why ex-pats are sometimes cranky

 The first day I got back to the village, my husband and I had words. The kind of words that you might be a little embarrassed to have your neighbors overhear. It’s just that I walked into our home and pretty quickly decided that it was, by my definition, filthy. Jeremy had come back to Zambia before the girls and I to do two things: run a conference and clean our house, so I felt completely justified in asking, “WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING THESE PAST FIVE WEEKS?” (and, yes, I asked it in a tone worthy of the caps lock.) “I’ve been cleaning,” he replied, with much greater grace. “HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?” I continued. “IT LOOKS LIKE A BARN IN HERE.” The husbands apt reply: “You only think it’s dirty because you just came back from America.”

A few days later we went into the immigration office to add Leonie to the work permit. We sat, for over an hour, watching three officers play on their phones and do nothing immigration related in general while one man slowly (understatement) made copies for us and looked at our passports and wrote our names on a cardstock folder with a sharpie and went from this office to that doing who knows what. After the first hour of waiting for ??? we were ushered into the accountants office which we considered good progress, except that the officer in that room was not in a hurry either and was stapling and fiddling and rearranging papers in a file marked Cheng, which I’m sure was very important except that Mr. Cheng was not in the building so far as I could tell. When both children were bored to actual tears, and we had been in the office for an additional hour and a half, Jeremy could see me shifting our innocent baby dramatically from one hip to another with a slight pursing of my lips and a few heavy sighs for dramatic effect. “Calm down,” my wiser half mouthed to me. “But its not right,” I mouthed back. “Let it go,” he said with a wink.

Her face : My emotions.

I had a few “wink wink” replies in my own arsenal but I kept them to myself and after losing only one more hour of our lives to that office, we finally left. “You’ve gotta leave America,” Jeremy urged on the car ride home.

I knew he was right. I worked on my processing and my attitude for the next few days. It’s just dirt. It’s just a line. It’s just a stare. It’s just a little slow. It’s just… It’s just… It’s not America, but that’s OK.

It only took three weeks before I felt like I had truly arrived. The test of achievement came after a 13 hour trip up from Lusaka with our new volunteers. In the course of said trip, we blew a radiator hose AND picked up a nail which blew our tire AND survived an attempted car jacking on Lusaka’s infamous Lamumba Road. (true story.) And you know what? Cool as a cucumber, I was. And then we walked into the door to our house and got smacked in the eyeballs with chaos. All of our cabinet doors were flung open and contents pulled out so that our cat could sniff out our rats – which she obviously had done, leaving a blood trail and a few heads on the rug as proof. A noticeable inch of dirt (dust is too wimpy a word for this cake-layer) had settled, coating all of the surfaces with muck. And the chicken given to Leonie as a ‘welcome to the world’ present had decided to use the cat door to get into our house and had been roosting on our dining room table coating it pretty heavily with crusty white poo.

Leonie's chicken. After her last stunt I expect she'll soon be dinner.

I sorta glanced at our shell shocked volunteers who we were inviting to sleep in our barn-of-a-house with us and I noticed the familiar face – the one I had worn not long ago as I too tried to readjust to the totally different set of expectations that is village life.

Freshies be like, "whaaa???"

This is the occupational hazard of the ex-pat life; in the traveling back and forth between two worlds, just as soon as you get used to one "home," you get uprooted and have to go through a painstaking process of reorientation before you can be comfortable in the next. That which calls for litigation in one world is merely par for the course in the next and until you decode the new normal, chances are good your responses will be less than temperate. The near constant self-talk involved in deciding what to get worked up about is a brain drain so much so that it makes mature adults lash out like three year olds. Overreaction usually is prompted by something innocuous like the guy who cuts in front of you in the grocery store because he only has a loaf of bread and you have a full cart. He’s all innocent and like, why the face, lady? But your pre frontal cortex is quite literally a hot mess and you therefore come across to the world as straight up cranky.

It just takes time. It takes time to love the nighttime drumming that keeps you awake, but eventually you’ll incorporate the beat into your dreams. It takes time to  appreciate being kept waiting in offices, but eventually you’ll keep a journal and pen on hand for those found minutes of rest. It takes time stop craving high speed internet, but eventually the detox will kick in and you’ll embrace the art of being present.  

Learning to follow the leader, even when it's hard, is critical to success.

I’m getting there. America made me soft in some ways and hard in others and I’m firming up and letting go in different ways once again. I no longer care whether my chaco tan is a result of sun or dirt. I only wash the girls’ faces twice a day instead of sixteen. I invite the guy with the single loaf of bread cut in front of me. I saunter, not speed walk. I embrace the awkward silence instead of spewing twaddle.

