonelier.

Myth 5: Expat life is one of luxury, comfort, and ease

I have a house helper. At one point, after I had our third child, I had a house helper and a nanny, as anyone with reasonable amounts of income is expected to provide jobs. We also have a guard who washes the car, waters the rocks, opens the gate, and runs errands. This sounds luxurious. And I will never, ever complain about not scrubbing our toilet or about not doing the dishes. We need this help to keep the house from literally falling apart (doors fall off hinges with frightening regularity) or friends from literally falling into our crap (the cement covering our septic tank cracks far too often). Grocery store trips require 3 stores, the market, vegetable stalls, a corner shop, and a delivery man. We have no dryer, no dishwasher, no microwave, no box mixes or fast food restaurants. I could dust twice a day and still go to bed with feet covered in dust. Things break at ridiculous speeds. Things like water pipes inside the walls, electricity, internet, appliances. We speak one or two foreign languages every day, navigating complicated cross-cultural relationships, and don’t have access to most convenience foods or products. There are no museums or concerts or plays or movie theaters so even our entertainment is DIY.

Myth 5.5: Expat life is one of suffering and deprivation

Well, if it isn’t all gold and diamonds, it must be suffering. It must be lonely and frustrating and discouraging and really, really hard. Yes, sometimes it is. I hate missing funerals and weddings. I hate that I haven’t even met my nephew yet and he is almost one. I hate that I’m not there for my friends’ pregnancies and divorces and to help people move or celebrate. But I wouldn’t classify this as a life of suffering or of deprivation, not any more than life anywhere could be. A stay-at-home mom wondering if she will ever talk to an adult again? A too-young mom with breast cancer? A parent working so many hours they can never make their kid’s t-ball games? Expat life is not more or less. It is just one kind of life.

Myth 6: Expats are heroic

We are brave, we have been through coups and murders and robberies. We are creative, have learned how to make bread by hand, brown sugar by hand, clothes by hand. We are strong, don’t complain about cold showers or our hair falling out or about the boys who shout ‘sex’ at us when we walk past (or even if we do complain about these things, we don’t leave, so we have perseverance). We hear the phrase, all too often, “I could never do it.” Baloney. One – yes you could, if you had to. Two – I can’t do it either. I cry and fight and want to quit. Three – I could turn the phrase around and say I couldn’t do what you are doing – the long hours, the isolation of American independence, the cultural intensity. But that’s not true, I could. Just like you could.

This is refusing empathy, drawing dividing lines, creating unhelpful comparisons. I don’t like hearing, “Oh, you don’t want to hear about my bad day because you have been to a refugee camp.” Don’t compare our challenges. Just open up your life to me and be open to mine and let’s listen to each other. I’m not a hero. You aren’t a hero. Or maybe we both are. We’re just trying to make it through our days, trying to make a little difference in the lives of others, trying to keep little kids fed and happy and spouses content and in love and eking out some joy and thankfulness.

I do it here, you do it there. Press on.

What are other myths you hear about expat life?

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When Missionaries Think They Know Everything

A few years ago, a video started making its way around my Facebook feed–shared by lots foreigners who live in my part of Africa. The video showed two African men shoveling sand. There was a very large pile of sand to their left. The two men were shoveling the sand into a wheelbarrow, filling it up, and then dumping it…two feet away.

The person filming this video obviously thought the men were complete idiots. “Watch this! Wait for it…wait for it…” she gleefully exclaimed. And when the men dumped out another wheelbarrow of sand just inches away, she could be heard bursting into giggles.

By the time I saw the video, it had over 13 million views and 300,000 shares by people who obviously thought the men’s idiocy was equally hilarious. I didn’t share it, but I had to admit that it did seem pretty amusing.

That is, I thought it was funny until two African friends set us all straight. They explained: While making concrete, in the absence of a cement mixer, a builder will use a wheelbarrow to measure. One part cement, two parts sand, three parts gravel. These men were not idiots. They knew exactly what they were doing. They were using the resources they had to do something that was actually quite rational.

Oh.

Oops.

I was terribly ashamed. Not just for myself, but for the millions of foreigners who come to Africa and think that we know everything. That one little video made me re-evaluate how I view my host country. It made me wonder how many other times I had the same attitude of condescension about something I knew nothing about.

There was a tag on that video: #TIA: “This is Africa.” This is a common hashtag in my part of the world, but foreigners often turn it into something demeaning. For example, “Spent all day waiting for my car to be fixed, and then realized they ‘fixed’ the wrong part. #TIA.”

But let’s step back a minute and take a look at that from a distance. What is “TIA” communicating in this instance? That everything always goes wrong in Africa? That no one knows how to fix anything? That we should have the expectation that everyone in Africa is an idiot? What would the mechanic think if he read it?

As Christian missionaries, it’s easy to assume that we are above this kind of behavior. After all, we’ve been vetted, interviewed, and scrutinized more than most people will be in their lifetime. We’re supposed to be godly, right? We’re supposed to love the nations, right? Missionaries could never be racist….right?

Call it racism, stereotyping, or ethnocentrism, but one thing we need to get really clear is that it dwells in all of our hearts in some form or another. If we’re really honest with ourselves, we have to admit that we really do think we know what’s best. Our way of doing things is really the most effective. Basically, I am better than you. Or at the very least, my culture is better than yours.

