Same Same But Different: Confessions of a Returning Short Termer

It's hard to believe time has gone by so quickly. It has, though. Tonight I'll board a plane to America after six months away. It's not what people may think returning to one's passport country is like. It's certainly not what I wish it were like.

This is confession number one: It's actually really hard to leave.

The pastor I work with says it's hard to leave your home to go to the mission field, but it's even harder to leave the field. He's right. The reasons are uncountable. Literally uncountable. Though I can verbally list some of the reasons leaving is hard (I'll miss people, places, classrooms, ministries, language, and more), many more tiny details of daily living in Cambodia are now subconsciously etched into my mind and my heart. I can't count them because I'm not even aware of some of them. Like Easter eggs hidden too well and not found till months later, parts of me which have changed - ranging from mannerisms to worldview - will remain hidden until revealed by experiences in the States. Because of this, the season of re-entry won't when jet lag does; in fact, I have no idea when it will end.

This leads me to confession number two: I am terrified.

Mostly I'm terrified because I have this tendency to, you know, want to be in control. To know what's going to happen in the future. To have a five year plan or a one year plan or okay, I'd even go with a one month plan at this point!! I handed over the keys to my room in Cambodia, and I have no permanent address in the U.S. I'm thankful I can stay with my parents, but it's not my home. I'm not sure where home will be next. This is a season of trust, and though in my better moments I can fully rest in trusting God, much of the time I'm terrified.

Those are pretty expected things to be terrified of, but perhaps confession number four isn't as obvious: I'm scared I'm not going to know how to relate to those back in America.

The Cambodians have a saying: "same same, but different." It means something like "similar but not the same" or as one of my friends used to say, "It's exactly the same as that...except not!" I'm still Allison. I'm the same daughter, friend, sister, and nurse who left six months ago...except not. I am same same, but different. I've been gone a long time. Six months may not seem long, but people back home have been growing in their ways, and I've been growing in my way, and for the most part those ways haven't intersected. I'm scared my friendships aren't going to be the same as I remember them. Or maybe I'm afraid they will be the same. I know I've changed in the past few months, but I'm not sure how yet. I'm not sure who I am in the context of America, which means I'm not sure anymore how I relate to Americans. I may need some time before I'm ready to talk about Cambodia so I can sort my thoughts out.

I'm still excited to meet up with old friends, yet right now even this is overwhelming because confession number five is: I don't know how to respond when others want to help me through this season. I'm not sure how others can help me process my experiences, and to some extent I'm not sure I want others to try to help me. Discussing half a year's life experiences over a cup of coffee seems diminutive, like trying to force a grown woman into a toddler's onesie. There's just too much there. It'll be an experimental time as I find what activities and conversations do and don't help with the transition.

It's humbling I don't know what I'm doing in this season of life and I'm not even sure how others can help. I do know a few things I'll need, though. I'll need people to be patient with me as I figure out how to do life in America again. I'll need time and space to grieve what I've left behind. As much as coffee and lunch dates intimidate me, I'll still need community. I'll need people to walk through this re-entry process with me. And I'll for sure need prayer. I'll need to walk with Jesus. Like Penny for Desmond in LOST, He's my constant in times of chaos, confusion, and changes in culture, time zones, jobs, homes, languages, and pretty much everything else.

These are some of my confessions. I am same same, but different. I know others probably are, too. A lot of life has passed for everyone. If you're in the States, maybe we can get lunch, coffee, maybe a snow cone - and let's throw Chickfila in there too - and slowly, over time, together process who we are now. Both same same, but both different.

And let's make sure to get extra Chickfila sauce in case I end up overseas again any time soon. Because I'm counting on its deliciousness being exactly same same, not different!

Further resources for understanding reentry:

 http://naomihattaway.com/2013/09/i-am-a-triangle-and-other-thoughts-on-repatriation/

http://www.rockyreentry.com/for-friends-and-family/ 

Beyond the Smiles (Part II)

(For Part I, click here.) 

I remember him laying there. The bare white mattress in the Emergency Ward. The blanket stained with sweat and dirt wrapped around his waist. His ribs protruding from his thin, malnourished frame.

I remember him turning onto his side, obviously in pain. I remember his mother standing at the bedside, anxiety and fear written clearly across her face.

A group of American healthcare workers, part of a medical mission team I was working with, flocked around him and hooked up an ancient ECG machine to confirm a diagnosis of pericarditis—a diagnosis for which nothing more could be done in this rural Cambodian hospital. 

As they gathered around the bed adjusting ECG leads and talking among themselves, I stood in the back. Listening, observing, and praying.

I took in a deep breath, and I let it out. This young man was dying. There was nothing we could do about it. With all our knowledge, with all our experience, with all our compassion and good intentions, there was nothing we could do to prevent this man’s suffering and death. 

There was a time when seeing a patient like this young man broke me. It led me on a journey of desperate brokenness and incredible healing. It led me to face truths concerning what I believed about God and myself. Ultimately, it led me to rest in knowing I don’t have to be enough.

This time, as I stood near the patient's bed, everything was different. Outwardly, I was surrounded by Americans, and I was grateful to be with so many whose education and experience exceeded mine. Things had shifted inwardly, too; I found I had courage to reach out to this patient in a way I was too timid to do before but was incredibly important.

