Category Archives: Travel

On Motorcycles, Malaysia, and Missions

31 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by in Culture, Expectations, Malaysia, Mission, Travel, vision

≈ 4 Comments

Thanks to the influence of coming from a family of boys, I’ve dreamt of riding/driving a motorcycle ever since I was maybe 12. Finally mustered up enough courage to get my permit last spring, and cruising the back roads nearby was easily a highlight of last summer. Wobbly and unsteady as I was (am), riding motorcycle had a certain amount of danger to it that made me feel adventurous and free.

Then I spent some time in Asia over the winter and had a not-so-pleasant motorbike crash a few days before my scheduled departure back to the States. It was rough going for a couple weeks, but I was excited about the day the dark wound on my foot would be healed enough and the day would be warm enough to go on a ride. Finally convinced dad it was time to go one day, and got all prepped and ready for the ride. My soaring expectations were dashed as we drove through the usual back roads route. Instead of adventure and freedom, all I felt was fear. Crippling fear. Every corner brought back haunting images of sliding on the loose gravel around a small bend on a Thai country road, my ill judgement on how fast I was going, and the shock of pain as blood oozed everywhere. This wasn’t the accident. But my mind was obsessing over it. We’re going to crash. We’re going to crash. I just know it.

It made me a bit upset. Why did something I had anticipated for so long turn sour so fast? A few weeks later I tried it again, this time with my brother, Ryan. Again, it was the same fear haunting my mind and making me feel stiff and wobbly around every corner. I wanted to relocate to some far corner of the world that never used any form of motorized bike and everyone only walked very slowly everywhere or drove the little electric scooters that you see in Wal-Mart. It seemed much safer and uneventful.

The problem is that I wanted to like motorcycle rides again, I really did. The Wal-Mart scooter world only seemed pleasant for so long. I would have had to leave there sometime. For the third attempt, we drove up to the Pinnacle. On winding, curvy roads, I bunched my hands up tight as we went around corners and inwardly gave myself pep talks while attempting to diagnose the unprecedented fear. Alicia, what’s going on? Do you trust your brother? You do remember he has a much better driving record than you, right? Are you going to keep facing your fear so that one day you enjoy motorcycle drives again?

Reaching a sharp corner I leaned closer to Ryan, close enough to reach out and hold on to him for dear life if necessary. In that instant, I suddenly realized why it was so scary. Earlier, I hadn’t been leaning in. Focusing so heavily on fear, I forgot that the best form for sharp corners was leaning down and in. In this position I felt safer, more protected. The fear didn’t leave instantly, but somehow the knowledge that I could feel protected on a motorcycle began to go to my head. On our ride back, I made hand waves in the wind as we drove a straight stretch of road, and felt the joy seeping in again. It wasn’t completely back yet, but it was coming.

If I wanted to sum up my experience in mission life so far, insert the word missions in place of motorcycle and you would have most of the story. Wanting to “do missions” ever since I was a young girl, anticipating it, trying it out for several years, only to have my idealism shattered, all messy things oozing everywhere. If you’ve read some of my previous posts on this, a lot of the messiness had to do with coming face to face with my own brokenness and learning how to live more honestly. Getting back on the mission bandwagon has felt scary, like I’m waiting for something terrible to happen that will crush me yet again. Every little hiccup fills me with fear, holding my breath for something worse than the last time. I want to run to some corner of the world where everyone is perfect and nothing is required of me except to wake up and smell roses.

The problem is that I want to “like” missions again, no matter how hard, frustrating, scary, or impossible it seems. I can’t hypothetically smell the roses forever. It’s only in the past year that I have begun to discover the audacious hope for moving forward. Leaning into Jesus brings healing. He is really good at being a Healer. At showing up in the places that are terrifying- the loose gravel corners, if you will- He isn’t afraid of the mess and ill judgement that’s there. It is a painfully slow, gradual business- this healing stuff. Like a flower working to blossom, it means effort and honest searching and letting friends speak truth and depth into your life (I guess flowers don’t actually need that part, but you get the idea).

In the first chapter of Matthew, the angel tells Joseph that the God-child coming to earth will be called “Immanuel,” which means, “God with us.” (Matt. 1:23)

God with us.

When life seems raw and uncertain. When my unrealistic expectations of missionary life crash with reality, because the truth is that I can’t actually save the world no matter how much I may want to. He draws me out to be faithful and free inside; to love Him more so I can love others better. Those two things cannot and are not perfected overnight. I’m learning to take these shaky steps towards a clearer future. It probably won’t be void of pain or disappointment. But it’s okay. He is with us.

