Reevaluating the Whole Parenting Thing

After all these years of living overseas, I still find myself in the role of learner and student, never the expert.  I'm not an expert on anything, but especially not in this whole business of raising kids on the mission field.  If I ever come across as a know-it-all, just because I've done it for so long, well - I'm not.  

Most often I feel like Sgt. Schultz on Hogan's Heroes:  "I say nothing.... I know nothing!"

On Sunday while the more serious football enthusiasts were watching the Super Bowl, I was enjoying a lovely coffee klatsch with a sociable group of lesser football fans.  The conversation flew from one topic to another as is typical among my friends.  At one juncture, the subject matter centered on cross-cultural child-rearing. Mostly I just listened.

Just as we all have our own ways of coping, surviving, and thriving on the field, either by hunkering down or blending in, or any other variety of ways mentioned in a recent blog post by Rachel Pieh titled, 3 Types of Expatriates, we also have our own personal parenting styles and methods of raising children on the field. 

Some will attempt to thoroughly immerse their children in the culture, sending them to the local schools in the local language.  Some will keep their kids primarily in the expat community and English speaking schools, with the emphasis on preparing them for life and university in the U.S. someday.  Some will keep their kids at home, teaching them in English with the focus on joining in ministry opportunities when they arise.  Others will choose a combination of the above.

It’s all well and good.  Each couple must decide for themselves which approach is the best for their particular situation and their individual children.  There is no one right answer for every missionary family.  The trouble comes when we start looking at each other and passing judgment on others’ decisions that conflict with our own.  Thankfully I live in a community with a healthy amount of tension that results from differing opinions and experiences, minus any overt criticism.

  
Once again I refrain from offering the one-size-fits-all solution.  I’ll just emphasize that it’s a tough decision that needs to be re-evaluated regularly.  Just because one approach worked for a while does not mean we can't change it later.  Whatever you choose may leave you with doubts and regrets.  How’s that for a depressing thought? All we can do is pray, seek godly wisdom, and agree with our husbands on the right path for our unique families.
  
For me, I am in a season of reevaluating whether it’s time to drag my three teens out of their comfortable little bubble more frequently, take more forays into Indian villages, and force them to take more cross-cultural risks.  

How about you?  Where does your family fit in the cross-cultural continuum?  Are you happy with your decisions?  Ready for a change?  Do tell.  And do any of you dare to call yourself an expert on raising a family on the field?  I'm just curious.

The good news is that most of the time, third culture kids turn out just fine.  I cling to that hope.

 

IRL:  Still struggling with the desire to be an “expert” in this whole raising kids overseas, while admitting I am really just learning it all with you.

Love 'em, Dread 'em, or ...?

What do you do about Sundays?  I remember the conflict dh* and I had back in our infamous “Jungle Camp” training, when the leaders disallowed Sunday services as a group.  The intent was to train us to find our own ways of worshiping and self-feeding, considering most of us would be allocated to places without the option of an English church service.

There we sat with open Bible and a tiny baby in our arms, trying to “do church” by ourselves.  Of course the luggage restriction (one suitcase and one apple box apiece) had been filled with cloth diapers and baby things, so we had failed to bring even a small hymnal.  It was an awkward and unrewarding experience each Sunday of “camp.”

Sure enough, once we arrived in our Guatemalan village assignment, we were faced with the reality of no viable church options.  Often we attempted “church” by ourselves at home.  Sometimes we were blessed to receive sermon tapes from supporting churches.  Then the post office went on strike and we received nothing for many weeks and months, forcing our return to sleeping in on Sundays self-feeding again.

Other times we attempted to join local indigenous church services.  Those were always educational for learning about the people and culture, but rather disappointing if we had hoped to actually worship.  For me, it was the slow torture of sitting on a hard bench with no backrest, trying to keep a one-year-old quiet in the women’s section, while Jim sat across the room with the men, unable to help me out.

Being pregnant at the time, those long services always meant at least one trip to the outhouse with a toddler in tow, and then convincing him (and myself) to go back into the tightly packed pew reeking of the same cook-fire smoke and sweaty feet that sent me to the outhouse in the first place.