When I close my eyes, I am back in the hot, humid, Cambodian Emergency Ward. I breathe in deep, and I choose to rest in this truth: I don’t have to be enough, for Christ is enough. When I stop worrying about how much I can’t do because I am not enough, I hear Jesus’ quiet invitation to sit in His presence, even in the midst of such deep suffering. And I accept. 

I sit in His presence and bring this young man to Him, praying he would know the peace of Jesus’ presence, too. I sit in His presence and bring myself and my broken heart to Him, finding space to grieve and freedom to be sad because when I’m with Jesus, the lie that “I have to be the strong one” crumbles. Jesus is the strong one. I never have to act like I have it all together—because I don’t. Jesus knows this. He's okay with this.

The Americans clear out, and it’s just my dad and me left. With the help of our friend and translator, Dad explains why the American team is there, to teach and work with the local doctors. The patient’s mother looks up tearfully and asks if her son will live.

All our knowledge, all our diagnostic powers, all our education and good intentions—it means nothing in this moment. We have nothing to offer this woman and her son. Nothing except Jesus. So we ask if we can pray, and I reach out my hand to touch this patient’s dirt-smeared blanket and lift him up to Jesus.

And I know in all our heartbreak, in all their heartbreak, Jesus is enough, and He is with us. 

His presence is so strong. It always is, if we'll just acknowledge it. If we'll just accept His invitation and stop our striving to be everything, fix everything, and know everything. Perhaps this is the most important thing I’ve learned about poverty in the past few years. Poverty and suffering highlight our sense of helplessness, and so often our response is to push this uncomfortable feeling down and ignore it or to grit our teeth and take it upon ourselves to eliminate disparities. Yet I’ve found no freedom there. 

No, freedom is found in Jesus' presence, in trust. It's found in trusting God is enough, trusting He cares and is big enough for all the hurts in the world and my grief over poverty and suffering and death, and trusting God is, indeed, good.

He is good. Even when everything around us seems to be wrong and impossible and heart-wrenching and clouded with evil. He is, indeed, good, and He is enough.

Keeping the Power Lines and Losing the Edits: What Telephone Wires Taught Me about Owning my Story

I was standing on the balcony of our apartment building recently, looking down the street at the colorful roof tops and dusty road. I was thinking how I wished I could share what Cambodia is really like with those back in the States. So I leaned against the railing, trying to figure out how I could take a picture without all the power lines and wires in the way of the picture.

All of a sudden I realized how ridiculous I was being. To show what Cambodia is really like, I ought just to take a picture as-is, without finagling angles to cut out unsightly objects. If my goal is to show what it is really like, it should be unedited and unfiltered and uncropped.

Unedited and uncropped. Those words reminded me why the blog is named Beyond the Smiles—because of the huge portion of life that’s lived in that space beyond the smiles and social media posts and the “I’m fine” lies that slip from our lips unnoticed. I don’t want to be captive to masks and false fronts; I want to practice honesty and authenticity and talk about all parts of life, even the difficult and ugly and messy parts—what life is really like.

So I wondered, what if the power lines aren’t making the picture less scenic? What if they are making the picture complete?

When we physically look around, we have an amazing ability to look past the “ugly” things and appreciate the beauty around us. We look past telephone poles and wires and trash on the ground to enjoy a breathtaking sunset or a budding flower. If we waited for a beautiful view without any kind of distraction, we would rarely—if ever—find a suitable one.

Perhaps the power lines are simply part of the view.

Sometimes I edit the picture I paint for people about life here—and often people want the edited version. It’s tempting just to tell about the highlights in ministry and the fun cultural experiences and the delicious new foods I’m trying. Certainly that is part of life overseas! But that’s not all there is. There is also the homesickness and traveler’s diarrhea and culture stress. There’s still the anxiety and depression that comes and goes.

Really, it’s always tempting to edit the stories of our lives, overseas or not. Sometimes we encounter parts of our stories we wish weren’t there, and we want to cut those chapters out.  There are certainly parts of my story I've wanted to white-out or highlight and hit command+x or just take a pair of scissors to. Yet these unwanted chapters are still part of our stories, whether we own them or not. When we leave out the power lines in our stories, we aren’t making them more beautiful. We’re leaving them incomplete.

Each day we face a choice: will we spend the whole day searching for a perfect Kodak moment, or will we embrace life with all the messy (and sometimes ugly) power lines and trash and poor lighting? Will we choose to enjoy the beauty in life even when it comes alongside hard things?

In part, this is similar to giving myself permission to say things I’m not supposed to say, things that are humble and honest. Choosing to accept the less-than-perfect parts of life is much like admitting fears and weaknesses and letting people see the warts and wrinkles behind our masks and makeup. Just as we try to disown chapters or themes in our stories, sometimes we try to orphan unwanted parts of ourselves. Yet when we orphan our imperfections, we aren't making ourselves more attractive, and we're certainly not getting any closer to perfection. We're simply missing out on who we were made to be.

I used to think life was about avoiding pain. I thought the purpose of life was to enjoy the moments that were happy, when everything was going great. But now I see things differently. Now I’m learning to accept that no matter what I do or where I go, power lines will most likely stay in the picture. 

And that’s okay. 

The point of life isn’t avoiding pain and finding happiness. It’s about knowing Jesus. Sitting with Him and walking with Him and getting to know Him. That’s what makes life full and meaningful and worth it. With Jesus here, the power lines can stay.

Are there unwanted “power lines” in your life right now?

How do you usually respond to these less-than-perfect parts of life or situations?