Re-entry, culture shock, the business of moving between countries and cultures… I should have these things “figured out” by now. Since high school graduation, I have lived in 3 countries, worked 9 different jobs, and resided in 7 different houses, trailers, or apartments (not counting short moves like Bible School, temporary living in my friends’ apartment for a few weeks, and the month we slept on the second floor of a cafe in Thailand). I don’t say that as some sort of bragging right. It’s just a reiteration of the facts that my life seems to scream I’m an expert in change, yet I feel like a novice every time.

Despite the novice feelings, I’ve become accustomed to a pattern for how I deal with change. Months before a big move happens, I begin to get pensive and moody. This is when I sit and gaze out of windows and ponder my life in heavy detail. How did I get here? What did I learn? When will the inevitable goodbyes happen? And most prominently, why am I leaving? Each change is a different set of circumstances, hence different emotions ride alongside said circumstances. Sometimes there is relief and gratitude, sometimes there is pure excitement and anticipation. But there is always, always the unavoidable reality that each time I move, I am exchanging one life for another. I am giving up something to gain something else. Sometimes it looks freeing and certain. Other times it looks terrifying and unknown. If I’m honest, it’s typically a mash-up of all the above.

I’ve written about Third Culture stuff in the past. Maybe this somehow connects to the whole grander scheme of things. Maybe this is just a Third Culture Kid (TCK) struggle. But I beg to differ. A wise friend of mine, quoting a podcast, told me the other day that, “We don’t fear change, we fear loss.” That doesn’t sound like an idea that’s limited to a specific set of people. That sounds like a human thing- like we’re all blaming change for being so evil, when it’s really the loss that is at fault. Losing one thing to gain another.

It would seem easier if the thing I’m losing were something negative. I’d be okay with “losing my life to find it” if that meant giving up parking tickets or rainy beach days. But I know that’s not how it works. Sometimes I lose really good things, in exchange for really good things. But the process of the loss/gain thing doesn’t feel good. It feels messy, chaotic in my head, prone to come out as frustration, sadness, or overt silence.

I know each change that has happened was worth it. I know this in my head, at least. I look back and I see the loss and the gain. Some things are “Aha!’ moments where His orchestration of events makes sense to my finite human mind. Others still have big question marks on them, the ones where I sit alone in a parked car, voicing the questions in loud, frustrated tones to the Almighty because I just.don’t.understand.

I don’t mean to make this a dialogue of my emotionally turbulent state. I guess maybe what I’m trying to say is that so often I have a tendency to think there is some sort of “magic” way to “do” change. Perhaps a manual or book with a 10-step plan for guaranteed success of each upheaval that arises.

I was pouring out my frustrations to another wise friend a few months back about what moving does to me. I don’t see myself as an expert on the process, but I know my tendencies and limitations. She sweetly listened for a while, then responded, “Sounds like you’re really hard on yourself to get it right, Alicia.”

Her simple statement slowed my rant down to a crawl. Hard on myself. Like a graceless taskmaster adding more weight than what a person can carry, I know it’s true. I am hard on myself to get it right this time. Hard on myself to not feel so sad, to not dwell on negativity. Hard on myself to not feel the loss so much, because smoothing it over looks easier and less painful. Hard on myself…

Aren’t we all? Aren’t we all eager to move through the unpleasant feelings of loss or change or whatever it is that makes us cringe inside? Don’t we all wish for resolution and the part of the story where “…they lived happily ever after”?

My wise friend wasn’t done talking. “What would it look like to give yourself grace?” She asks. Grace. It seems mushy and soft, not meant for the tough, weather beaten skin of stuff like death and sickness and moving and saying goodbye and hello in the same breath.

Grace.