Then there was the Sunday we were in the Mam-speaking church, and my baby suddenly decided it would be fun to start showing off his “what-does-the-Indian-say?” trick, patting his little hand over his mouth while making LOUD woo-woo-woo-woo noises.  One by one the other toddlers and babies started copying him. 

Watching to see how the other mothers handled it, I saw them give their papoose (colorfully typical “Mobi” wrap) a tight yank, whereupon each child became quiet instantly.  Not mine.  I had to waddle out into the dirt yard, sit on a stone, and wait out the service with my incorrigible (though amusing) baby.

Those were the days…. Since then we have tried Union Church, home church, local church, Mexican church in the city, and everything in between.  Currently we are back to another “union church” of sorts, using podcast sermons from the Internet, which we watch and discuss with other ex-pats in our community. 

At one point we recognized the irony that we had come to this country so indigenous people could worship in their own language – yet we were requiring our own dc* to worship in their second language.

How about you?  How do you feel about Sundays?  Love ‘em?  Dread ‘em?  Or are they just one more painful reminder that “We’re not in Kansas any more”?

IRL:  For me, “sleeping in on Sunday” is still a weekly temptation no matter where we live.

Speaking of Missy's OVARIES.... (a.k.a. "How Annoying is Your Fish Bowl?")

Once I heard an American complain about all the rude foreigners at Disney World who pushed right into him as he patiently waited in line for the rides.  North Americans have an enormous bubble surrounding them, which they fully expect strangers to respect. 

Touching is perceived as pushing. 

Most global workers eventually adapt our concept of “personal space” so we can survive without being so prickly with those we came to reach, where personal space is an almost non-existent concept.  However, what about emotional space?  Have any of you experienced the trauma of having a very personal issue treated rudely?

Today I am calling on the collective wisdom of our WOTH readers to address a tender subject: how do you handle infertility cross-culturally?  Short of wearing a t-shirt saying “Please stop talking about my ovaries!” what can be done to get the message across that this is a private matter American women do not want discussed publicly?

Missy (not her real name),  a global worker in her early 30’s, works here in Mexico and has been married for almost five years with no children.  She is a private person who struggles with the fishbowl effect of living in the public eye, where everyone seems preoccupied with her apparent inability to give her Mexican husband offspring.  Mind you she has never seen a doctor or had any “problem” diagnosed, but since her sister-in-law seems to be “Fertile Myrtle” it is presumed there is a “problem,” and that the "problem" is hers and not her husband’s.

The humiliation she has endured is unbelievable.  Can you imagine having people actually touch your belly and weep aloud over the death of your ovaries?  What’s worse, people say hurtful things about how Missy is selfish for not caring that her poor husband has the embarrassment of having an infertile wife.  One woman told her she should stop focusing her attention on helping other people's children (which is her ministry), and then God might consider giving her a child of her own.  Really?

Almost comical (if it weren't true), meddlers regularly offer Missy home remedies like powders in her drinking water, special teas, and fermented pineapple cores.  Once she was given a foot massage to stimulate her reproductive organs.  The very worst are men who make public prophesies and suggestions too graphic to print here, and tell of visions they have had of Missy’s birth canal.  Really!

Missy herself would be at peace with God opening and closing her womb according to His will and purposes.  She would be content to wait several more years to start a family or to adopt children if that’s what God wants.  Her husband and dmil* (see side bar) are supportive, though probably clueless as to her predicament.  If and when she does get pregnant, she would like the glory to go to God, not to the "friends" who offered advice and potions.

Her question to you is this:  How can she communicate to her adversaries that she is a private person who is quietly trusting God?  How can she be gracious, while calmly but strongly telling people to shut up stop meddling and leave her alone?

Is it possible to relay this message without offending people cross-culturally?  How would this scene play out in your part of the world?

IRL:  Living in a fish bowl can be pretty annoying sometimes.

P.S.  I voted against the "Stop Talking About My Ovaries" t-shirt, but I did find this one at www.AdoptionBug.com.
that says "mom-to-be:  Just waiting to find out WHEN." 