We assume that we could never be that person, yet that’s just the problem. We ignore the fact that despite the pedestals we have been put on, we actually aren’t saints; that signing on to missionary work didn’t actually get rid of our sin. We are, by nature, prideful and arrogant. Insisting that we aren’t just allows it to come out in unintended ways. The first step to rooting out sin in our lives is by acknowledging that it’s there—in all of us.

Of course, I’m not suggesting that we put on rose-colored glasses and pretend that our frustrations don’t exist. Inefficiency, foolishness, and downright evil exist in every culture, in various forms. I’m saying we need to check our attitude towards these things. Are we holding ourselves above the culture as if we’re better than it, and insisting we have all the answers? Or are we sitting down in the dust next to our local friends, learning to love the things they love and experience the frustrations they feel within their culture?

Marilyn Gardner writes, “Cultural humility demands self-evaluation and critique, constant effort to understand the view of another before we react. It requires that we recognize our tendency toward cultural superiority. Cultural humility gives up the role of expert, instead seeing ourselves as students of our host culture. It puts us on our knees, the best posture possible for learning.”

We need to ask ourselves:

Would I make this complaint if I knew a government official would hear it?
Would I tell this joke about my host country in front of my local friends?
Would I write this Facebook post if I knew the pastor of my local church would see it?

And what about my own kids? How are my children going to perceive our host country if they absorb my attitude about the government, the police, the mechanic, the drivers on the road? Are they learning from my words and actions to show grace or to display arrogance?

Even if you think you are just kidding around, be careful. Obviously, even local people complain about certain things in their country and even make jokes. But remember that playground rule when you were a kid: It’s okay for you to tease your little sister, but if your friend does it, then “them’s fighting words.” Even if your local friends disparage or mock aspects of their own culture, that doesn’t mean it’s okay for you to do it too. We are guests in our host countries. Let’s be considerate ones.

Of course, there’s a fine line here. If I see a Facebook post that says, “Saw a baboon on the back of a motorcycle today. #TIA,” well, that’s fun all around. No problem there. But keep in mind that it may take you many years before you know where that line is. And the longer I’ve lived overseas, the further I back up from that line. I continue to realize how much I have to learn. As I understand more and more that I don’t have the answers, the more deeply I appreciate the differences that I originally may have mocked.

In humility, consider others better than yourselves.

Even if it means giving the benefit of the doubt to two guys shoveling sand.

Visiting Home Might Not Be Everything You Dreamed

When I’m overseas, I dream about Target. Everything I need, all in one place, at reasonable prices! So when our furlough started a month ago, I visited Target the day after I arrived.

We’ve been missionaries for 13 years, so I should know better by now. Target’s awesomeness can be a little too much to take in just 48 hours after leaving East Africa. I was instantly bombarded with hordes of conflicting emotions. Wow, it’s all so amazing! Look at all this stuff! Yeah, what’s wrong with Americans? Why are they so materialistic? That one pair of shoes could feed a family for a week in Tanzania. And in just a couple of years, all these clothes will be cast off and end up in some market in Africa. So why should I even bother shopping for them now? Oooohhh….but I really like that blouse.

Emotional whiplash. I couldn’t keep up.

And then when I finally did finish shopping, I felt like an idiot as the clerk tried to help me use the chip card machine. Shoot, I thought I was doing well by just remembering how to use a credit card, and then they go and change all the rules on me! “Sorry,” I mumbled to her. “I’ve been living overseas a really long time.”

Ah, going home. We dream about it. We long for it. We count the days until take off. But when it finally arrives, the reality just doesn’t match up. And we find ourselves in the midst of adjusting, all over again, to a place that we thought would feel like home. We find ourselves struggling with disillusionment and discouragement.

So why can visiting home feel so hard? Here are some thoughts.

People move on. When you leave home for a just a few weeks or months, it’s easy to slip back into the same routines of life. Friends, social events, and jobs all come back together just as they were before—just with more stories to tell. But when you leave for years, life goes on without you. In your mind, time stood still back at home, but in reality, your friends have gone through hard stuff and happy stuff, and you were not there to experience with them. And all those people who sent you overseas with much fanfare? They are a lot busier now, and might forget to roll out that red carpet you expected.

You are a different person. Spending years in a different country changes you. You’ve adapted to new ways of speaking, interacting, shopping, sleeping, and raising kids. There are literally new pathways in your brain. It’s not so easy to just drop all of that on a 14 hour flight and expect to become the same person you once were when you get back home. You are not going to see the world the same way ever again.

Which leads to the next point: You won’t be treated the same way you were before. You’re in a different category, and even close friends might not know how to relate to you. People often won’t be able to understand your life overseas, they don’t know what questions to ask, and you’ve entered a spiritual plane that is intimidating.

Your home country will not look the same. You might go out to dinner, and find yourself feeling guilty about how differently that money could be used in your host country. The people around you might appear more fickle than they did before you left, and you might feel a lot more critical of your home culture. The barrage of new emotions can be disconcerting and disorienting.

And to top it off, Furlough never looks like real life. During all those years overseas, you day-dreamed about your life back at home. You imagined yourself back in your happiest of memories: Christmases by the fire, family movie nights, Sunday lunches with grandma. And though you may get to re-experience a lot of those things on your furloughs back home, you quickly come to realize that furlough life is nothing like your old life. You are living in strange places out of suitcases, you travel constantly, you have to be an extrovert even if you aren’t one. You get glimpses of your old life, but it’s never really the same.