Eccentric, as per her calling

All ex-pats tend to be a little eccentric. It’s what brought us over here and its what keeps us here for more than a weekend. But we’re not all cranky. I swear. We’re merely human and as creatures of habit, it takes us time to get in the groove. But once we’re there – turn up the 80’s pop music and get ready. We shall dance. Un-crankily and Together.

un-cranky, together

a thousand reasons to worry and one trump reason not to

We left our passport country a week ago now, and I still don’t think our stomachs, or our hearts have come down out of the clouds. Everything you imagined to be true abut flying with two littles on three back to back international flights totaling 21 hours in the sky and 33 hours of total travel time – you were probably right. It was… something. 

we were a spectacle going through the airports. the baby at the back got a few double takes

Leonie did great because everything she needs for peace and happiness is attached to my body. The rest of us had to dig deep and seriously woman-up lest we fall apart. Poor Bronwyn, empty from exhaustion and full of sorrow for having parted with Grandma, she wavered back and forth between excitement over escalator rides and extreme mourning over that which she had left behind. Every hour or so, she would break into a drawn out wail, exclaiming loudly enough for the whole plane to hear, “I miss Grandma! I want to go back to Grandma’s house!” We kept shoving gummies and other forms of distraction in front of her to try to keep the peace for everyone. As we waited in the heinous security line in London, she found herself trapped in yet another episode of misery and just cried out over and over, “I can’t handle it, mom! I can’t handle it!” I know baby, I’m not really handling it either, I’m just concealing it better than you are.

I recruited a little Italian girl in Heathrow for some play therapy

I kept telling myself that it would all be over soon, and sure enough, we did make it to Zambia. Jeremy worked some of his magic and got himself in the back door to be able to meet us on the immigration side and help us collect our bags. I offloaded the eldest onto daddy and focused on the still happy babe who was the only one who had properly eaten and slept for the last two days.

We commenced the 10 hour drive to “home.” Are we nearly there yet? Bronwyn asked for the 927^th time since leaving NY. Catching her staring intently out the window, I asked Bronwyn what she was looking at, to which she answered, “I’m looking for my friends, mom.” I was so excited to get her home and back in the playful arms of those who had cared for her so well throughout her first two years.

As we turned off the pavement onto our dirt road, we all prepped her, “We’re almost there, girl! Just half a kilometer left!” We pulled into our yard and switched off the engine, video camera in hand and ready to capture whatever cuteness that was about to ensue. I don’t know what Bronwyn’s expectations were for our homecoming, but the adults had clearly set the bar too high. I expected Bronwyn to run back to her friends with hugs and laughter, pick up her shovel and dig things, grab a ball and have a grand ole time. I expected to sigh with relief that finally we were getting back to normal, that my girl would find her place in the world again. Instead, my sweet three year old clutched my leg with a death grip and for the first time in over a year asked to be picked up. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable and it was clear that she didn’t know what was going on. “Is this my house?” she asked. We escaped the crowd to go look at her bed and her toys, to say hi to her kitties and to get reacquainted with the environment. I had to lure her outside. Everyone wanted to shake her hand, in the way she once knew so well, and yet now she just pulled back, unwilling to extend a hand to anyone. “Mommy, why do they all know my name?” she asked. Because they know and love you baby, and somewhere inside of you, I know you know them. I put a ball in her hand and gave her a gentle shove. She tossed it at no one in particular and ran back to my leg. We tried again, and this time she threw it back and forth a few times before retreating once more. “I don’t know what any of them are saying, mom” she stated. I know baby, they are speaking Bemba, and soon you will too.

all the friends on one side, and winnie by herself on the other. it was painfully awkward.

I had foolishly thought it would all come back to her, that she would remember immediately and pick up where she left off. That night I watched her crash from exhaustion in the new-to-her house, in the new-to-her village and I just sobbed. With our best intentions we were bringing her back to what we considered the greatest place on earth. Now it felt more like we had an amnesia patient on her hands, and I had no idea how to help her cope. The next few days proved similarly difficult. “Mommy, there’s a lady out there who keeps trying to pick me up.” Yes baby, that’s Bana Chiti, and you used to love her more than you loved me. She carried you everywhere and I know she has missed you.

this girl. her happiness in all situations is healing

Despite all of our explanations, the blank stares and revealing questions are a constant. It’s all gone – like it never happened, and I find myself in a near panic wondering whether she’ll ever get it back. Everything that made this place perfect for a child her age – all of those things are now sources of anxiety for her. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She keeps face planting on uneven bush paths. She asks for macaroni and cheese for every meal. She keeps wiping the dirt off her pants. Too scared to interact with the kids from whom she was once inseparable, she now asks only to go to the farm to play with her dog.

daddy is a shelter in more ways than one

I have found myself this past week trembling with worry – what have we done? Will she pick up this language again? Will she make friends again? Will she regain her confidence? Will she be ok? Will I? I’ve fallen asleep atop a tear-soaked pillow each night this week, and that only after silently preaching at myself for a long while.