Ask Jamie Jo: Reverse-Reverse Culture Shocker

Earlier this month a reader sent an email that deserves a serious and thoughtful response. I have written three entire posts attempting to address the issue of reverse culture shock in reverse--I kept starting over, feeling each time that it wasn't adequate. None of the three did it justice. I am counting on you to flesh it out with personal experiences in the comment section.

Nicolette spent the summer in the States after her first three years on the field. She had been warned to expect reverse culture shock back in the home country, and wasn’t surprised when it happened. What she wasn’t expecting was the wave of culture shock that hit when she returned to the field.

You can read her blog post “The Culture Shock that No One Tells You About” here. Basically she poses more questions than I can answer in one short post, but I will say truthfully that, yes, I still go through that shock of re-entry both coming and going. It does get easier, and the transition happens more quickly each time around, but muddling through the discomfort of a major change is inevitable.

My first random thought is that flying has a lot to do with it. In the early years we used to drive back and forth from Guatemala to the States. In that way, we could ease ourselves in and out of cultures gradually. Flying makes the re-entry so abrupt at both ends of the trip. That could be a factor. Think of the old-time missionaries literally taking the slow boat to China. By the time they got there, they were ready to be there. This isn’t necessarily true with air travel.

Secondly, I think we tend to idolize our adopted country while we are stateside. We paint such a rosy portrait of life overseas that we start to believe it ourselves. Returning to the nitty gritty of reality can be a bit of a shock and disappointment just as intense as the disgruntled feelings we experience in the U.S. Neither place seems quite right any more.

I could hang my head in shame having to admit that I haven’t arrived, but the truth is that I am not home yet. It is only natural that I will feel out of place both here and in the U.S. Neither place is my home. The unsettling discomfort of homesickness and culture shock is a wonderful reminder that I will always be in transition until the day I land in heaven. That’s the good news, my friends.

Meanwhile, culture and language learning is a lifelong process. It’s never finished.

And lastly, may we never be so naïve as to forget that there is still a villain in our story who wants to rob us of our joy and replace it with confusion and misunderstanding. Keeping a journal is a wonderful way to document and analyze the wild swings of emotion we experience on the field. I mention it often, but a great tool and weapon is to make a list of things that make you thankful.

IRL* I am thankful most of all that this is not my home!

October's Alarm

October. What’s so good about it? For me, it’s a love-hate relationship. Living in the high desert, October holds no promise of autumn, but it does offer the promise of ending Daylight Savings Time.

If anyone is keeping tally of my random pet peeves, feel free to add Daylight Savings to the list. In my way of thinking, it makes no sense to enforce a time change in a region so close to the equator. The days and nights are already fairly equally distributed year-round.

As it stands, many indigenous people boycott the time change, if they even know it exists. This causes all sorts of misunderstandings, like we don’t have enough confusion as it is. We plan an event or a meeting with people, never entirely sure what time they will show up. Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care? (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

These early days of October, the clock daily alarms me out of a deep and sometimes lovely dream. However last week I was relieved to hear that awful clanging on two consecutive mornings when the alarm delivered me from a newly recurring nightmare. Do you ever have those?

As a child, did you ever have that nightmare where you were out in public only to discover you were practically naked? My grown up, missionary version of this nightmare goes like this: Dh and I are hiking out to an Indian village, where I try to discretely photograph all the colorful and interesting people. No matter what I do, people gawk at me.

In this crazy dream that won’t end without the alarm clock, dh is happily engaged in conversation with the men of the village while I am being overtly shunned and ostracized by the women. Always I realize too late that I am wearing shorts – a huge cultural taboo, particularly among Christians. Then I try frantically to wrap a rebozo (Indian shawl) like Miss Wear-it-on-My-Sleeves, to make it look like a skirt of some sort.

Not to defy Miss What- to-Wear-Wednesdays, who recently condemned the use of the ugly but ever so practical granny gown (sigh), however, it seems coincidental that these nightmares only return on the nights when I sleep in shorty little PJ shorts, and never when I wear my ever so comfy, though undeniably homely, granny gown. Just saying….

So, back to October.