I’m ready to learn how to lean in again. And that means a hypothetical motorcycle ride and a real move to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, with all its dangerous beauty of never knowing what the results will be. It’s peculiar and wonderful to be so excited about this upcoming chapter. Most days I don’t really know how to depict it all. It’s something so far beyond myself, it always will be, and maybe I’m learning to be just a little more okay with that. I read THIS book recently and am keeping the words below from Jena Nardella as a reminder to keep walking. I want to keep leaning in and learning and growing- whether it’s on a motorcycle or a Wal-Mart scooter.

“One might imagine that I’ve changed, that along with my vision… came a new courage, an undiscovered gutsiness, a joy in taking risks. The truth is, I’ve never felt equipped to do anything extraordinary in my life. I battle fear every time I get on a plane. I experience so much failure and self-doubt that I have come to expect it. But the path… taught me that it’s less about having it all together and more about the unwavering commitment to keep walking…My faith is messier now than it once was. My questions are bigger. Some of my convictions have eased into mystery, even as my understanding of God has grown… we are not called to change the world. We are called to love the world. And to love the world, we are the ones who must change.” (Jena Lee Nardella)

Check out a glimpse of what I’m joining HERE!

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Collaborating: Third Culture Adults and Those Who Are Not

11 Tuesday Apr 2017

Posted by in Culture, Third Culture, Third Culture Adults, Third Culture Kid, Travel

≈ 2 Comments

Megan* grew up in three different countries on two continents. She speaks two languages, enjoys pickled chicken feet for a snack, and currently lives half a world away from her family. As a TCK in the early stages of adulthood, she has a very broad outlook on life and the world around her while wrestling with career choices and never feeling completely at home no matter where she lives. Because her family lives far away, she must lay her own foundation for connections with people and church and community.

Third Culture Adults are not a new phenomenon, and I don’t mean to write about them like they are. I vaguely attempted to write about this stage of life based off of my young adult experiences, but found them lacking. You see, I’m quite sure every TCK moves into adulthood differently. Writing my story alone wouldn’t sufficiently cover all that is to be said. Just like childhood, every experience is different. I have noted a few common themes that seem to be more prominent in the lives of those who have been raised in more than one cultural setting. However, before making blanket statements on these themes, my hope is to gather more stories and experiences outside of my limited knowledge. Namely, I want to hear from other Third Culture Adults.

While I have already asked some friends and family members for feedback, I’d also be interested in hearing from you, the reader, the TCK community at-large, and those affected or influenced by TCK friends or family members.

Before going any farther, I want to add a disclaimer that is vital to this subject: Being a TCK does not make you/us more special, talented, gifted, or superior than any other individual. It is nice to have a place or a “box,” if you will, to fit into, but I’m not looking to create an exclusive identity club for people with unique cultural experiences. This is something I realized with startling clarity after blogging my story. So maybe your childhood is different and you grew up eating strange foods or speaking fluent Cantonese. These things do matter because they so often strongly affect your worldview. However, they do not place you/us on some sort of special-ness, hierarchy scale. Sometimes I wonder if, in an honest desire to be understood, we over-emphasize our uniqueness and lose our audience in the process. I guess what I’m hoping for is that I don’t get so caught up in my own experience that I lose sight of caring about somebody else.

In this new series of posts, I want to hear from TCK’s who are now adults:

What are some strengths and weaknesses you’ve found that are traced back to your childhood experiences? Did your multi-cultural childhood feel primarily like a hindrance or a gift?

I would also love to hear from non-TCK individuals:

What strengths and weaknesses have you found in living in one primary culture? If you could tell your TCK friend one thing (whether it be positive or negative), what would that one thing be? What are pros and cons you’ve found in having friends who are TCK’s?

These are loaded questions, and it might feel easy to shy away from them. Instead of looking at it as a mountain, maybe we need to start looking at it like a bridge. My hope is that we can bridge the chasm that often seems to separate one cultural perspective from another. Perhaps we can use it as a driving force for connection. Let’s collaborate and learn from each other. I wonder sometimes if we don’t miss out on all kinds of good things because we’re too focused on the differences.

So, what does it look like to learn from each other? How would you answer the questions above? Whether it’s through comments, messages, or conversations, I’d love to hear your feedback!

(feel free to refer to Part One of this series for the definition of a Third Culture Kid and more resources about it)

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Third Culture Kid: The Collision

01 Sunday May 2016

Posted by in Culture, Third Culture, Third Culture Kid, Travel

≈ 14 Comments

I was 19 years old, sitting in a counseling office, convinced the weight of the world was on my shoulders. The reasons for being there that day were varied and loose. I still don’t remember what we talked about in that short time except for one statement.

“You are a third culture kid, Alicia.”

She posed this phrase as a statement. It wasn’t a question.