It will be ok.

He sees.

He cares.

He is able.

It will be ok.

This is my refrain and I repeat it over and over until I release my fears and my babies into His hands until the next wave of worry washes over me.

It will be ok.

He sees.

He cares.

He is able.

None of the current scenario looks particularly hopeful. Nothing I imagined to be good for my girl is coming to pass and my deep love for her is therefore matched by the depths of my concern for her and her happiness.

My logical side tells me that this is only a season, though I have no reassurances as to how long this season will last. I am drawn to hold her hand all the moments of all the days, though I am fighting that urge and challenging her to try and engage. She has learned a whopping two words of the local language and has made one friend. I’m choosing to call these baby steps victories even though I’ve melted into tears each time an insensitive child has barked at her to stop speaking English.

It will be ok.

He sees.

He cares.

He is able.

I know my fears are legitimate. I have observed how many third culture kids devolve into anxious, isolated, awkward, resentful beings. I know that my reasons to worry will continue to beat me up and I’ll have to continue to preach them down. But the trump reason for not worrying remains: Him. The One who took us back to the sates, who knew when we would get pregnant, who knew how long we would be away from Zambia, who called us back here, He knew how it would all play out, and planned it that way: He sees, He cares, He is able.

all manner of things will be well

It's three reasons in One, a holy trinity of security and confidence.

When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay...

Sing it with me, will you? My girl is struggling and therefore so am I, and I share this without reserve because there is something about living abroad that calls for above average vulnerability and the rallying of the troops. We’re battling on – with love and patience, and legos and gummies. Thanks, bush baby community, for standing with us.

transitioning, ugly-crying and carrying on

 8 days, I tell people. I have 8 more days until I get to go home. This is the conversation that has been happening a lot lately. My husband is across the ocean and I have two little girls who are heavy and poopy and we’re all hot and cranky and tired of waiting and ready to get back to real life. Jeremy made Bronwyn a cardboard calendar with quarters on each of the days with a message underneath each coin. The messages say sweet things like, “I love you” and “give mommy a hug”; I think I look forward to pulling each quarter off more than she does.

We were in the States to have a baby and now that Leonie is here and truly healthy and happy and all loaded up on immunizations and mommy milk, I feel confident that we are indeed READY. It has been long haul, and I’ve been honest about my discontentment in a few different posts here. It’s hard being in not your home, driving not your car, eating not your food and generally being at the mercy of all the people around you for basic sustenance. The lack of self determination has worn me a bit thin, and I’m planning on bellowing a William Wallace-esque FREEEEEDOOOOM the moment I step off that plane. (Because I'm dainty like that.)

But for all of my excited anticipation, I’m simultaneously sifting through the curious grief that I’ve learned accompanies all transition.

I’m well aware of the fact that I don’t transition “pretty”. After college graduation, I shut myself in my room and wept heavily for a good hour. I had an Ivy League diploma and great things ahead of me. Was I really mourning the end of finals? No more all-nighters? No more walking to class in blizzards? Hardly. And yet, I couldn’t escape that pressing sense of loss.

Here’s another goody: thirty seconds after Jeremy and I had left our wedding reception, we were driving down the road on our way to get our honeymoon started and I burst into full body sobs. Poor Jeremy, he silently patted my hand and let me cry but was probably like, Um, I’m really happy to be married now too, babe! Was I not thrilled to have married my best friend? Did I really want to go back to being lonely and single? Of course not.

I cried when I left for the Peace Corps even though I was excited beyond words. I cried when I finished the Peace Corps even though I was not even moving out of the village. I cried for days after Bronwyn was born even though I'd never imagined loving a floppy baby so much. 

sometimes I feel like the one on the right, sometimes the left

Transition brings into acute focus the good of what once was. And sometimes, seeing that good catches us by surprise, particularly if it previously seemed commonplace, or maybe even overshadowed by a whole lot of not good. You don’t know what you’ve got till its gone, go the words. Thanks, Joni Mitchell, for setting my angst to tune.

