I’ve been looking at my life through a pinhole, hitting speed bump after speed bump when trying to think of something to write. Writers block induced by feeling not so very interesting, intelligent, or creative right now with the added pressure of making sure an Instagram worthy image can accompany my text. Sitting here with cold coffee in hand for over an hour, I’ve been half heartedly starting and stopping silly lists of my current “favorites” or trying to eek out some encouraging post. All the while, I’m glancing at the book beside me—Bill Bryson’s “The Road to Little Dribbling”—and wishing I could just curl up with a cup of tea and read about England. Because ya’ll—I’ve been seriously missing England for the past couple of weeks. It’s not just a wish to travel and take a break from the every day, but a real missing of the actual place and the life I lived there. I spent the first half of my engagement to Chris in the UK while studying at Oxford University. Living here for several months solidified the love that had been growing since I was ten years old, when my family moved to Kenya. A former British colony, Kenya is a special mix of African and English. My family came to love certain British brands and traditions, eating Jafa Cakes with our tea and buying mini poppers at Christmas. We learned that Boxing Day was actually about “unboxing” Christmas gifts not about the sport and that the metric system really does make more sense. Something clicked this morning while I battled writer’s block: that I’ve been too focused on my life now. I’ve shut off a big part of my life—moving overseas as a child and thus having the opportunity to travel around the world (funny how travel is so much easier once you’ve crossed that massive ocean!). I’ve struggled with this shutting off instinct ever since moving back to America as a young teen: it seemed easier to just try to blend in. I got tired of being met with blank stares and uncertain questions. People just didn’t get me. So I stopped talking about or bringing it up. I started realizing how bad this was when my closest friends at college would say stuff like, “I totally forgot you lived in Kenya!” or “Wow, I didn’t realize you had been to so many counties!” It’s not their fault that they forgot. I just never talked about it out of some perverted sense that doing so seemed “pretentious” or made me look too privileged. Here’s the truth: my family is really privileged! We lived most of our life together in a free country; we were surrounded by generous, faithful family and friends; my mom made us the most wonderful home and devoted her life to her kids; my dad is a very hard working, principled family medicine-turned-ER doctor. My mom and dad were able to provide beyond just basic needs: they gave us so many experiences. And hands down, one of the best experiences they ever gave us kids was the chance to see and know the world. I am me because they chose not to stay in one town and buy a home and live “comfortably” or “traditionally.” They took some risks and did some conventionally not-so-wise things. In the middle of my dad’s career, they became missionaries. When moving back to the States, they took their savings and used it to RV around Europe for a month, one of the highlights of my life. When I was having a hard time with Kate’s adoption, they decided that I should travel with them to China to pick her up. By the time I was 21, I had been to 21 counties. Few of these were from “vacation;” most were from doing life with my family. I’ve decided to open up this box again, to start peeking back at this life-time of memories so far and sharing what I can. Being a third culture kid and traveling the world has made me who I am. It’s time to start acting like it. So, today I’m sharing some of the things that I miss about England. In the next weeks and months, I’ll be writing about some of the funny, crazy, and once-in-a-life time experiences I’ve had as a Southern-born, African-middle schooled, mid-Atlantic high schooled, New York City colleged, back to the South 20 something. Oh England, I miss:
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I must be a true pessimist—I always assume the worst. The great thing about being a pessimist is that you are often pleasantly surprised. The world isn’t always awful! How wonderful! This first week in North Carolina has taught me just that. Because I hate “CHANGE” (I always blow it up in my head like that), I assumed that a big move like this would most likely be de facto bad. My instinct is to think that because something changes it inherently overwhelms any good that might come along with that change. Certainly, our whole daily rhythm has been torn apart, exacerbated by the fact that we aren’t actually living our new “normal” yet. Chris has a FULL schedule with his MCAT prep course and won’t be slowing down until after the test. In the meantime, I won’t begin working full time (more on that in an upcoming post!) until the end of July, so I’m just here hanging out, enjoying some non-stress time, and managing all the “life stuff.” Things are very different, but it’s all new and exciting. We love being in a wide-open space with trees, woods, and biking trails. We love our new home and how it perfectly remedies some of those super annoying things about our old place (we now have a washer and dryer and lots of closets!). We love this location and the opportunities and friends to be made here. Don’t get me wrong—I know we are still in the honeymoon stage. I’m sure there will be days of culture shock or sadness. But they haven’t hit yet, and I shouldn’t even assume, come to think of it, that they will. See, in the midst of what is turning out to be a happy transition, I’ve found myself feeling guilty for being happy and carefree. I’ve felt as if I’m not being authentic with my friends when relaying primarily happy news; the pessimistic worrier in me starts telling lies: “Life is too good—something awful must be around the corner.” “Why is God giving us these blessings?! Something’s up.” “Oh well: it will all fall apart soon enough.” It’s as if I am actively seeking out something to worry about in the absence of more difficult life circumstances and “legitimate” worries. But when you get down to it, all these worries boil down to unbelief, to a stiff hand of control that won’t let go. If I don’t get too happy, life won’t disappointment too much. The past two years have been really tough, and yet through it the Lord has been so close, teaching me more and more about joy that transcends circumstances. Now, when our circumstances are happier, I still need to be taught about joy. About how to have joy free of doubt, free of fear. My prayer is that the Lord can use the refreshed and joyful me for purposeful ministry, and that I would be able to see the good of good times. Because this week has been a good time. Our moving weekend (also in an upcoming post!) went so smoothly. My family was able to come help, and we were also blessed to have some new friends from a local church meet us at the house as well. They made us feel so welcomed right from the get-go. My wonderful mom stayed with us for a few extra days, and together we unpacked, ran errands, did loads and loads of laundry, shopped for lights and nails and spackling putty and all those moving necessities, ironed curtains, and ate chocolate pastries at Panera. She’s pretty cool. My new job has already been such a blessing and has enabled us to step right into a community. From welcome gifts of homemade jam and tulips to after-church conversations and lots and lots of restaurants recommendations, Chapel Hill has been treating us well. And to top it all off, I’ve had a burst of energy which has enabled me to do tons of little things like researching the DMV and NC license requirements, scouting out new grocery stores, joining a gym, and learning to drive on the highway by myself (ya’ll, 5 years in the city with public transportation, no hating). From the little things to the big things, I’m thankful for and in awe of a week of provision. I remember my first and last night in New York clear as day. The first time was in early high school, and the city was just a stop along the way to our family vacation in New England. Despite the fact that it was 11 PM when we arrived at the hotel and that we would have an early start the next day, my dad wanted to take me to Times Square. We hailed a cab, craning our necks to see out the window as the spider web of constant construction, nighttime garbage piles on the curb, and ever-present mobs of people passed by. Apparently when you give a cab driver directions to “Times Square” they take it upon themselves to drop you literally in the middle of it, at the NYPD station to be exact. If you’ve ever been you know exactly where that is: in the heart of New York, and what feels like the entire world. I was then, and every time since then, mesmerized, dazed, and overwhelmed. The throb of lights and crowds and cars and noise and stores leaves you in a state of semi-panic. But it also pulls you in, the sheer liveliness of it so alluring. I’m no F. Scott Fitzgerald or Joan Didion, so I’ll refrain from trying to describe that je ne sais quoi of New York. But it’s no accident that writers flock to the city, marking success by their ability to encapsulate it in words. My friends know that New York was sometimes a struggle for me—it can be a very difficult place to live. But still, I recognize and have slowly come to love that very special quality about this place, that something that artists spend their whole life