What do you love/hate about October in your corner of the world?

Seldom ambivalent about anything, as you have noticed, here is my short list:

• I love that the countryside is still green, yet it is sunny enough to dry clothes on the line
• I hate the prospect of facing another long, dry, dusty season ahead
• I love that I can soon sleep that extra hour every morning
• I hate Mexico’s fascination with Day of the Dead
• I love that Halloween brings neighbors right to my doorstep
• I hate that they are all masked and I have no idea who they are

Your turn. Do tell.

IRL* Again my past posts are coming back to haunt me – even in my sleep!

Am I lost?

How do you keep from losing “you”?

This isn’t technically an “Ask Jamie Jo” question, but since no questions were submitted before our editor retreated to Dubai, I will address this very complicated issue that I’ve been mulling over for several months. An e-maginary * (refer to Jamie-Jo Speak in sidebar) friend in Africa asked this on a different online forum, but I’d like to open the discussion here as well.

Obviously many of us were formerly identified with certain occupations, roles, hobbies, and personality traits that have shifted or become hidden on the mission field. In one of my very first posts on this blog I shared about my 20-plus years of living in obscurity. Back then I did feel that the very essence of who I am had been completely stripped away.  Even my southern drawl was becoming less pronounced as I mingled with a wider sampling of English speakers.

I guess what I’m saying first is that yes, it is a process of dying to self and becoming almost invisible. For years I was Jim’s wife, missionary, and “mother to many” without much of a profile to call my own. During that season, though, I was changing into a new me. Hopefully it is an improved, upgraded version, fading on the outside, but subtly shining from the inside out, with or without my old panache.

Rather than giving you a bunch of tips for how to keep from “losing yourself” (which might include helpful suggestions like digital scrapbooking, journaling, and using the creative gifts God has given you), I’d rather add a question of my own.

If you do happen to lose a bit of yourself in ministry to others, would that be such a bad thing?

It’s like when a friend helps you during a major move to another house or location. While you carefully pack the senseless junk that is neither useful nor particularly lovely, your friend - who has no sentimental attachment to your clutter - gently rebukes you: “Why would you want to keep that?”

Yes indeed. Why would you want to keep that?

Maybe it’s time to let go of who we think we are, and let the Master Potter have a go at remaking us more into His image. As my WOTH writer friend Shelley pointed out, we are actually blessed in losing ourselves. “For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

IRL* Reminded again that my real life is hidden with Christ

____________________________________________________

Join me today in lifting up those attending the conference in Dubai, that they would be particularly encouraged as they serve under the radar, purposely hidden.  We won't likely see a slide show with photos of these dear women, but let's keep them in our prayers.

My Panache: Where did it go?

I miss my panache. Isn’t that a great word? It comes from a French word with the connotation of flamboyant manner and reckless courage. It stirs up images of Cyrano de Bergerac in the play of the same name. However, unlike this fictional character, I don’t seem to be keeping my panache intact.

Cyrano's last words: " ... yet there is something still that will always be mine, and when I go to God's presence, there I'll doff it and sweep the heavenly pavement with a gesture — something I'll take unstained out of this world ... my panache "

Maybe some of you imagine me to be a person who exudes confidence and flair, but you should have seen me earlier this month as I shriveled in the face of another cultural faux pas. I was anything but effervescent. Instead I was insecure and trying to shrink myself to a more acceptable size in this culture.

The occasion was a wedding in which I was to be the ring bearer. You read that right. Technically I was the “madrina” of the rings, which is supposed to be quite an honor. It means I was the sponsor for the bride and groom’s rings. In other words, I paid for the rings. That much I understood. However, I didn’t know what else that would entail.

Arriving at the church on time, I sat in an inconspicuous place and waited and waited. An hour later the bride and her family arrived, and the bride’s sister came and asked me what on earth I was doing sitting there. I was to process into the church and be seated in a place of honor on the front row.

Still in possession of the rings and uncertain what to do, I awkwardly walked into the church in solemn procession, feeling like a giant directly behind the bride’s parents who are both at least a foot shorter than I am.