But. Before you despair, let me encourage you with this:

There truly are a lot of wonderful things about visiting home. Absolutely. You will certainly find an abundance of joy in reuniting with the people, the churches, and the food you have missed for so long. And even Target, of course. But adjust your expectations. Don’t get your feelings hurt by people who have moved on. Don’t expect the red carpet rolled out for you. Don’t be surprised by bombarding emotions and know that not all of them will be happy feelings. And do expect that the feelings of estrangement and isolation will increase with every progressive furlough. Enjoy the wonderful parts of visiting home, but don’t be surprised when it’s not everything you hoped it would be.

Also, learn be content with where you are. Don’t spend your entire time in your host country dreaming about life back at home. Work hard to be all there, to fully immerse your mind and your heart completely in your new country. Remind yourself that as much as you miss life back at home, that it was never perfect, and you’ll find that it’s even less perfect than you remember.

How Living Abroad is Like Marriage

Compatibility is an achievement of love. It shouldn’t be its precondition.

Alain de Botton

The same could be said for living abroad. I hear many people say they ‘fell in love with Africa’ as soon as their feet touched the ground off the plane. I’m not sure how Kenyan or Nigerian or Burundian tarmac has developed this incredible ability to inspire love for an entire continent, while American tarmac is just tarmac. But. I think the above quote by de Botton applies to living abroad as much as it does to love. We achieve compatibility with the new places we live in as foreigners, we don’t arrive perfectly adjusted. We need to know this and we need to know this is okay.

Here’s how living abroad can be like building a marriage (aka: achieving compatibility in love):

Week One

Everything in this country is awesome and fascinating and I just want to know, like intimately, know it. I want to be one with it. I think that is totally possible. I want people to see that I belong here because I’m so good at communicating, I can even do it just with my hands. Who needs words when I’m such a good fit? I fit in so naturally; wearing all the beautiful clothes and eating all the fascinating food. I adapt so easily to all the things that are done differently here. This country is the best country I could have chosen, it will make me better, smarter, funnier, more attractive. People will think I’m amazing, just because I live here. I’ll probably never leave. This country can do no wrong.

Month Six

Did I say this country could do no wrong? I meant it could do no right. It smells bad. The food is weird. I don’t understand the clothing or fashion. There are these strange noises at night that interrupt my sleep, which I really need because living here is exhausting because everyone is so weird. Dare I say everyone is so backward and wrong? Why would anyone live here? On purpose even! This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I think I made a huge mistake.

Year Three

Seriously? I still live here? And I still don’t understand anything? I mean, I understand the words but I don’t understand what they mean. Why doesn’t anyone communicate clearly? Why can’t people here just do things like I do things? Why am I the one who has to adapt all the time? Doesn’t anyone care about how lonely and exhausted that makes me? No one seems to appreciate me at all. I wish I could leave but I signed that contract. sigh Maybe I’ll make it a couple more years, if that box of chocolates ever arrives in the post. I mean, it is starting to feel like home, a new definition of home anyway.

Year Ten

Double digits, baby! Most people would have gotten out of here by now but then look what they’d be missing out on – deep relationships. Like with people who have stayed with me when I couldn’t even use a squatty potty without falling in, people who have watched my kids grow up. We’ve celebrated and grieved together, cooked and danced and prayed. This place has changed me and, this might not even make sense, but I feel more like myself than I ever did before, more like myself when I’m here than when I’m other places.

Year Fifteen

I’m the grandma expatriate around here. I say things like, “Oh, I remember back before we even had electricity,” and “That’s just the way they do things here, honey, suck it up.” Sometimes I’m afraid being here so long has made me cynical. I know how messed up things are. I know how messed up I am. Sometimes that makes for a bad combination but we’re kind of stuck together now, me and this country. I’ll never fully shake this place out of my hair. It hasn’t been easy, but its been good.

Year Twenty

(not there yet as an expatriate, two years to go in marriage)

I never did succeed in changing this place into the image of my own liking. I’m okay with that though, I probably would have made things worse. I’m the one who has changed. I’m learning to be honest and to live authentically and to work with, instead of against the culture. I think maybe, just maybe, I’ve had a small impact outside myself. I’d say that’s good enough because I’m not anxious about the future anymore. I’ve seen people and projects come and go, succeed and fail, and things keep moving along. I’m just happy to have played my part in this rich, complicated place. Its been an honor.

What year of marriage expat living are you in?

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CULTURE SHOCK! (yes, it still happens at 6 months)

By Beth Barthelemy

It’s been almost six months since we stepped off the plane and onto South African soil. Six months of glorious new experiences, of meeting new people and trying new foods, of seeing new sights and relishing (mostly) sunny weather… and six months of that dreaded companion known to all cross-cultural workers: culture shock.

This is how it looks for me right now.

I thought our new dryer was broken, so I called the store we bought it from and they sent out a repair man. He looked at me like I was an idiot when he explained that there is nothing wrong with this dryer – it’s working perfectly fine. “It’s supposed to stop and start like that, the whole cycle?” I asked. “Yes, that’s how it works,” he said. “Oh. Well, why does it run for three hours when I set it for a 40 minute cycle?” I prodded further, still thinking something was wrong with it. “Because it will stop for 5 minutes when the cycle is finished, and if you don’t stop it, it will start the cycle over again,” he explained, eyeing me. “Oh” I said again. I have done hundreds of loads of laundry in my life, maybe thousands, I thought, I’m not an idiot! I know how to work dryers… in my country.

