It's an amazing thing when you can sit down for lunch with an old friend that you haven't seen in 3 years and pick up where you left off... What a blessing it is to have friends like that. It is great and heart-wrenching at the same time. This is because it revives a friendship that I so appreciate and love, but reminds me of the fact that so many miles separate us. And this is the story of my life.
One of the hardest moments of my entire life was graduating High School. Most kids look forward to this day with great anticipation: finally being able to be on their own, the excitement of stepping into adulthood out from under their parent's jurisdiction, the ability to pursue the degree of their choice among so many other things. For me graduating from High School was very different. I went to boarding school in Germany for missionary kids, military kids, and some nationals. I moved away from home when I was 15, so the sense of independence was already there, but the thing I dreaded the most was leaving Black Forest Academy.
There was actually a point during my Senior year that I contemplated flunking one of my main classes so that I could stay an extra year. Crazy, I know. This place had become my home. A place where I was understood, where my heart came alive, where I could know and be known. It was unlike any other place I had lived at this point in my life. Kids litteraly from all over the world came together to live, study and grow while their parents worked either in missions, the military or other international careers.
I came my Freshman year of High School and spent all four years, living, learning and growing alongside these other kids, teachers, dorm parents, and residence assistants. It was the longest I had lived in one place and I was not eager to leave. I had made once in a lifetime kind of friends since coming there, and I knew that once we received our diplomas we would be scattered to the winds. That thought was unbearable.
I remember starting to grieve early. I was very aware of every "last" thing that we did together. The final weeks leading up to graduation was extremely difficult. I cried everyday. Then the dreaded day came. We put on our caps and gowns hoped against hopes that maybe we would see each again some day. Most of us knew that the promises to write and keep in touch would soon fade into good intentions and eventual memories. Our last night together was full of attempts to reconcile so many conflicting emotions. I don't think I've ever cried to hard in my entire life. We did everything we could to stay together as long as we could. We knew that once we said good bye, our lives would never be the same.
Somehow I survived that night and the following year. A great sadness came over me and I was riddled with grief and sorrow. I managed to save enough money to go back the follow year to watch the class of 1998 graduate. It was a healing experience to realize that life was different and had moved on without me, but it was still very hard to leave at the end of my time there.
To this day I hate the word good bye. If there is grief in the air, I'll be able to sense it. My heart is very sensitive to it and to those who have to walk through it. It is very difficult to explain to someone who has not experience significant loss. This pain will more than likely accompany me through the rest of my life.
Well I wasn't intending on this post to be so depressing but there it is. My heart was transported back to that place. It is a difficult reality to be faced with in a world that is highly mobile. The ones we are closest to and love dearly often don't live down the street. I cannot wait for heaven when we will all be together in one place, FOREVER!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Flourishing
In keeping with this quest of stepping out into my fears in hopes of regaining my heart and attempting to live authentically comes the question: who am I? I'm in my 31st year of life, and one would think at this point, a person this age would have a general sense of who he or she is, what some of their passions are and some idea of what they can uniquely contribute to society. A sense of purpose, identity and meaning.
An interesting thing happens when you grow up as a missionary kid: your identity becomes confused. You are born into your passport country and yet because of God's calling on their lives, your parents raise you in a different culture than the one you were born into. Sometimes to add further confusion, your parents don't stay in just that new host culture, they work in other countries or like in my case you go to boarding school in a different culture. TCKs, that's what they call us.
Dave Pollock, the original founder of Interaction International describes a Third Culture Kid (TCK) as: "... an individual who, after having spent a significant part of the developmental years in a culture other than that of their parents,develops a sense of relationship to all of the cultures while not having full ownership in any. Elements from each culture are incorporated into the life experience, but the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar experience." So that is who I am: a confusion of cultures. The absence of absolutes. A confusion of loyalties. No culture to call my own, to identify with. I life of grayness, no black or white.
That alone is cause for confusion, but you add to that life experience, relational styles, family dynamics, and rootlessness, you have a recepie for the ultimate identity crisis. Each MK's experience is different, and it's not all bad, but there are definitely specific challenges that we face as a result of life that our parents were called to.
One of my struggles was that I never had ownership of anything that I was particularly skilled at. Growing up I explored several different hobbies and things that I enjoyed but never gained a mastery over one in particular. I ended up getting my Masters in Counseling, but that's a different story. My heart most definitely came alive when I was in the program, but unfortunately at this point in life I am not really doing anything with my degree and gifting. Interestingly enough, while I worked at the Washington Crossing UMC, I discovered a hidden talent, design. I really enjoyed learning and creating different projects for the various ministries I was working for. I also discovered a love for photography.