Shortly into the ceremony the pastor asked the bride and groom what tokens they had, and they announced “rings.” The pastor looked over to me, and I nervously went up in front of a very packed church and handed the pastor the black velvet case from the jewelry store. He looked at me blankly, and then told me to open it. Oh, so I guess I was supposed to know that. Anyway then I went back and sat down, totally lacking in any degree of panache. I felt like a complete idiot. A rehearsal might have been helpful.

When the pastor asked for the next token, the “madrina” of the coins went up with a flourish of panache, and presented her token in a gorgeous, ornate little box. The next gift was presented in a decorative glass case, and another token was displayed on a silver platter. I soon learned that the rings were to have been presented in a similar way. Ack. How was I supposed to know? I cringe with the very memory of my publicly humiliating loss of panache.

IRL*You’d think this feeling of being an outsider would fade after 25 years, but it keeps returning.

I'm Grateful

First of all, thanks to Debbie Peck for the fun recipes and resources for Thanksgiving. What a fun encouragement that was. I’m assuming all of us are receiving the WOTH onlineMagazine and the subsequent email from the Editor, “In Between the Lines,” in which it appears. If not, click here.
Now to balance my more negative posts about head lice, car-sickness, and things we don’t take for granted, I want to give some serious thought to the many benefits of living exactly where we do. Your list will not necessarily look like mine, but I offer these to inspire your own. Please add yours in the comment section.

Here is a partial list I made for Thanksgiving (in random order).
I love the simplicity of life here. No junk mail, no telemarketers, and in fact, few phone calls in general. I enjoy the quality and quantity of family time without so many outside distractions. No sports practices or youth events requiring me to be a chauffeur. Cheap reliable public transportation means the kids can get around independently, even to school in the city three times a week.

Living close to our friends means even the youngest can walk back and forth to each other’s houses during daylight. After some upheaval earlier in the year, I am extremely thankful for no further incidents in our town, and that our kids are safe in their comings and goings.

One thing that remains on my list every year is my house. Being settled in my own home for almost 17 years is a tremendous blessing. I love that it is climate- controlled simply by opening and closing windows and drapes. Being adobe, it maintains the warmth or coolness without air-conditioning or heating.

Of course a huge bonus of living where we do is that it provides a meaningful purpose in life. The ministry opportunities alone are a tremendous blessing that short-term teams only glimpse. Even with the challenges and difficulties, we receive intangible benefits. Does that sound weird to say I am thankful for the very problems that cause me to grow more like Jesus?

After that horrible bout with E-coli, I am thankful for good health, which I do not take for granted. I am thankful to see the scales finally inching their way down after ten years of gradually going up. I’m thankful for affordable fresh fruits and vegetables available year-round.

As always, I am grateful for my family and friends, and for modern technology that helps us stay in touch. I love my family, and I thank the Lord daily that my children are all walking with the Lord, knowing so many heart-broken mothers who pray for this daily. I love the fact that we all still want to be together, even though we can’t.

And lastly, I adore each and every one of my very odd diverse friends, both near and far away. I’m thankful for my e-maginary friends on the Sonlight forums, and for my new WOTH friends (you!).

IRL*Gratitude is the gift I give to you.

A-Z Things I Took for Granted

They say that misery loves company. While I don’t want to turn this into a gripe-fest, I thought you might enjoy participating in a recent discussion I had with some of my online colleagues. In some warped way, as my friend Latte Mom says, it is always encouraging to be reminded that we are not the only ones….

First, I have to tell you a funny on myself. The title of our discussion was: “I don’t take “that” for granted any more.” Here’s what my initial response was before I started reading about washing machines and things like “that.” I am still just blushing that I actually thought that “that” was, well, “that” is generally what I call, um, in my prudish way, I say "THAT" when I don't want to say... Oh, never mind.

My head is in the gutter. (*see below to join me)

Here is the compiled list of serious answers people submitted. Feel free to add to the list in the comment section.