One morning, I see beautiful pictures of the first snow back in Chicago. Here, it is beautifully warm, and I’m trying to be so thankful for the lovely weather, but really, I just miss snow, because it’s February, and I’ve always known snow in February. My oldest daughter has been asking when it will snow, and when she can make a snowman, and when she can go sledding, and where her snow pants and snow boots are, because she loves snow. I’ve told her it probably won’t snow here, and together we shared real disappointment. So I close Facebook and Instagram for now, because it’s just hard to see. And I miss snow. (I know, call me crazy.)

If I am out and about with the girls, especially the little ones, people will randomly come and pick them up. At first, this scared the living daylights out of me, as you can probably understand. Now I know it’s just sweet ladies being affectionate and loving on my kids. If the littlest one is happy, they may even walk her around the store while I try to shop and keep an eye on where she is.

It could be another 21 days before our internet gets hooked up, they said on the phone. Oh, we say, this is another one of those TIA (This Is Africa) things. I take deep breaths.

I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to keep the girls’ clothes clean. I have tried several different kinds of stain removers here, and nothing seems to work, and there is so much mud. Their clothes are getting ruined, but they are only clothes, so it’s okay, I think? But I wish I could just drive to Target and buy some OxiClean, because, for us, that always worked. But it’s only clothes.

Why don’t the light bulbs sit solidly in the lamps? Every time I open my dresser, the light flickers. Am I doing something wrong here?

In the grocery store the other day, we had all the kids, who were squirrely because it was almost dinner time, and I kept walking up and down the aisles, looking for… beef and vegetable broth. I could not find it. I stood in the soup aisle, and tears filled my eyes as I tried to read all the labels to figure out what these boxes were full of. Finally, I just grabbed something, and am hoping it will work. I think maybe I need to make my own broth.

A few months back, it was American Thanksgiving, and we saw so many great pictures of our friends and families celebrating. I knew the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was about to start, and I heard it was chilly, so I thought about warm sweaters and crackling fires. It was 81 degrees here, and we had a full day of all the normal language study activities, and I had an appointment late in the afternoon. It’s a holiday in my home country, I thought, like a secret I was carrying. Very late in the game, we invited our fellow American coworkers over for roast beef, and I threw together a pumpkin pie in a cake pan with butternut squash, and we had a meaningful time together. I’m so glad we did.

My daughters are, for the most part, adjusting so well to their new environment. Partly, I think, this is because they are so young, and honestly, do not understand all the losses. So we are helping them with that. But yesterday, I thought, if they talk about their plans to go to Moriah’s house and Micah’s house and Grandma and Grandpa’s house one more time, I’m going to fall apart. I tell them, “Yes, we will, it will just be quite awhile. Do you remember how we had to take three airplanes to get here? We will have to take three airplanes back to see Moriah, and Micah, and Grandma and Grandpa, and all the other people we love in the US.” They understand, sort of, and are not sad, because for them, “quite awhile” could be just a week, or a month or something. They don’t know it will be years. I just carry that for them.

Anytime I see a little girl with her grandma, I look away quickly, but my eyes fill with tears. Anytime I see a mom with her adult daughter, I have to start deep breathing exercises. Anytime I see friends having coffee together, I feel incredibly lonely.

Basically, culture shock right now feels like I do not know how to do quite a lot of things here that I could do well, without evening thinking about it, in my home country (like getting stains out of and drying clothes!). I am like a child, here, in this culture, learning how to do life all over again.

We recently had a truly lovely day, with windows wide open and a nice breeze and warm sun – it was perfect, for July. I knew it would be a challenge to change my internal seasonal “clock” and it is. It will come, I know it will. Day by day we are learning more about how to not just survive, but truly enjoy our new life here. We remind ourselves to be patient.

I remember what Jesus says in Matthew 18:3-4: “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” Here I am, more like a child than I ever wanted to be, more dependent and fragile and unsure of myself than ever — and though not really out of choice, more humble too. Yet in all these things, I thank my Lord, for they lead me more and more to rely on Him each day.

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Beth Barthelemy is a wife, mother to three young children, and cross cultural worker. She and her husband, Ben, moved to South Africa in 2016 to be involved in teaching and discipling future Christian leaders. She has an MA in Christian Studies from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. You can find her at www.bbbarthelemy.blogspot.com and www.instagram.com/bethbarthelemy.

Dear Life Abroad — I’ll keep my identity, thanks.

“Loss of identity.”

It makes every list doesn’t it? Right near the top. Up there with rootlessness, culture shock and horrible toilets.

When you take a two column, pros and cons approach to life abroad, the word “identity” rarely makes it into the pro column. In fact, if you compiled the sum of all of the pro-con lists out there and put them into a full disclosure, up front and honest sales pitch for a life overseas, you’d be hard pressed to convince a single person to sign on.

“Adventure that will change your life forever. Exposure to amazing people, traditions and foods. Community like you’ve never experienced. Frequent flier miles galore.”

“Oh and your identity is going to be stripped to the point that you will question everything you ever believed to be true about yourself.”

“Sound good?”

“Click here to sign up.”

You would think that living abroad is a first cousin to a witness protection program, which always sounds cool at first — and then you think it through. New life, new home, new friends but your old life will be gone forever.

I get it. I really do.

I have expatriated (moved abroad), repatriated (moved “home”) and then expatriated again.

I have felt thoroughly incompetent both far away and in my own country.