I never realized that I had this artistic side to me. I always loved music. I was involved in band, choir and my parents always had me sing in front of the churches that supported us when we were on home assignment. But I never really learned how to read music and everything I did was by ear. There was another part of the artist in me and that was writing. I liked to write in school, and I started writing poems in the 8th grade. It's been a couple years since I've written anything, but I know if I were to start thinking along those lines, I might get some inspiration...
I think part of the reason I didn't pursue some of these things is because I lacked the confidence in my accomplishments. My fear of failure kept me trapped in the beginning stages of these different areas of interest. I always knew that there was someone better than me in these different artistic venues, so I didn't venture out the way that I would have liked.
My struggle with perfectionism haunts me as I attempt to step out into areas where I think I might have something unique to offer. But I have decided to step out and try pursuing my love of photography and see what I can do. I got a new camera for my birthday and I am learning how to use it. I love taking pictures of flowers. I thought I might try to make a book (snapfish, nothing too special) of flowers. I have taken pictures of flowers all over the world, and thought it would be fun project to work on.
Here's to stepping out of the cave of fear of failure and pursuing the desires of my heart. Wish me luck! Below is a picture that I will probably include in my book.
An interesting thing happens when you grow up as a missionary kid: your identity becomes confused. You are born into your passport country and yet because of God's calling on their lives, your parents raise you in a different culture than the one you were born into. Sometimes to add further confusion, your parents don't stay in just that new host culture, they work in other countries or like in my case you go to boarding school in a different culture. TCKs, that's what they call us.
Dave Pollock, the original founder of Interaction International describes a Third Culture Kid (TCK) as: "... an individual who, after having spent a significant part of the developmental years in a culture other than that of their parents,develops a sense of relationship to all of the cultures while not having full ownership in any. Elements from each culture are incorporated into the life experience, but the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar experience." So that is who I am: a confusion of cultures. The absence of absolutes. A confusion of loyalties. No culture to call my own, to identify with. I life of grayness, no black or white.
That alone is cause for confusion, but you add to that life experience, relational styles, family dynamics, and rootlessness, you have a recepie for the ultimate identity crisis. Each MK's experience is different, and it's not all bad, but there are definitely specific challenges that we face as a result of life that our parents were called to.
One of my struggles was that I never had ownership of anything that I was particularly skilled at. Growing up I explored several different hobbies and things that I enjoyed but never gained a mastery over one in particular. I ended up getting my Masters in Counseling, but that's a different story. My heart most definitely came alive when I was in the program, but unfortunately at this point in life I am not really doing anything with my degree and gifting. Interestingly enough, while I worked at the Washington Crossing UMC, I discovered a hidden talent, design. I really enjoyed learning and creating different projects for the various ministries I was working for. I also discovered a love for photography.
I never realized that I had this artistic side to me. I always loved music. I was involved in band, choir and my parents always had me sing in front of the churches that supported us when we were on home assignment. But I never really learned how to read music and everything I did was by ear. There was another part of the artist in me and that was writing. I liked to write in school, and I started writing poems in the 8th grade. It's been a couple years since I've written anything, but I know if I were to start thinking along those lines, I might get some inspiration...
I think part of the reason I didn't pursue some of these things is because I lacked the confidence in my accomplishments. My fear of failure kept me trapped in the beginning stages of these different areas of interest. I always knew that there was someone better than me in these different artistic venues, so I didn't venture out the way that I would have liked.
My struggle with perfectionism haunts me as I attempt to step out into areas where I think I might have something unique to offer. But I have decided to step out and try pursuing my love of photography and see what I can do. I got a new camera for my birthday and I am learning how to use it. I love taking pictures of flowers. I thought I might try to make a book (snapfish, nothing too special) of flowers. I have taken pictures of flowers all over the world, and thought it would be fun project to work on.
Here's to stepping out of the cave of fear of failure and pursuing the desires of my heart. Wish me luck! Below is a picture that I will probably include in my book.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Starting Over
A year has past since my last blog post, and I think it's about time to return to the blogging world. The need for expression and the desire to reflect bring me back to this place which use to be a very big part of my day to day life. Not that I have anything meaningful to say, but rather for the cathartic release of my ponderings and such.