A = availability of grocery items
B = bridges (here we drive through rivers)
C = chicken packaged nicely with no evidence that this was once a breathing, pecking, feathered, living thing
D= death not displayed for my children in newspapers and on the side of the road
E = exercise in air-conditioned house or outdoors without being stared at
F = fuel at the gas station
G = grains and flour that aren’t bug-infested
H = hot water any time I want it
I = Internet working reliably
J = just being able to drive where people respect the laws and speed limits
K = keeping the house presentable with no sand, dirt, and dust after cleaning
L = laundry without hanging, ironing, etc.
M = menu items I order at the restaurant actually being available
N = neighbors that don’t have loud music blaring all night
O = oven and stove not shutting off when the gas runs out unexpectedly
P = power
Q = quality for a price (here you pay more but it may not be better quality)
R = restaurants open before 7:00 P.M.
S = seatbelts and other safety measures
T = telephone service everywhere
U = urgent care help, ICU, emergency room facilities
V = vegetables and fruits that don’t require soaking and scrubbing
W = water
X = expiration dates being accurate and expectation that people will stand in line
Y = yucky stuff removed from the nicely packaged, already dead, meat
Z = zoos and other safe, fun places to take the kids to play

IRL* “THAT” is what you can't take for granted on furloughs when every bed in America is super squeaky and behind thin walls.

Is 2DAY Gr8 4 U?

My big accomplishment for June was learning to send text messages. Ever the frugal missionary, I love sending a quick text for half the cost of a one-minute call. My kids have laughed at my early attempts to use this technology. I’ve finally figured out how to punctuate, but my spelling is often intrstng. It took me a while to discover why the word “can” always came out “2n” and “will” looked like “wik.” For a while I was convinced my phone was faulty. Now I love it.

For less than a nickel, I sent a text to my college daughter to pick up milk on her way home from class one day. It was cheaper than driving a separate car to the closest store. On a side note, I do miss the corner store (tienda) back home. As slowly as I thumb type, I might have walked there and back in the same time, but I digress (and exaggerate).

All this instant communication is in sharp contrast with the total lack of contact with my husband the past few weeks. He’s been in Mexico hosting short-term teams from the States. Last Wednesday I received a couple of emails from the church whose youth team was in Oaxaca, concerned about the 6.2 earthquake not far from the ministry site.

Since they were working in a secluded area lacking cell phone service and Internet access, I didn’t expect to hear back from my husband until later in the week. I’m used to that, but there wasn’t much I could do to reassure the parents back home. I was convinced the group was fine. (They were.) I later learned they had slept through the shaking; but they did not, however, miss out on the opportunity to update their Facebook status with such sensational news reports.

This incident got me thinking about the new generation of missionaries arriving on the field, both young and old. It must be difficult to adjust to the lack of reliable instant communication they are used to 24/7. What the old-timers consider a tremendous blessing, having even sporadic Internet and cell phone coverage, the new folks must perceive as a challenge.

Someone recently asked what the WORST things are about being a missionary--she wanted the nitty-gritty. The inside scoop. Before I share my response, I want to pose the question to you.

Maybe for you it is the communication issue. Maybe not.

I suspect the answers will vary depending on how long you have been on the field, so please include this in your comment.

First, I want to hear from you. Next week, I’ll answer the question more fully from my viewpoint as a (reluctant) old-timer.

IRL*Now I’m tri-lingual.

The Amazon Question

“Where do you live?” is my second least favorite question. This summer alone, I can’t count how many times I’ve pulled out a cheat sheet with my temporary address and cell phone number. To get groceries at the lowest prices, you need a special card, but to get the little card you have to give your address and phone number.

Today’s task is memorizing our summer address and teaching it to the children. One trip to the U.S., I failed to do this, resulting in two lost teenagers being hauled into the police station. The line of questioning went like this: Where do you live? We don’t know. (Yeah, right.) Where are you from? Mexico. (Yeah, right.) Where were you born? Guatemala. (Yeah, right.) What is your phone number? We don’t have a phone. (Yeah, right.) And so forth.

Another embarrassing incident happened on a summer mini-furlough while adding 15,000 miles to our family van. We were visiting a nice church, where we already stood out because of the size of our family, plus the fact that my kids were not wearing proper “Sunday shoes.” To make matters worse, the Sunday school teacher thought that we were homeless street people because my toddler didn’t know where we lived. When the teacher tried to rephrase the question “Where do you live?” by asking, “Where do you sleep?” - my little one innocently answered, “In the van!”