The word sounds sweet and smooth like honey, not like a word that can carry gray skies and car accidents. But I know that’s not how it works. He wouldn’t offer grace to “help us in our time of need” (see Hebrews 4) if it wouldn’t actually help us. He isn’t going to leave us hanging just because we feel like we’re left hanging. There is a strange paradox going on here that is bigger than me. First of all, that loss is never the end of the story but because it is a part of the story, I cannot rush through its chapters. Second, that grace is a much stronger word than I give it credit for. They go together quite well, actually. The deeper I know loss, the more I know grace.

This isn’t about simply moving from one country to another now. It suddenly got bigger than that. I guess this is about the power of what it is to feel both the joy of life alongside the change- the loss. It’s a messy, vulnerable place.

But I wonder.

I wonder what would happen if we brought those big question marks to God more often. I wonder what would happen if we weren’t working so hard to “get it right” all the time. I wonder how we would treat each other differently if we knew grace more deeply. Maybe we would all be a little messier, but we’d all be messy so it would be okay.

With all that said, I’m still trying to figure this whole moving thing out. Some days I wake up with clarity and excitement. Some days that little blue girl with the pigtails from the movie Inside Out takes center stage and tinges everything with sadness. I’m pretty sure I’ll never feel like an expert in the art of saying goodbye. But this time around is different. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I need to be an expert. Grace.

Grace for the change, for the loss, for whatever it is that you feel like you need to “get right.” You are free to let go, friend.

I didn’t like cities. As a young prairie child, going to the city meant an hour-long drive one way, hours of grocery shopping, traffic, general traffic noise, and more grocery shopping. It was generally the worst way for a  girl to spend a Saturday.

A few years later in middle school, we watched a little promo video for an inner-city VBS. I remember thinking, Wow I would never EVER want to do that. It doesn’t even look fun. Not 5 years later I was indeed a part of that same VBS and having the time of my life. Even though I was barely out of childhood, my former preconceptions of cities were shattered and replaced with an excitement about city life thanks to the host of opportunities and adventure it presented.

I think God has a sense of humor. Not because I think He is a cruel God and has all manner of tricks up his sleeve, but because His call on our lives when we choose to follow Him is usually way outside of our limited ideas. During teenage years when I thought about adult-hood (which was quite often and with much regularity), there were certain ideas and goals I had in mind. Some things such as career and location were vague. Others were more specific, like whether or not I wanted to name my kids after various cars or opt for Russian royalty instead.

There was one thing I knew that I wanted to avoid: a short-term missions trip to Asia. It appeared to be the “in” thing and seemed like some sort of rite-of-passage for Anabaptist youth. You graduate from high school, work a couple years, go to Asia for a month or more, come back and live small-town American for the remainder of your life. That was NOT going to be me. I would maybe go to visit my missionary friends, but never for some short-lived mission experience.

This past winter I did just what I said I would never do (go to Asia on a short-term trip) and found it to be more fulfilling than I had ever dared hope. During that month, Jesus met me in so many real ways, and I had this feeling that I needed to come back someday. It was one of my team members that suggested Thailand. At first the idea excited me, but eventually waned to a lukewarm, half-hearted idea. I didn’t especially love Thailand (although the food and friendly people were nice). I didn’t love it because, well, tropical countries just aren’t my forte. Also, let’s be honest, everybody goes there. And I didn’t want to be a part of the “everybody.” Or something.

So I came back to the US and started a new position at work and moved to the city (It’s true. My childhood self never saw that one coming). I have no regrets on these decisions, but my heart was restless, wanting something else that seemed elusive and far out of reach. Fast forward several months and the Thailand idea hits me in the face again. This time I know it’s a wake-up call because the restlessness was burying me in discontent and apathy. Jesus never forced me to this decision, but I know. I know that following Him even if the feelings aren’t there brings so much joy in the end. It’s always, always worth it, even when it might be hard or non-glamorous.

This winter I’m going to Thailand for 2 months. Call it a personal vision trip or trying out the overseas missionary life or a desire to see what Jesus is up to. Whatever it may be called, there is a clear distinction in what my ideas once were and how graciously He has guided me in HIS direction, which always end up being way better than my plans.