striving to capture, that life of the city. My dad treated us to Starbucks and we walked around, gazing up and often stumbling into people. A year or two later we would be back, this time on a perspective student’s weekend for The King’s College. More than even the first visit I was overwhelmed (that’s a common word in my dialogue about New York!). I think it was because this time the prospect of actually living here was on my mind. I remember leaving from my parent’s hotel and walking to a little Italian place, along 1st or 2nd Avenue in Midtown. My parents were cheerful and chatty, and all I could do was sullenly eat breadsticks while scooting my chair in closer and closer to the table because about a million people were buzzing around me and bumping me and didn’t even seem to care. Dinner was bland in comparison to the sheer volume of everything going on around me: dump trucks rumbling by, jack hammers drilling, fast city walker and slow tourists jostling for the same side-walk space, beeps, hums, and oh look my spaghetti is here, thanks. My poor little first-child, introverted, cautious brain was about to explode from over stimulation in just the short 2 hours it had spent in the city. God had a lot of growing up to do in me. And he used New York to do that. The people, places, teachers, and churches I grew to be a part of challenged and shaped me into the adult I now am. New York taught me about patience. I can’t count how many times public transit has “ruined” a morning or made me late to an appointment. New York taught me about confidence and courage. I learned about who I was, apart from my family or past. New York made me tough, and reiterated the importance of hard work. This place gave me true friends who have stuck by me through thick and thin. And New York softened my judgmental spirit by allowing me to interact with so many different people from so many walks of life. I came to sincerely value the fact that people can be themselves in the city, because no matter how crazy you may look, you aren’t the craziest person others have seen that day. There is a delightful anonymity here that allows you to blend in and just be—empty space to figure out who you are and what you are going to do with this life. By the end of my five years here I wasn’t so quick to assume, so quick to be discouraged, so quick to throw my hands up in defeat. Slower to anger, slower to despair, slower to fear. The Lord used a place that I would naturally shy away from to refine me, subduing my faults and sharpening my virtues and talents. I can look back and see how maturity blossomed in the crammed subway rides and stressful shopping trips to Trader Joes, where lines for the check out stretched through the store, out the front door, and down the sidewalk. I can see how those tearful confrontations from dear friends—awful in the moment—showed me how to be a better friend and solidified my confidence in those relationships. I can see how being nudged ever so gently out of my comfort zone and into high stress college workloads, and deadline-oriented jobs, and lots of large social gatherings made me better. Being stretched is uncomfortable. But it’s good. The Lord is gentle in the way he teaches us. Sometimes I felt like I could not bear to live in this place one more day; it felt like too much—too many people, too much filth, TOO MUCH. But then I’d go for a walk to the Hudson River and see the sunset and the waves, or find a shady park bench in Madison Square Park, or witness a small kindness of a stranger, buying a meal for a homeless person, and I would be reminded of the Lord’s faithfulness. He was and is faithful to refresh my spirit. Faithful to provide. Faithful to give wisdom and perspective. Faithful to send people into my life. My last day in the city couldn’t have been more different than my first. My heart was calm. I spent the day with my husband, eating a leisurely brunch, strolling the Upper West Side, and then taking a nap in the sun in Central Park. We watched a kick ball game. We bought roasted nuts from a food stand. We pretended to shop at Bloomingdales but were really just looking for the bathrooms. I felt peaceful and at home, one of many thankful to have fallen in love with this place and had the privilege to call it home.