Even if I wanted to tell you all that transpired after our move from Otterburne, Canada, to Lancaster County, USA, I couldn’t. [Find out why we moved HERE]  Mostly because I don’t remember a lot of it. Some days vague memories jump out at me, but its mostly gray and foggy, like a dream where you try to completely open your eyes but you find it impossible to do so.

5th grade hit me like a ton of bricks. I went to a private, conservative Mennonite school. I was distantly related to half of my class. My last name was no longer unusual, but commonplace and almost expected. The ability to introduce myself in French could not help me conquer verbs and adjectives nor did it do anything for my math homework. If it is possible to have a constant headache for months on end, then that is what I most remember.

The headache of trying to figure out a new school system. The shock of going to a church that all dressed like us, instead of being the only girl wearing different attire. Sunday School wasn’t a program of skits or songs about Pharaoh baby and sailing home, but an actual class around a table, where we sat on hard-back chairs and read from the lesson.

This new period of life was a maze of confusion and guilt. I looked like these people. I dressed like these people. My name implied that I belonged here. The guilt came from feeling like an outsider and an intruder. It came from the exorbitant amount of time I fantasized a different life. The confusion was trying to navigate the murky waters of adolescence and a new culture at the same time. I cried several times a week, always in private. The only reprieve came from daily, then weekly phone conversations with my best friend.

It was not a particular person, group, or individual circumstance that caused these hard years. It was the clash of cultures blown up in the world of a child. It wasn’t one moment of misunderstanding. It was a thousand little details that left me confused and frustrated. Some were humorous, like the time we asked where the washroom was at a friend’s house, and they led us to the laundry room. Others were hard, like the day I figured out you need to be invited before you randomly go over to someone’s house.

The simplest way to sum it up is this: In my Canadian world, I was different and I knew it. My friends knew it too. “Why do you wear dresses and skirts all the time?” In these moments I would gather them around and, in hushed tones proclaim “It’s because I am Mennonite.” Then we would run off and play another round of soccer or grounders. It was curiosity, but it didn’t change our relationship.

In my new American world, I looked the same. I dressed the same. My name said I belonged here. But I didn’t think the same or act the same, and this is what set me apart most. Attempting to even describe the exact differences is nearly impossible without categorizing or labeling.

From the age of 10 until that day in the counselor’s office 9 years later, I tried to convince myself that someday I would fit in. I wanted to believe that at some point in my life there would be a time I could clearly say, “I am from here,” and wholeheartedly mean it. It hadn’t happened yet, and suddenly I knew it never would. I am from Lancaster, yes. But I am also from Ontario and Manitoba and all those pieces of life have influenced who I am, whether I admit to it or not. It is different, perhaps, but not bad or wrong.

Throughout my teenage years, I looked at this difference as a detriment. We all applaud the idea of being different, but the reality of being different was and is excruciatingly frustrating some days. Most common love-hate questions?

“Where are you from?”

“Where did you grow up?”

“So you’re Canadian, eh?”

“Where are your parents from?”

“What was it like to live in  __________?”

Every TCK dilemma is how to answer these or similar questions. The long version? The short version? The sarcastic version? Sometimes they are good questions. Other times it’s hard to know how to respond without launching into a 10 minute explanation.

Becoming an adult has its own set of problems. Where do I root myself? Do I even try to root myself at all?  Which place do I refer to as “home”? Sometimes the heightened awareness of culture shock and adjustment is an asset. Sometimes you enter another country and tiptoe around, figuratively speaking, because you don’t want to offend anyone. Like a human chameleon, most TCK’s are subconsciously or consciously looking for ways to blend in or adapt quickly to the culture(s) we are in at any given time.

It’s not always an obvious difference that “sets us apart.” There are definitely varying degrees of Third Culture experience. Perhaps the greatest significance in the TCK label is just that: we actually have a definition for what we are. It wasn’t so much that a professional counselor told me I was a Third Culture Kid, but rather it was because someone who barely even knew me paid enough attention to recognize that part of my story.

Belonging everywhere and nowhere is a gift, not an impediment. It’s hard, confusing, exhausting, and soul-searching, but it’s still a gift. It’s okay to be different. The world needs to hear your insight and perspective that spans beyond a singular, primary culture. It needs you to risk in the places that hurt most. My hope in these series of posts is not just for you, the reader, to hear my story. Rather, that we as a community of people, no matter the story, can start engaging each other in discussion and dialogue on how to use our multi-cultured childhood experience as a tool for good.

How can we walk in grace towards the people and cultures around us?

What has been most helpful to you, as a TCK, in your Third Culture experience?

To my non-TCK readers, what have you learned (if any) from these posts? What can we do to better engage you with our experiences, while also hearing yours?