Each time a child fills out college applications, we get stumped with the second question: Address? Should we put the Mexico address, thus establishing that our child is a TCK (third culture kid)? No, because then any possible acceptance letter might get lost in the mail. If we use a stateside address, which one would be the most logical one to use? Such a simple question yet it has no obvious answer.

You laugh, but how about you? How many options are currently in your Amazon address book? Unless you regularly tidy up and delete unused addresses, you likely have at least a dozen addresses where you have had things shipped. A mission house here and there, a short-term mission team leader’s house, a supporting church, your home office, your parents’ house, etc.

Am I right?

Lastly, what about going in and out of your host country? The immigration papers require an address where you will be staying. (We never “stay” anywhere!) This recent trip I was corrected for putting my “country of residence” as the USA. I was told I should have put Mexico. In the past it was the reverse. As long as we keep a permanent US address, I was told to put our residence as the US, not Mexico. Whatever.

With all this confusion, I can honestly say I am very glad to know where my true citizenship lies. No question about that. My PERMANENT residence is in the arms of a loving, gracious, and generous Savior. Just like the apartment we left last week, I’m only passing through this old dirty world on my way to someplace much bigger and better. Heaven dominates my thoughts these days.

IRL* Today: No idea where I am. Tomorrow: not a clue. Forever: ;)

P.S. Someday I'll tell you what my least favorite question is.

Let the Games Begin!

When the kids were younger they used to play this goofy game with their friends where they would spin around and around until they got so dizzy they would fall down. The last one standing was the winner. Then they would stand up and do it again, still giggling and spinning in circles. Isn’t that a picture of life sometimes? Why are we playing this silly game anyway? And what’s so funny about it?

Right now in Mexico, folks are playing the “summer exodus” game. Living so close to the U.S., many missionaries opt to go to the States or Canada every couple of summers rather than investing a whole year in taking a traditional “furlough”* (not-a-vacation) like people serving in other hemispheres.

In this game, the contestants pass the contents of refrigerators from missionary to missionary, and the last one “standing” for the summer (in other words, the one who doesn’t leave the country) gets all the ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. I would use the more generic term for those items, but that’s another quirk of mine, avoiding words that start with those two syllables. You know what I mean!

Last year one of our neighbors did the unthinkable and left her refrigerator on instead of participating in the food-swap game. Let me tell you, it was not a good idea. Something electrical popped in their system, and the refrigerator went off, never to return to power. By the time I sent a maid to clean up the house for my neighbor’s return, it was nasty! Just imagine fish, meat, and chicken no longer frozen, but dripping down hidden coils in the works of the fridge. You could smell it all the way out on the road. The next time she left Mexico, I was given all the contents of her refrigerator, which I was able to pass along to a new missionary family arriving the same week.

That’s the way the game is supposed to be played.

This summer, however, there are not enough people remaining in town to bear the burden of all the (whispered) “condiments.” I mean, there are only so many bottles of ketchup a door can hold. I decided three months is a short enough trip. Why not live dangerously? I left Mexico for California last week with the refrigerator still plugged in!

A housekeeper friend of mine will go feed our cocker spaniels and check on the house while we are gone; so hopefully, she will discover any malfunction before it becomes a major stench to the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, here I am in southern California, settling in, cleaning an apartment formerly occupied by nine college men. It’s not as bad as rotten fish and meat, but, well, it did need a bit of serious scrubbing. At least they left us some ketchup and mustard on the door of the fridge. Hey, I’m back in the game!

IRL*Sometimes what we leave behind ketchups with us...

Friendless in Mexico

This month I am blessed to have WOTH publish another one of my stories in their onlineMagazine. If you haven’t seen it yet, check out “Guilt Trip.” It’s not as embarrassing as the Target episode that launched my writing career, but it’s another typical Jamie Jo moment.

Normally when the magazine is first posted, I rush to see what fun photo the editor found to spruce up my writing. Not this time. First thing I will do today is read the bio line for each author.