I have questioned deeply my role, my calling and my ability to contribute to anything significant.

I have felt lost, confused, broken and paralyzed.

BUT (and this is a huge BUT).

MY LIFE ABROAD HAS NOT TAKEN MY IDENTITY FROM ME.

On the contrary, living cross-culturally has shaped my identity. Stretched it. Molded it. Changed it to be sure, but there is nothing missing in who I am because of where I have been.

Here are three quick thoughts on identity and living abroad.

ONE: EVERYTHING WE DO CHANGES OUR IDENTITY

It’s funny to me that college doesn’t get the same bad rap that living abroad does. The identity gap between who we are on day one of university and who we are at graduation is the most pronounced of our lives.

Scratch that. Puberty — then college — but still.

When we talk about the college years we generally say things like, “that’s when I found myself,” or “that’s when I discovered who I really was.” We don’t often say “that’s when I lost my identity” even though we may be a dramatically different person.

Everything changes us.

College. Job. Marriage. Kids. Accomplishment. Tragedy.

All of it becomes a part of who we are.

TWO: YOU ALWAYS GO FORWARD — YOU NEVER GO BACK

Here’s where I think the rub is. I can’t prove it with science but I’ve watched it happen over and over.

Something clicks inside of our brain when we move abroad that convinces us that we have stepped into a time space continuum. It’s the same basic concept that makes us feel like our kids haven’t changed a bit while their grandparents think they’ve grown like weeds. We tend to fixate on the last point of connection and even though logically we reason that time continues in other places too . . . it’s still a shock when we see it in person.

Our lives are so dramatically different abroad and the contrast is so vivid that when we return we presume that we are simply stepping back through the portal . . . into the same place . . . with the same people.

So it stands to reason that we should be the same as well . . . but we’re not. In fact, all of the people involved have never stopped moving forward.

Life abroad is unique in that it is one of the few major life experiences that is marked by a sense of “going back” at the end.

College might be different if we graduated and went back to high school.

That would be a loss of identity for sure.

THREE: YOUR “LIFE ABROAD IDENTITY” IS WORTH HOLDING ONTO

Every year about this time I get to have a lot of conversations with people who are finishing their time abroad. I’ll give you three guesses what the most COMMONLY REPEATED FEAR that I hear is.

Here’s a clue: It’s NOT, “I’m afraid I won’t even know who I am.” That comes later.

It’s NOT, “I’m afraid I won’t fit back in.” That’s a big one but it’s not number one.

Ready?

It generally goes something like this: “I’m afraid I will slip back into my old life and just become who I used to be. I don’t want to forget what I have experienced and who I have become abroad.”

That doesn’t sound like a LOSS of identity to me. It sounds like a rich and wonderful ADDITION.

Here’s the kicker — not a single one of those people would say life abroad was ONLY rich and wonderful.

They tripped and bumbled just like the rest of us but through it all they found something in the experience that they never, ever want to let go of . . . to the point that they fear losing it.

For me — “IDENTITY” goes in the pro column.

Anyone else?

Don’t Ask Me About My Christmas Traditions

My first Christmas on African soil was when I had just turned six years old. We had arrived in Liberia only three weeks earlier, and my mom was in the throes of major culture shock. My parents had shipped over a few presents, but nothing else for Christmas. My mom managed to find a two-foot plastic tree at a store, and decorated it with tiny candy canes wrapped in cellophane. After just a few days, the candy canes turned into puddles inside their wrappers. My mom says it was the most depressing Christmas she’s ever had.

liberia-1 — Our first Liberian Christmas: My brother and I with our punching balloons, and my sad Mama.

I remember that Christmas, but the funny thing is, I thought it was great. I remember being concerned how Santa would get into our house without a chimney, but my parents assured me they would leave the door unlocked. We had a tree, we were together, and it was Christmas. I was happy.

Fast forward 25 years to when I started raising my own TCKs in tropical Africa. I was a young mother around the time when social media was really taking off, and I felt suffocated under the expectations of creating a magical Christmas for my children, complete with handmade crafts and meaningful traditions. Not only that, but I was quite literally suffocating in a southern hemisphere tropical climate. There weren’t going to be any pine trees or snuggling up in pajamas while going out to see Christmas lights. In fact, the only festivity to be found in our city was a five-foot high, mechanical, singing Santa in our grocery store that terrified my two-year-old and made her run away screaming.

We can tell ourselves that “Jesus is the reason for the season”—and even believe it—but we all know that we have expectations for Christmas to be more than that. The traditions, the parties, the “magic,” even the cold weather, all are wrapped up in what we dream Christmas is “supposed” to be.

Which is why my first few Christmases as an adult in Tanzania were hard. I missed my family. And I missed the smell of wood fires in the air, wearing hats and scarves, and Christmas carols by candlelight. I mourned over what my children were lacking. But then I remembered that first Christmas in Liberia, and how I really didn’t care about the absence of icicle lights or pumpkin pie. I remembered other childhood Christmases in Africa, like when our neighbors from Arizona taught us the Mexican tradition of luminarias—paper bag lanterns that lined the road on Christmas eve. Or how our British friends introduced us to Christmas crackers, or the time a German guest stuck sparklers in the turkey. I remembered being thrilled with the goofy, cheaply made presents found at the open-air market. Or that year in Ethiopia when the Christmas tree was just a green-painted broomstick with branches stuck in it.