Now again it’s hitting me. I at least recognize the symptoms this time. I was completing a simple task, writing a thank you note to a lady. My girl loved so much the VBS so had just attended and I wanted the team to know how much it meant to me for her to have that kind of experience. I rambled a bit, explaining that we were missionaries and we were going back to Zambia soon and I knew my girls wouldn’t have access to that kind of programming for quite some time because we live in the bush and a VBS will only happen if I run it… and my eyes started leaking all over the thank you card. I started thinking abut the Sunday school teachers she’s had these past 8 months and the friends who have loved her and the resources for growth and learning she’s had available to her. I started thinking about the lack of malaria here, and the clean beds and the grandma hugs... and the waves of emotion just kept rolling.

this. good.

so good

In the days since, my mind has continued to add to that “this was a good thing” list – and not only with regards to the kids, but for myself as well. I’m happy for the safe place to deliver my baby and the nutritious food that was always available. I’m thankful for the small group that took me in and showed me such kindness. I’m thankful that I got to witness the beauty of all four seasons and that I had appropriate clothing for all the weather. I’m thankful for the internet access that let me stock up on planning materials and needed supplies. I’m thankful for the hugs that I received in person and not just over e-mail. It was hard in so many ways. And yet, SO VERY GOOD.

more than good

lovin' all the good

So if you ask me how I feel about leaving, I’ll still likely over-emphasize that I am totally ready and I can't wait! But I might also start to tear up too, because I know both the good I’m going back to, and the good I’m leaving behind. Part of me hates the constant flip flop of emotion, but strangely, I take comfort in knowing that this too is grace. All transition is loss, largely because God works everything for good, which means we’re always leaving something good behind.

all kinds of good

and more good still

If you’re in Dulles airport next week and see a bunch of sorry looking white girls who are schlepping luggage and ugly crying, know that its ok. Just flash me a sign of solidarity and say carry on, sister. And that we will.

why it's worth thinking about shoeboxes in July

It’s Christmas in July – so we’re gonna roll with it.

So alllll the way back in Nov and December (yes, I’ve been thinking abut this well on half a year,) I found myself chatting with a good number of folks about Operation Christmas Child. If you’ve never heard of Operation Christmas Child (OCC), this post might be a little irrelevant, but I’ll still explain that OCC is a ministry of Samaritans Purse, which distributes gift-filled shoe boxes to needy children in more than 100 countries. The children receiving the shoe boxes are given a gospel presentation and invited to learn more.  

Many of the conversations I had this past winter were with Christians, genuinely interested in my perspective on OCC and its operations. Because mobilization for church-wide, participatory events like OCC happen well in advance, this conversation is almost perennially relevant; and with thousands of Churches getting in on the action, I am glad that the people around me are asking thoughtful questions about best practices and methodology.

The truth is, I love that Operation Christmas Child is so effective at mobilizing first-world Christians on behalf of the global poor. I love that whole churches rally and do something not-selfish at this super-selfish time of year. I love that whole families get involved, from the box-prep to the shopping to the letter writing to the shipping. (My own family did this too when I was growing up!) I love that American kids are given the opportunity to leave the “give me, give me!” bubble and think about poverty and injustice. I love the heart of wanting to reach the world’s little ones with Good News.

LOVE.

But… (Oh, you knew there was a but coming…)

But then April happened and the love started to wane. It was in April that Jeremy was preparing for the regional pastors conference that we were hosting. We had invited a visiting lecturer from America to come and teach and had spent boku bucks getting everything ready for the nearly 100 pastors that were registered to attend… And then… the day before the conference started, Operation Christmas Child reps showed up in the town nearest us and announced to all of the pastors of the region that they were needed in order to distribute several thousand shoe boxes. (Christmas shoe boxes… in April… whatev.) This untimely maneuver jacked from us about two thirds of our conference attendees. Thanks, Christian ministry, for stepping all over a brothers toes.

Christians wrecking a pastors conference felt a little more than “untimely and discourteous” and I went all whistle blower in front of my laptop because, by  gum, I have words.

I’ve long held back my true feelings about OCC, but April’s distasteful situation begged for at least a little stirring of the pot. I seriously considered: what with over 10 million shoe boxes expected to go out this year, I can’t help but think about just how many of my friends and family are invested in OCC, and how many of them want to do good, and not harm, for the name of Christ in the world.  