I am curious to read what others have to say about their favorite national friend. Do others actually have good friends from their host country? For me, I came up blank. Frankly, this is a matter of deep shame and regret for me, to not have any national friends.

Me, the ultimate extrovert. Me, who would have trouble naming my closest three friends out of a dozen truly amazing kindred spirits I consider “best friends.” So what’s up with not having any national friends? I don’t know. I find it nearly impossible to break through the cultural barrier to develop friendships.

Here in Mexico I have many acquaintances. Some of them might even miss me if I ever left for good. But on a daily basis, they simply do not need my friendship. Culturally, the women in our town stay at home, and if they host a special event or take a vacation, they only include their extended family. They need no friends. Even in our local church, I don’t see the depth of friendship among the ladies that I have with my fellow missionary friends.

This past weekend I was blessed to participate in a ladies retreat for the English-speaking missionary community. Just like the WOTH Furlough Retreat last summer, it took no energy or effort for me to relate to such like-minded women.

In contrast, I remember taking a van-load of Mexican women to a retreat several years ago. There was lively chatter and laughter the same as our ex-pat retreat, but the difference was that none of the conversation was directed at me. In fact, the women reverted to their native Zapotec language instead of Spanish, leaving me completely in the dark. I was merely the chauffeur, the benefactor, the I-don’t-know-what. I certainly was not a “friend” the way I would normally define it.

In a closed community that has seen its share of missionaries come and go through the years, even ten years is considered “short term.” In the national women's experience, all the missionaries eventually leave to go back to their passport country. Even after sixteen years of living here, I am still considered an outsider and a relative newcomer.

Just like the movie Sleepless in Seattle, I had to sign my blog post: “Friendless in Mexico.” Sad but true. How about you? Are you blessed with genuine friendships cross-culturally?

IRL* just wondering if my story is unique...

Extenuating Circumstances

Last week I sent out another memorable prayer update. A classic. I started my email by relating a story about my daughter’s school assignment in which she was to calculate her father’s age in Roman numerals. The worksheet mistakenly said that “M” was fifty, so my daughter wrote that her dad was MVI. I thought that was so cute, since our sending agency’s initials are MVI. Then I added something about the following day being my Mth birthday.

The joke was on me. Soon I had a flood of responses teasing about how we are both older than Methuselah, since M is actually 1000, not 50. Hopefully people will remember some of the prayer requests and ministry news, and not just my silliness. I had to send out a retraction saying it was my Lth, not my Mth birthday.

I did have a very good birthday, by the way. Thank you. Except…

...it turns out my driver’s license expired on that very same day.

Some of you are groaning. You already know what I’m discovering yet again. People outside the U.S. borders cannot renew driving privileges online, post 9-11. Not in Ohio, anyway.

Methuselah and I spent long hours trying to finagle a way to accomplish this simple task. One option was to fly to some other random state where the regulations are friendlier to persons who do not fit within “the box.” I hear Arizona is a great place for online renewals until you turn 65. That’s tempting. (One photo of the 50-year-old me for the next fifteen years.) No can do. What proof can I possibly provide of residing in that state?

It is impossible. For the first time in sixteen years of living in this country, I am forced to apply for a Mexican driver’s license. By the time we drive to the U.S. for my son’s wedding next summer, my application will have red flags all over it due to the time lapse of seemingly not having a license. I’ll be required to get a learner’s permit for two weeks (and drive again with Mommy in the front seat, I suppose?), and retake the written and driving exam. That’s a memory I do not prefer to repeat.

The last time I took the test in Ohio, the examiner was a stickler for petty details like coming to a complete stop at stop signs. What kind of craziness is that? In Mexico that would get me rear-ended by other drivers. I explained to the woman that she simply had to pass me, or I would never hear the end of it from my sons whom I had taught to drive. She did not think that was her concern. She didn’t even smile.

Just once I wish there would be some tiny allowance for people like me who live their lives smack dab in the middle of extenuating circumstances.

IRL*Just like stop signs, driver's licenses are a necessary nuisance...