"'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weakness, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me." --2 Corinthians 12:9 What needed words. I've found myself repeating this verse in my head countless times a day this past month. I've felt weak and, well, blind. I want all my plans to work out now. I want to know where we will live, what job I will have, heck, what sort of job I should even pursue, and the crazy thing is that even when one little piece of the puzzle gets figured out (where we are going to live!), I don't feel any rest. More, more, more. It's a battle of the will, against God, against the world, just to control. And gracious is it exhausting. Just this week a little blessing walked into our life. This past year we have been making a very concerted effort to put money into savings, as we knew we would have some hefty expenses this coming summer. Moving and massive tests don't come cheap, ya'll. We also decided to use some of the money to upgrade to some "adult" furniture. So as soon as we nailed down our new apartment, my busy little Type A personality got to worrying about how to decorate, bemoaning the difficulties of finding good quality furniture on a budget that was also stylish and also my style. Well, what should come waltzing along but the most gorgeous couch I've ever seen on Craigslist. Very long story short, we ended up purchasing a custom designed, originally multi-thousand dollar couch from Craigslist for--let's just say--very little money. (This is a huge perk of living in New York: when you shop second hand you are shopping the homes of Upper East Side CEOs). I left the Upper East Side yesterday evening beaming. This find felt like a little gift from God: completely unasked for or even needed, just a kiss of sweetness. Without fail it seems that at the eve of every big transition in my life all knowledge of his previous provision flies out the window. I assume that somehow this next stage will be different: that I will fall flat on my face, that things won't work out, that he no longer cares about the big or the little things. But he does care, the evidence written across my life: I was given an abundantly clear calling to go to Kings and live in New York, without which I would certainly have dropped out and packed my bags long ago. God gave me the most perfect freshman roommates I could have imagined, ladies who remain my dearest friends to this day and who I lived with until I got married. My husband is one of the best gifts I could ever hope for. God has provided the means and way to multiple opportunities, from studying abroad at Oxford to now working at Oxford University Press. I am blessed, and He is good. These are the thoughts I should have been having all the month of March, but alas did not, sheer business taking over. So one of my main goals for April is to let things go and trust the Lord's provision. April Goals 1. Let things go and trust the Lord's provision 2. At the same time, actually house plan and start coordinating the move! 3. Lots of quality time spent with the Svendsens and Beaches and extended family in NJ 4. Have Bethany (my 9 year old sister-in-law) over for a sleep over 5. Be diligent with our budget and put money in savings 6. See An American in Paris on Broadway--one last hurrah, assuming we don't win tickets to Hamilton 7. Have a picnic in Central Park 8. Buy some "New York" art 9. Visit the Natural History Museum: completed! 10. Finish work well My prayer is that this month will be a joyful and purposeful one, where not my weakness but His strength dictates how life functions. March Recap Revisiting my goals from March, I actually accomplished most of them! 1. Register for the MCAT: completed! 2. Apartment hunt online: completed! 3. Choose a date to go apartment hunting in Chapel Hill: completed! 4. Book a hotel and GO visit! completed! 5. Meet my March 15th deadlines at work: completed! 6. Write some letters: completed! 7. Research graphic design and blogging formats. 8. Win tickets to Hamilton. 9. Celebrate a special friend and her March birthday: completed! 10.Enjoy my little brother's visit: completed! 11. Keep cooking. Keep writing: completed! I'll let pictures do most of the talking, but March was one for the books. Apart from our visit to Chapel Hill, which I blogged about here, the month was filled with friends, food, travel, and Easter. A highlight was the weekend my brother Ben and his girlfriend Kristin came to visit, which necessitated Chris and I putting on our New York Tour Guide Hats. That weekend also included a surprise run-in with none other than famed actress Saorise Ronan, star of Brooklyn. I got my picture taken with her. I asked her how to pronounce her name. I'm still nervous pronouncing it. Chris was way more chill and chatted with her about what it was like being nominated for an Oscar, no biggie. Later in the month brought about my darling Laura's birthday, an occasion that mainly consisted of me being in awe of this lady and telling her as much and also excellent food. Now hoping for warmer weather as April unfolds....happy Wednesday everyone! Panera is bustling with people who seem to know what they are doing. Everyone on social media has a plan, is following their dream, is starting grad school or graduating from nursing school or having