Thankfully, Christmas in July is a thing in this country, so I’ll take this opportunity to just come right out and say it: I’m deeply uncomfortable with the mashup of Christmas presents and the gospel. My complaint is simplistic, but I think its significant enough to warrant rethinking at least something about those 10 million shoe boxes.

I know many Christians wrestle with our culture’s gift obsession at Christmas time. We are celebrating Christ’s birth, the coming of the Redeemer, Emmanuel, God with us, and somehow that gets translated practically into gimme gimme gimme shop shop shop buy buy buy consume hoard overload and what have you. The central figure of the season is not a baby in a manger but boxes under a tree – a reality which makes us all feel uncomfortable, and yet at the same time we do little more than give “Jesus is the reasons for the season” posters a bit of real estate in our front yards.

We don’t like it, we wring our hands over it, and still, we export it. Operation Christmas Child. I heard it many times as a young girl – “Think of all those poor children out there who aren’t getting anything for Christmas!” I pictured sad looking children sitting on the floor on Christmas day, longing for a present to unwrap. I was taught to be particularly grateful for the material goods in my life. I simply figured that one could not be happy without the stuff. And I learned to pity those without it.

 I think many of us in the Western world have been led to believe that the equation of more presents equals happiness is an absolute truth. No stuff, no happy. Materialism is the air we breathe and it is no surprise that it has worked its way into the way we do ministry.

If I take the gift idea a step further though – out of the realm of the materialistic world-view and into the practical, I have to ask a simplistic question: Why does the third world need boxes of trinkets and doo-dads anyway? I mean, apart from their inherent and existential happiness, WHY do all the little children of the world so desperately need the contents of those boxes such that we’ve elevated their importance to the level of dying people relief rations. When I think about the things I used to pack in my childhood OCC box – socks, pencils, cheepo-toys, I realize all of those things can be purchased in the Mansa market, for a fraction of the cost and without the $7 shipping. And speaking of cheepo toys, I think at least some American box senders need to repent on this one. Remember when we talked about “betterthan nothing” being euphemism for crap? Mhhm. Case. In. Point. I read a Washington Post article not long ago advising moms who are tired of all the junkety junk their kids bring home from birthday parties to take half those unwanted party favors and shove them in an Operation Christmas Child Box. (I was loving the article until I to to #8... and then I threw up a little in my mouth.)

So we export Christmas-time materialism in the form of stocking stuffers, misrepresenting it as useful aid, and then what? We bait it on a hook and lure kids in to get them to listen to a gospel presentation. We’ve witnessed enough give-aways in Fimpulu and surrounding villages to know that “free stuff” has an almost irresistible effect on people of all ages. It doesn’t even matter what it is; poverty mentality hypnotically drives people to go to do whatever it takes to get the “free stuff,” and OCC capitalizes on that dynamic.

we had to learn the hard way that even silly little things - if given for free free - can create a frenzy

When “stuff” is on the line, people have learned to do and say whatever is necessary to assure that they are the beneficiaries of the stuff-giving program. Raise my hand and ask lots of questions? I can do that! Check a box? Sure thing! Say a prayer? Join a Bible study? Well, why not? OCC-ers may never say, “IF you accept Jesus we will give you presents.” But I don’t think they have to. The linkage is made the moment those boxes come through the door and that’s motivation enough to “get saved” as many times as is necessary to make sure they miss out on no good thing.

Deeper and deeper does this drive the momentum of the prosperity gospel across Africa, saying again and again in kid-friendly ways that the more they say yes to Jesus, the more they can expect shiny objects to appear in front of them.

Is the distraction of the presents really enough to distort the gospel and diminish Jesus’ position as the true and lasting gift? I’d wager that yes, or at least a really strobg maybe. I don’t think it is OCC’s fault, but, in our observation, this is how at least a Zambian village works. I blame the confluence of the NGO culture and the poverty culture and the aid culture butting up against the Christian culture, and suddenly all that stuff we hear preached in village churches about keeping God happy and expecting piles of good stuff makes a painful amount of sense.

Herein lies the truest danger of the shoe boxes, the subtle communication that God barters material presents for external agreement, void of repentance, reconciliation and relationship. And when the stuff stops appearing and the temptations of real life send a person searching, its all to easy to drop the Christian gig and return to familiar animism Because if God is the giver of stuff and the stuff aint comin’ then obviously God has abandoned me and I’m going back to what I know to be true.

Would it be worth sending something other than trinkets in a box maybe? Schools or clinics or human resources maybe? Just maybe?

Feel free to keep the conversation going. What’s your take?