I am not much of an adventurist. I don’t take many risks and honestly, I’m scared of more than I’d like to admit. I don’t ski because I fear heights. To ski, you have to jump off the lift to go down the mountain. I can never let go. I’d rather ride the lift around until I accidentally plop into a mound of snow. In summary, anything involving letting go without control is not my cup of tea. I enjoy my feet firmly planted on stable ground.
Somehow throughout history, people have falsely assumed missionaries must be up for any adventure. Believing they willingly choose to travel to outlandish destinations because they enjoy sleeping with a mosquito net, or where the food may look a lot like the mosquitos they are avoiding, and where most likely they won’t understand a word the local people are speaking all the while feeling dumber than the dogs. All that being said, obedience to God doesn’t necessarily infer a wild at heart, up for any hair-brained adventure, pro-world explorer. I am here to let the truth out of the bag—we do have our limits and we do have our fears; missionaries are human too.
Leaving for China we sold almost everything—every piece of furniture, books, dishes, clothes, decor, baby toys, tv, appliances. By the time we left, we didn’t even have a key on our keychain. We were homeless, carless and soon to be country-less (if that can be a thing). We purged our only belongings in this world in preparation for a new adventure full of unknowns; including where we would live, work and buy new things. We let go of future family holidays together, church, driving, familiar grocery stores, medical care, certain comforts, jobs and set out to be redefined for God’s work in China. For some reason, that time of transition went smoothly compared to the return flight that brought us toward re-entry.
Seven years of China-life later, we found ourselves setting out on a deja-vu path; yet in a different direction. Again we began by selling all our belongings. As we watched our long-time expat companions rummage through our Christmas decor and bedding to see if they could get a good deal, it seemed a great deal more depressing than when we sold the same items in the U.S. to unfamiliar people who followed a garage sale sign into our neighborhood. Clearing out our apartment where our family grew and lifelong friendships forged over team meetings, prayer sessions and shared ministry felt as empty in my heart as the sterile, bare apartment that surrounded me. Then we walked out the door keyless and homeless for the second time. Except this time the excitement didn’t come as before. It didn’t feel like a new adventure full of promise and expectation. Going to China I didn’t know what lay ahead, yet the thrill encouraged me forward; a long-awaited dream. Returning to the U.S., albeit to a new unfamiliar state, would be like going home, right? Exciting, right? I thought I should have more peace about returning to a place I once knew rather than what I really felt: fear, anxiety, pain, and sadness.
People expected me to be afraid of China, they didn’t expect me to be to be afraid of America.
In fact, I heard a lot more of, “aren’t you so glad to be coming home where you will be safe?” In my mind all I could think was, “uh, no.” I didn’t dare share my real feelings.
It didn’t dawn on me until a year after living in transition that my struggle to return stateside and my joy toward going to China narrowed down to a single factor—willingness to let go. In hindsight maybe it should have been easier, but it took me a while to face my fear and let go. My anticipation for China emerged out of a full commitment to let everything go for God’s call to China that began growing over many years; almost 10. He’d been preparing my heart by encouraging me not to hold my possessions dear while in America because I wouldn’t be there long. He was fueling a fire that began a process of purging the sense of holding on. Come time to go, my willingness was like a busted fire hydrant gushing out.
The story played out a lot differently when it came to leaving China. Though God paved the way for our exit and clearly opened various doors for us to move, it happened quickly and without years of planning. Like being plopped out of the ski lift with no warning, we had little time for mental preparation toward a new life: only mere months to wrap our minds around leaving a place we called home. Months to prepare our team and friends for our leaving them, getting rid of belongings, packing, farewells and to somehow fit in space for debriefing our time in China before for returning to a place our children had never really lived. The former obedience I once enjoyed when it came to following God’s leading looked more like a slow leak from a stubborn pipe.
A few months into American life, a repetitive thought arose wherever I went: to visit a new church, the grocery store, the kids’ school, my husband’s workplace, which forged by feet further in the sand.
“I have all these experiences in China that no one here understands. How will I relate to them if they can’t relate to me? On the outside I look the same, but inside I feel like a strange person, an alien. I don’t want to change who I’ve become after living in China and pretend it never happened just so people will talk to me.”
Those thoughts emerged from experiences I’d been having with family and new people. I often got the question, “What do you do?” But I felt, how could I answer, “Nothing really.” On the outside, I had nothing of cultural value to present in this so-called home I’d returned to where the societal value comes from what we do, what skill set we offer. If I mentioned I’d moved from China I could immediately see distance forming and a loss for words toward a swift end to the conversation. No one asked me about my life in China–a foreign land, what value did that offer?
When I left for China I was labeled as a missionary. I allowed that to become my identity. However, in my new world, that role was finished. Who was I? I gladly abandoned my American self-identity to adapt to Chinese culture, but suddenly needed it back and didn’t know how to find it. Truth be told I wanted to hold tightly to the remnants of friendships, memories, experiences, culture and daily routines that had become normal to me in China, and not embrace American ones.
The dilemma lay in the fact that I was eager to be fair and culturally sensitive in China, but not in America. I would have bent over backward to learn and accept Chinese culture in order to form relationships, but here I was in America, my home culture, unwilling to embrace it out of my own pride.
My time to willingly jump off the ski lift had arrived. It ‘only’ took a year to recognize the signs of grief I’d been sheltering in: grief and loss cause us to recoil in order to keep from pain. They can also steal life. I’d been grieving for a year over the loss of identity, purpose, home, friends and my old way of life before I could see the paradox before: in order to move forward, I had to let go. I was like a newborn who needed to be cut free from the umbilical cord in order to breathe life. Then I could see clearly that my identity isn’t born from one season of life, but rather multiple cycles over strands of time.
And ultimately, my identity is born out of the Father, making me a daughter of Christ; no place or calling necessary.
As fearful as I have felt, I trust that just as God prepared a way for China, He can prepare a way for life in America; round two. I still cringe a little in my heart and reluctantly pull back the rope as I tug-o-war with God over my grip on China, but each day I give in a little more. I am finding new ways to let China remain imprinted in my heart and life, but not to rule it. I treasure all the ways in which I grew spiritually, was stretched emotionally and academically, ministered deeply and met soulmate friends, but as for the grief, it must dissipate and be let go.
If we fail to jump off the ski lift to glide into a new adventure no matter how scary the slope, moguls, and heights because we fear the places God calls us, we will most definitely miss out on the treasures that wait below.