Just as TCKs dread the question, “Where are you from?” as a child I also dreaded the question, “What are your family’s Christmas traditions?” Because growing up, we didn’t have traditions. Every year was different because we absorbed the traditions of the people around us. We had a tree, we had each other, and we had joy. That was enough.

I’ve learned to relax about trying to create traditions or give my children a magical Christmas. I’ve learned to be happy with our green, warm Christmases in Tanzania, even if it means I need to delete the “winter” songs out of my holiday playlist in order to be content. My kids don’t need Hershey’s kisses, black-and-gold velvet dresses, or Toys R Us catalogs to be happy. It’s often refreshing to be away from the commercialism and the psychotic busyness of the States at this time of year. In fact, sometimes the untraditional, lonely, sparse aspects of an overseas Christmas help us to identify with the Incarnation just a little bit better.

And as for our traditions in Tanzania, they have sprung up naturally, with little effort on my part. We close the windows and splurge on air conditioning in the living room for two weeks in December. We have a water balloon fight. I love to bake, so we make gingerbread houses from scratch. But even these traditions I hold loosely, knowing that every year will vary by country or climate or what’s available at the grocery store.

If you are one of those amazing moms who manages to build traditions that transcend country and climate, go for it. Share your ideas with us. But if you can’t, or won’t, or the mere thought of it stresses you out, then take a lesson from my childhood and don’t worry about it so much. If you have a tree—even if it’s two feet tall or made from a broomstick–if you are together, and if you have joy, that’s all you really need.

Culture Stress, when There’s No Hook to Hang It On

When most people open up their closets in the morning, they usually ignore the out-of-style shirts on the edge, the wrong-color sweaters, the too-tight pants. Instead, as much as they can, they grab something that looks right, something that fits right, something that feels right.

When you transition between countries, your cultural closets get switched. Your choices become limited, and you often have to put on things you’d rather not wear. You’ve given up comfort for other purposes. Some of this discomfort is just an annoyance, like a scratchy tag inside the collar of your shirt. But some can seem unworkable, like that same shirt two sizes too small.

It’s the Water and the Dirt

When I and my family moved overseas, we weren’t surprised by culture stress. We may not have been fully prepared, but we weren’t surprised. What did surprise us, though, was that we couldn’t always identify the causes of our irritation and pain.

For many stressors, you know just what hook to hang them on. Singing at church feels a little off? It’s because everybody’s clapping on a different beat than you are. Can’t sleep? That’s because of the all-night traffic outside your window. Nagging cough? Pollution.

Being able to name a problem helps us sort things out. It gives us vocabulary for talking about it with others. It helps us better understand our new home and ourselves. It helps us find solutions. It helps us cope.

But sometimes, there is no hook, at least not an obvious one.

A few months after we landed in Taipei, my wife developed a “cold,” a cold that lasted on and off for over a year. Our doctor couldn’t find a solution and none of his remedies helped (one medicine caused her heart to race). Finally, he diagnosed her with shui tu bu fu, which can be translated as “not acclimated to the water and soil.” That’s odd, because we didn’t drink the water, and with all the concrete, and we rarely saw the soil.

Shui tu bu fu may have been the most accurate description for her illness, but it wasn’t very comforting. For us it had a simple meaning: we can’t explain it, and the only cure is getting used to Taiwan. (Add vague diagnoses to our cultural stressors.)

Over time, she did get better, but it’s hard to suffer without knowing the cause. With culture stress, even when a cure isn’t evident, we’d like to know the why. Without the why, it can start to seem, at least to others, that the symptoms aren’t real. A tombstone that reads “I told you I was sick” is hardly a victory.

Heavy Pockets

Culture stress is cumulative over time. That’s one of the reasons I prefer the term culture stress over culture shock. To me, culture shock brings up images of being brought to your knees by a great weight—for example, an enormous wool coat with its pockets full of bricks. Culture stress includes that heavy coat and also a jacket with a pebble added to its pockets each day. Bricks are obvious; pebbles, not always, but they can weigh you down just the same.

Of course, not every feeling of frustration or malaise is caused by culture stress. Often, we bring our own ill-fitting wardrobe with us and adjusting to a new setting brings that to the forefront.

Sometimes our feelings come from a combination of multiple causes, with or without identifiable hooks, and at times, they can seem overwhelming. If everything rubs you the wrong way and you find yourself having an “I hate (insert name of host country here) day,” don’t beat yourself up. You’re not alone. It happens. Also, understand that those days are equal opportunity when it comes to place. You may find yourself having an “I hate (insert name of passport country here) day,” too. Reverse culture stress is equally real—and can be equally frustrating to pinpoint.

In whatever form, culture stress is normal. So is it normal to be faced with confusion when going through it. Give yourself time. Give grace to your host culture, and use the same grace for yourself. That time and grace will change you. They will give you the ability to tolerate, accept, and embrace, and to be able to say, “I love this place!”

The Aches of This World

London-born author Tahir Shah makes his living writing about travel and crossing cultures. In his book In Arabian Nights: A Caravan of Moroccan Dreams, he tells about his life after moving to a dilapidated mansion in a Casablanca shantytown. He writes,

Settling into a new country is like getting used to a new pair of shoes. At first they pinch a little, but you like the way they look, so you carry on. The longer you have them, the more comfortable they become. Until one day without realizing it you reach a glorious plateau. Wearing those shoes is like wearing no shoes at all. The more scuffed they get, the more you love them and the more you can’t imagine life without them.