Life has handed me its usual twists and turns and I'm left confused with a bad headache. Reflection use to be my middle name, and now I struggle to get past the day to day happenings in my mind. Time has opened it's window and granted me more than before but now all I want to do is run from my heart. I used to envy those who were able to put aside the outward expression of their emotion in the midst of crisis or struggle because I have always struggled to maintain my composure in the midst of difficulty. But now I am one of them, masquerading as someone who is getting by whilst I wither inside.
My heart has not seen the sun for some time now. Hidden in the cave of fear, it is tentative to venture out. Desire and longing lure it out of its dark places, in which it has been finding apparent refuge, only to discover that this in fact was not safe hiding place. Neglected and hurt I attempt to love again, to feel again. The darkness is calling me all the while, telling me that there is less risk in the cave and that I can protect myself there and outside of it I am exposed and vulnerable. Torn between these mixed messages of longing for the depth of intimacy and the fear of pain and loss, I hesitate. It is worth the risk? Can I truly be loved? Will I find what I am longing for? Will I be hurt again, and if I am, am I capable of recovering?
Do I even know how to love anymore? Living in a place of fear and self-protection was a must to survive the situations I found myself in. But now that firing squad has stepped down, do I know how to love without self-protection? The shield that I thought was providing me with the protection I needed was being used for more than what it was intended for. Fear whispered lies of safety. Safety came from living behind the shield. But living behind the shield, life was very limited. You could only experience so much, see so much, live so much.
How can I trust The Hand that has hurt me to heal me? So many vows were taken at the last occurance of significant pain that I fear that I will always struggle to trust Him. I know that He knows what's best, for me, for those I love, but yet the pain of I have experienced seems to override those truths. I realize that my perspective is squewed and I cannot take it as absolute truth, but sometimes it is difficult to reconcile the paradoxes of life and you have to come to some conclusions about life and what you believe about it.
Attempting to make sense of brokeness is long and difficult road. This is my journey. I want to believe, and I know that He understands where I am and why I doubt and fear. I am trusting that He won't let me go as I wrestle through these truths so that I can embrace them. In the meantime, I pray for patience and love from Him and those around me as I try to make sense of it all.
Isaiah 42:3
"A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.
In faithfulness he will bring forth justice..."
Life has handed me its usual twists and turns and I'm left confused with a bad headache. Reflection use to be my middle name, and now I struggle to get past the day to day happenings in my mind. Time has opened it's window and granted me more than before but now all I want to do is run from my heart. I used to envy those who were able to put aside the outward expression of their emotion in the midst of crisis or struggle because I have always struggled to maintain my composure in the midst of difficulty. But now I am one of them, masquerading as someone who is getting by whilst I wither inside.
My heart has not seen the sun for some time now. Hidden in the cave of fear, it is tentative to venture out. Desire and longing lure it out of its dark places, in which it has been finding apparent refuge, only to discover that this in fact was not safe hiding place. Neglected and hurt I attempt to love again, to feel again. The darkness is calling me all the while, telling me that there is less risk in the cave and that I can protect myself there and outside of it I am exposed and vulnerable. Torn between these mixed messages of longing for the depth of intimacy and the fear of pain and loss, I hesitate. It is worth the risk? Can I truly be loved? Will I find what I am longing for? Will I be hurt again, and if I am, am I capable of recovering?
Do I even know how to love anymore? Living in a place of fear and self-protection was a must to survive the situations I found myself in. But now that firing squad has stepped down, do I know how to love without self-protection? The shield that I thought was providing me with the protection I needed was being used for more than what it was intended for. Fear whispered lies of safety. Safety came from living behind the shield. But living behind the shield, life was very limited. You could only experience so much, see so much, live so much.
How can I trust The Hand that has hurt me to heal me? So many vows were taken at the last occurance of significant pain that I fear that I will always struggle to trust Him. I know that He knows what's best, for me, for those I love, but yet the pain of I have experienced seems to override those truths. I realize that my perspective is squewed and I cannot take it as absolute truth, but sometimes it is difficult to reconcile the paradoxes of life and you have to come to some conclusions about life and what you believe about it.
Attempting to make sense of brokeness is long and difficult road. This is my journey. I want to believe, and I know that He understands where I am and why I doubt and fear. I am trusting that He won't let me go as I wrestle through these truths so that I can embrace them. In the meantime, I pray for patience and love from Him and those around me as I try to make sense of it all.
Isaiah 42:3
"A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.
In faithfulness he will bring forth justice..."
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