If I’m honest, there is a piece of it that is scary when I think about plunging into this kind of risk again. Living by faith is always harder in the moment than looking at it from the outside. But I’m also convinced it’s the best part. I don’t always know or even need to know what it looks like. No matter, I want to live in such a way that I need Him to come through for me. Experiencing that kind of faith is much harder and more beautiful than can even be described because every experience is different.

I don’t want to go to Thailand, but I’m going anyways. Not because I have reached a plateau of grandiose spirituality where nothing is felt and everything is obedience. Rather, because I am a messy, little human who has an ingenious and kind Father. He prepares accordingly, and gives the want the moment I need it and not a minute sooner. The Great Commission was never about my feelings anyways.

“Let’s show up to life. Let’s prove how beautiful it can really be. Let’s face the conflict, redeem it, conquer it, and allow it to mold our character. Let’s participate in what God is doing in the world.” [Donald Miller]

My avid, author-prone friends say writing is hard.

I didn’t agree… It came and comes naturally on journal pages and word documents that fill up rapidly when there is a story or idea to remember. Writing is easy… until the blank card for my friend’s baby shower stares up at me and the research paper on refugees cannot include personal pronouns and blogging goals become murky and disorganized in a pile of unfinished ambition.

Imperfection is scary. Especially when you get to be imperfect on something like “the cloud,” between cooking blogs, well-educated theologians, and DIY professionals that live on Pinterest. I would much rather appear to have my act together before delving into this world of blog life and writer’s block.

So why bother?

A few months ago I wrote a series about Third Culture Kids. I needed to write it, more for myself than anyone else. Crazy as it may sound, it was a huge part of letting go of the more painful parts of that era. Throwing a personal story out there for the whole world to see is intimidating but strangely freeing. I got to hear from close friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers. And we all had something in common. Suddenly my story wasn’t alone anymore, and there were no excuses to feel sorry for myself.

But then writers block happened, and everything I would start always stopped short. I hadn’t “arrived” yet and writing about playing piano in a park ended in a cliche manner. That’s just it though, isn’t it? It’s easier to write about something after the fact than to admit imperfection in the middle of it.

I tried writing the Third Culture stuff for two years. It laced my journals and conversation, but it was just too personal and unfinished to share. That’s what I thought. Then this past spring it finally clicked and I wrote and wrote and it wasn’t so confusing anymore. A few weeks ago we went up north to bushland, Ontario, for a short, quick visit. Suddenly childhood was front and center again as we sped past familiar businesses and caught up with old friends who played a huge role in my life so many years ago. We drove back in to pick wild blueberries and now I’m (mostly) adult enough to not be scared of bears and actually save the berries that I pick instead of eating all of them.

The truth is that real-life story is still happening, always happening, and after spending so much effort on one topic, I began realizing that being a Third Culture kid isn’t the point. It’s important and it matters and it needs to be addressed, but it’s just not the point, no matter how much I selfishly want it to be.

It’s so good to learn from the past and seek forgiveness and redemption in the painful stories that are known. The problem is that I had gotten stuck in the past and distracted the pain by living for the future. When A, B, and C happen, when I go back to this place again, when that person apologizes for what they said… It’s easier to imagine the future than it is to embrace this day, this moment.

Maybe it’s because I’m a visionary and most days I have to mentally pull myself back into the present and choose to see today, in its ordinary and mundane tasks, as a gift, too. Imperfection shouldn’t be an excuse for laziness or apathy. I guess I want to see my imperfections as a place where grace can abound. My dear grandma has often said, “I want to grow old gracefully.” I’m not “old” by any means, but watching her gives me hope that it is possible to do so.

I want to live gracefully. Not settling for imperfections and mistakes, but not letting it hold me back from living with integrity and honesty a little more each day.

“And if you should forget [Jesus] for minutes or even days, do not groan… but begin anew… every minute can be a fresh beginning.” (Frank Laubach)