This is the goal when one makes a new country home, this feeling of shoelessness, but it’s not always possible. Some pinches we never get used to, and some we shouldn’t. We should never become comfortable with gross injustices: racism, human trafficking, child abuse, and the like. We want to get rid of the feeling of different, but the pains and the aches are needful reminders that all is not right, and this regardless of the earthly locale. As Paul writes, “Our citizenship is in heaven,” not in this world.

Paul’s writing also shows us that “wearing” our home is an idea that should not be foreign to Christians. In 2 Corinthians, Paul says,

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed instead with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. Now the one who has fashioned us for this very purpose is God, who has given us the Spirit as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come.

“We groan, longing to be clothed instead with our heavenly dwelling.” This move goes beyond new clothes for our bodies, it necessitates new bodies for our souls. So if on earth we are not comfortable even in our own skins, how can we expect to be completely comfortable in the trappings of any culture?

Someday when we put on heaven, we’ll truly be home. There will be no more groaning, no more culture stress, no more painful shoes, no more stiff collars, no more weighted pockets . . . and no more need for hooks.

(Tahir Shah, In Arabian Nights: A Caravan of Moroccan Dreams, Bantam, 2008; Philippians 3:20, 2 Corinthians 5:1-5, NIV)

[photo: “038,” by glassghost, used under a Creative Commons license]

America, Meet the World

Hello America. Meet the Rest of the World.

Note: This is not a political post but one of identification.

The closer we get to the election in the United States, the more comments, eye rolling, and jokes I am hearing as an American living overseas.

My journey as an American in missions has spanned over 25 years. When I began, everyone loved and warmly welcomed Americans. I can remember being in the Philippines and everyone shouted, “Hey Joe” at me, referring to G.I. Joe. It was with warmth and not derision.

The looks of disbelief started with the war in the Balkans and increased with the invasion of Iraq.

Upon moving to South Africa under Bush II, I often wished I could change my accent. Things improved remarkably over the last eight years under Obama. His African roots may have had something to do with this.

I will never forget Barack Obama’s first inauguration, which aired live on local television in South Africa. I stood next to multiple nationalities of people who were stunned to witness the peaceful transition of power. Many of their nations changes leaders with bullets and violence, not handshakes and civil exchanges.

As this election approaches, I feel like the 8 years of goodwill is up and I can once again expect ridicule as the circus of the coming election unfolds.

Africans are constantly commenting in my Facebook feed about what they are witnessing. Here is one recent comment:

_”Just love watching the American politics at the moment. Making South African politics look good. Is Donald Trump the Julius (Malema) of America?_” (Just so you know, most South Africans would consider Julius to be a disruptor and not a positive influence. But it shows the world is watching! )

One constant thought has been running through my mind. This helps me identify with the pain of other nations. I do realize my understanding is still very limited.

The pinprick of pain I feel from the current madness is nothing compared to the agony many nations have been under for years.

While dysfunction is now the rule in America, I’ve never been faced with a dictator or tyrant leading my nation. While there are many inspiring leaders in Africa, her people have also witnessed genocides or imposed famines.

Voting in America is still a choice which is not forced through threat or intimidation.

The pain of a nation does not disappear quickly. I still see German youth cringe when Hitler or Nazism is mentioned. Even after multiple generations, the decisions a nation makes can have a lasting effect.

I have very good friends from Zimbabwe. For years, whenever a bad leader was mentioned, theirs was on the list. The shame of this is hard, even though it is no fault of their own.

It is the strength I see in these people which well help me to endure the jokes and mocking which is sure to follow the current circus in the United States.

In a small, very small, way I feel I am identifying more with my international friends from nations with really bad leaders.

Note: Since this is a post about identification and not politics, I ask that you refrain from leaving political comments and only discuss the issue of identification. Thank you.

Photo credit: indifference via photopin (license)

I Believe, Help My Unbelief

In work, ministry, and life we all experience frequent seasons when things don’t work out quite the way we had hoped.

In missions, our internal dialogues consist of “Am I making a difference?” or “Will these things ever change?”

When we are trusting for provision, for a breakthrough in our health, or seeing a life changed, there is very fine line between losing hope or accepting the limitations of the change that will happen, all while still believing in a God who could do the unexpected.

We’ve all heard the stories where people are told to “just have faith”. I personally have seen a friend who was told her father died because of a lack of faith.

Is that the answer? More faith?

This year has brought several of these challenges to our family. Ministry disappointment, divorce of those close to us, and various health related issues.

We found ourselves wrestling with the delicate blend of serving an all-powerful God on a broken and imperfect planet. Sometimes this process results in times of throwing up your hands, wondering what is happening.

A passage of Scripture has been in the forefront of my thoughts for a few months. It seems to reflect this very tension.

In Mark 9:14-29, Jesus heals a boy with an unclean spirit. In the dialogue which preceded the healing, Jesus asked the boy’s father how long this has been happening? The fathers respond with,

“But if you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.”

Jesus points out the key word in the father’s statement.

“IF”

“And Jesus said to him, “If you can! All things are possible for one who believes.”

How many times in the depths of frustration do we catch ourselves uttering “If?”

We almost feel guilty for this. Of course Jesus can do it. He is God after all.

Yet in our humanity, we utter that two letter statement of doubt, often in fear of getting our hopes up.

“If.”

Not so much if you are capable, but if….