children or loving their job or learning so much from this season. And I'm over here crying because I don't have a clue what I supposed to do with my life. Like actually I have mascara running down my face and a raging headache because I've been weepy since I woke up. Because I just have no idea what I'm supposed to do. I feel like I should be passionate about something. Culture tells me to follow my heart and chase my dreams and keep looking up. Heck, the majority of my friends say that too. But what happens when you don't know what your dream is? I don't want to go to grad school, right? Right! But do I? Or even if I did, how would that help anyway? Should I go to nursing school, despite it being impractical for our life right now? Am I supposed to be a mom right now? Should we actually start having kids? Can it really be that I cannot imagine what I'm supposed to do? Shouldn't there be something huge and important and special for me to do? Why on earth would God want me to just sit around working a desk job that I don’t care about? I know I don't love it, but the trouble is that I can't figure out the alternative love. I've never had that one thing that keeps driving me; never had a career goal; never had a MUST HAVE. I should be excommunicated from New York for uttering such shameful words. I have found that people assume I have big plans by the mere fact that I went to college and now work in the City. Oh my, nothing could be further from the truth. I have one particular friend who is the Anne to my Diana. We joke that we go undercover every time we step through the doors at our arguably slightly prestigious jobs. "Why did they hire us?" we ask ourselves over iced teas (yay for the South). "They have no idea--we aren't supposed to be here. They don't know that we don't have a clue." Because we really don't, or at least I don't. I have absolutely no idea why God called me to this place. Or why he seemingly changed my mind senior year of high school. Why I gave up the chance to go into nursing. I don't know why I have a liberal arts degree and a job in publishing. I wonder why I got married young. I wonder what the next stages are. I wonder what I care about sometimes. I wonder if other people ever feel like this. I would love nothing more right now than to have a clear path of pursuit towards a clearly defined goal. But despite that wish, I am in a murky place where my wants and needs and desires and goals are jumbled up. It’s been a “nope” week. The kind where you just put your head down and barrel through the responsibilities and deadlines and doubts and tiredness and inwardly flip everybody off because “nope, I just can’t take one more thing right now.” I play that line back to myself until it becomes the tune of my life. Soon every little inconvenience or slight injustice becomes—in my mind—part of an elaborate, orchestrated attempt to ruin my day. What’s so frustrating is that I’ve had several “Ah-Hah!” moments throughout the week too, when I am all-too aware that my perspective is frighteningly narrow and my attitude, well, frankly atrocious. But these moments are so fleeting, and even though I know that I need to shape up I just don’t. Why? Why and how can I know something to be true (that I am being winey, selfish, bitter, etc. and that I have good reason not to be) and still refuse to let that truth manifest itself in my life? I actually think that word manifest is important here. It’s cliché to say that knowing something in your head doesn’t matter if you don’t live it out. Yeah, yeah, we all know that. But even though we talk about it a lot, it’s not something we usually remain aware of as we live life. And I think it’s the same with truth. We don’t hold on to it unless it is translated into ritual, physical practice in our life. In one of his many letters to readers, C.S. Lewis penned advice along the lines of “fake it till you make it.” On the face of it, that seems like bad advice, but what I think he is getting at is that living a good life requires practice. We have to exert a lot of effort to shape the kinds of rituals that will help us live well. Being thankful takes work. Thinking about other people takes work. Caring about someone else’s problems in a real way takes work. Humility takes work. Consistency, responsibility, endurance—it all requires dedicated effort moment by moment. We don’t ever become good. We are always about to be good or bad. The fact that we are on the continual cusp of a choice towards either holiness or sin is why the rituals in our lives are so essential. Rituals are anything that is a habit. Rituals can be physical. Does my strict 10:30 bedtime preclude other goods? Like exercise or quality time with people dear to me? Is that weekly Thursday morning Starbucks actually essential? Or does