After living here for eight years, I thought it would be easier. I thought it would be easier to think and speak another language by now. I thought I wouldn’t so miss my family, my nieces, my nephews, graduations and weddings. I thought I would be one of those global workers on furlough who declared, “We can’t wait to go back to (wherever)…our hearts are there.” But no. I don’t know where my heart is…I only know it is torn. I have never lived anywhere where my head was often elsewhere. Wherever I lived, I was there, in mind, spirit and body. Now my head seems to be split between here, there and everywhere. And then I feel guilty because as I look at my life, I have only good: a wonderful husband, three healthy, thriving sons, a nice apartment, a car, and even a silly dog. But I don’t feel respected here for who I am, because I am not who I am. And I don’t think I ever will be. But who am I anyway? After living here for so long, I am no longer who I was when I came. It appears that I’m not exactly doing well in the ‘whether in want or in plenty’ department. I thought that these mental gymnastics would be over, that I would have matured into a wanna-be-here-to-serve-Jesus-global worker, somehow.
There are times I hate it here. But there are other times that I love it. The culture is so rude. But the cultural events here are multitude. The people can be so brash, so abrupt. But I’ve met some of the most awesome people here. I hate the constant frustrations with language. But I am bi-lingual, quite an accomplishment. I hate living in a city. But at times I love what a city has to offer. I hate how expensive everything is. But fresh flowers are cheap. I hate the traffic. But I love the public transportation. I hate the crowded shops. But we have every kind of shop known to man here. I hate feeling inept, not being in ‘the know.’ But having my head-in-the-sand is not always bad. I miss my home church. But I don’t have to bring a covered dish to anything nor do I have to be on committees. I miss my friends. No up side to this, sorry to say. I miss my family. Nor to this. Yet when I begin to complain and see what I miss, God always reminds me of the many, many blessings that he has provided through the years. I am reminded almost daily that this earth is not my home. I am a guest in this country, and a guest on this earth. I need to hold lightly and remember where my heart needs to be—not in any land, but with my heavenly Father and my future eternal home.
©2004 Thrive
View the original print magazine where this article was first published.