You will do this for me, not just others.
The provision happens in my bank account, not always my neighbors’.
The healing we see working in our communities will find its way into our own homes.

Yes, He can,…but will He break into a broken and fallen world and touch MY situation.

The father in the story utters a phrase which is so profound.

“Immediately the father of the child cried out and said, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

I believe…..help my unbelief.

I believe in truth, I believe in principle, I believe in the unchanging character of the one I serve.

But…

Help my unbelief, which comes with emotion, fear, doubt, and weariness

As we turn to the New Year, it is good to do two things.

Acknowledge and be honest about…

the fears that our ministry will never achieve all we hope,
the doubts that God will answer OUR prayers (not just those of others),
the weariness which can border on frustration, tempting us to pack it in and go home

These are areas where we cry out to God to help our unbelief.

At the same time, we need to remind ourselves of what we DO believe.

I believe in the unchanging character of a good God.
I know God is on my side and working for my benefit.
I trust Immanuel, God with us, is not leaving us alone in this journey.

Acknowledge the unbelief and ask for help.

Remind ourselves of the truth which forms our foundation. (Preach it in the mirror!)

Take some time as the year wraps up to reflect and reset. We all need it.

I Believe….Help My Unbelief

Photo by Tiago Muraro

Same Same, Thankfully

As I am in the middle of wading through culture shock, I am so thankful for things that seem to transcend time zones and culture. Things that I know are the same no matter where I am or who I’m with or what language I’m (kind of) speaking.

Like the normal, everyday things that make up a life.

What were once mundane tasks and chores I had to grit through with my son, the things that would leave me counting down the hours until my husband got home or until bedtime, are now the things that make me feel sane. Because culture shock is tricky, and sometimes I get worried I’m slowly losing bits of myself.

It’s the normal, everyday tasks which remind me that though they may be expressed differently in this season, and may be even a little tucked away and hidden, my personality and gifts and humor and skills are all still there.

I’m still me. Which, depending on the issue or the day, is either really reassuring or really frustrating.

One of the millions of things I’ve either heard or read about culture shock and the transition to being third culture is that one will easily romanticize whichever culture they are not in. So, when I’m annoyed with Thailand and everything here feels hard, it’s easy to think to myself well, if we were in America this would NOT be happening or doing this in America is way easier and better or I would never feel this way at home in America.

And those are all lies. Because the reality is my garbage is the same garbage there as it is here. The issues I had at home are the issues I have abroad.

Sure, paying my phone bill takes way less actual time in America than it seems to in Thailand. That is true. But, the amount of patience and flexibility I have are the exact same in both places. This place just seems to reveal just how impatient and hurried I really am. It certainly isn’t Thailand’s fault that an errand taking multiple trips and a couple hours makes me impatient, annoyed, self-righteous and more swear-y than an R-rated movie. That’s on me. You can imagine what a massive bummer it is to realize that not so far under the surface of my personality lays all this nasty junk.

Apparently, all the “better” ways at home are merely a precarious system of things which keep me from snapping someone’s head off and using a 20$ expletive.

If all the nice, orderly, dependable systems in your life suddenly unraveled or ceased to exist entirely, what of you would be left?

You. You would be left.

Whatever there is of you, it’s there no matter where you are. No matter what or who is holding you up or together, you are the same.

And, again, that’s either deeply reassuring or really frustrating.

Which is why I’m finding solace in those boring, normal, everyday things. The things that just make me feel like me, the things that remind me that, though sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, I am still me. The normalcy of making someone laugh really hard, because it reminds me that yes, I am still funny. The really normal, mundane work of washing dishes and making the bed and returning emails all of a sudden become grounding because washing a dish is the same and how I like my pillows arranged is the same and how I sign an email, that too, is the same. Because when it feels like I am being molded and pushed and prodded from all sides, it’s wonderful to find those things that are same. Whatever that means right now.

So I am loving the mundane.

The moments and things that used to make me want to punch someone in the face or buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke them all while drinking a long island are now the times that remind me I’m still me and my husband and I are still us.

Doing the laundry all day every day and wiping bottoms and washing dishes and sending emails and lesson planning and talking to a friend back home who is picking out baby names, all of those things are what help make and keep me. The sameness helps me find sanity and encouragement when everything around me is different and new.

The mundane sacred work of being a mom and a wife and a friend and a child of God and a sister isn’t contingent on where I live. And what those things reveal of my character and heart isn’t either.

It’s me. It’s all me wherever I am.

So while some of it reveals the ugly and sinful stuff, some of it reveals the beautiful and lovely stuff. Some of living here reveals the gross, and some reveals the resilient and adaptable.

And, thankfully, I get to keep working all of it out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Katie Kleinjung lives with her husband Stephen and two babies, Shepherd and Valor, in Thailand. After living in the same town her entire life, a life overseas was never on her radar. When she decided to leave her home of Minnesota, she figured she’d make it worth it and went to Bible College in Ecuador. It was there that she realized she just may end up on the mission field. During university, she traveled to Thailand a number of times and took a semester off to live and work in India. A seminary dropout, Katie is passionate about missions, living authentically, and experiencing all life has to offer. Within the first year of their marriage, Katie and Stephen decided to leave their steady jobs, family and friends and head to Thailand. They also got pregnant, moved a few times and Stephen underwent four major surgeries. Follow their crazy life and honest antics at www.thekleinjungs.com. Instagram @katiejkleinjung; Twitter @thekleinjungs; Periscope: The Kleinjungs.