it drain a monthly $20 bucks that could be put to better use? Rituals are also in the mind. What is my thought life leading me to believe? This week I have let my thoughts run wild, pulling me into a negative ever-downward spiral. It only takes one “Of course, that lady would grab the last seat on the train. Rude.” to start chipping away at my reserve of patience. Other thoughts flood in. “Thanks for that mister—I just loveeee getting soaked with muddy ditch water because you don’t care about pedestrians.” “Oh, no, really, babe, it’s fine--don’t pick up the pile of clothes that’s been laying on the floor for a week. I’ll do it.” “I can’t afford anything nice.” “It’s so unfair that I have to do _____” (you name it). It’s so ridiculous when you write it down. Did I really think that? Am I that petty and naive? Yep, I am. Nope, it doesn’t have to last. It’s been a week of ritualized bad attitude, but I am writing thankful now for two things in particular. One, a husband who leaned over in church this morning and whispered, “Don’t hold yourself captive.” He knew. He knew that I was a prisoner to my own thoughts and that I would continue as such until I intentionally loosened my grip on my self-inflicted bad attitude. And I am thankful for writing, a ritual in its own, that allows you to actually look at the craziness of your thought life. It brings clarity—an “Ah-Hah” moment that lasts because it’s on the page—and you can look and laugh and repent and start fresh. As we head into the week of Thanksgiving, I pray for just that. A heart full of thanksgiving, that appreciates the good (like the amazing sunset tonight!) despite the bad. Do you know what awful thought I had one day the other week? "Tomorrow is Saturday, so I can do real devotions." Hot coffee, candles, morning light, and, you know, the Bible. The thought stopped me in my tracks on my way to work. Since when does reading the Word and seeking the Lord depend on how picturesque my set up is? I was struck by the absolute certainty of my thoughts. I was assuming that my circumstances affected my worship, that prayer could only happen with the smells of fresh baked banana bread filling my kitchen. Sometimes I call it the "Instagram Effect." I don’t know about the rest of you, but Instagram sure makes me feel like my friends live perfect lives. My own page tells a different shade of story than my actual life would. So as every perfectly styled, golden-lit picture flits past my eyes and splashes onto my mind's portrait of "normal," I slowly, subconsciously, begin to believe in a world that only exists through i-Phone cameras: perfect symmetry, steamy hot beverages, blindingly blue skies. My innate love of all things beautiful and cozy goes into overdrive, seeking constant satisfaction and comfort in aesthetics. I begin to assume that this is just how life should be. Right? I become ungrateful, winey, discontent, and hard. I begin to demand the beautiful rather than appreciate it, and in the meantime lose any ability to take joy in simple pleasures for the very fact that I am concentrating too much on obtaining them. I am reminded of Jesus's words to his disciples in the book of Matthew: "If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it" (Matthew 16: 24-25). His is the backwards Kingdom, running counter to our deepest instincts. He has been teaching me that I must love in measure, that I must find joy in him before I find joy in others or other things. Otherwise I spiral; I judge the world by Instagram standards and ravenously chase The Beautiful without any reference to The Maker. I've started to do devotions on my 45-minute train trip to work. It's so unglamorous, squished between 5000 other New Jersey commuters on the 7:56 to 33rd street. Sometimes I feel self-conscious because I think everyone is reading over my shoulder. Do I look silly? Where is my morning joe and the dewy light? It has been a good practice. As some of you know, this has been a difficult season in life. My husband and I are incredibly busy, stretched, and often discouraged. We don't see each other as much as we'd like. It is easy for me to turn the small comforts into ultimate ones, to think that a good homemade soup or fuzzy socks will fix loneliness or fatigue. But God, the ever-faithful teacher, reminds me every Sunday night--as I mentally prepare for work the next morning--that only he will bring a new song in the morning. (PS: incidentally, I am writing this while curled up in a blanket, sipping coffee, listening to night sounds. I'm very cozy. And content.) |
Authorwife to a med student and mama to three under three, seeking the joyful and learning to live by faith. Find me on Instagram and Pinterest or shoot me an email. I'd love to hear from you!
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