Global Reflections

Showing posts with label United States. Show all posts

Weakness

My mother was in a car accident last night. I’ll skip ahead and spare you any worry—she has three breaks in two bones in her right arm, which is her non-dominant arm, as she’s left-handed. She most likely will require surgery in order for it to heal properly; she has an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon tomorrow for evaluation. Her car most likely is totaled. There were no major injuries to anyone in the other car. The accident was the fault of the other driver, who failed to yield before making a left hand turn. In theory, Mom won’t suffer financially because of this accident—she won’t even miss work, technically, since she already was scheduled to be off until the first of the year. Not exactly the holiday she’d planned, but all things considered, not too bad.

I was running the water for Alexa’s bath when I heard Jeff’s phone ring. I vaguely registered that his voice grew tense, and then he came into the bathroom and told me to leave the bath water, leave Alexa, and go call my sister. (She didn’t have my temporary phone number immediately accessible, so she had called Jeff’s sister to pass a message.) He told me that my mother had been in a car accident while on her way to church. He proceeded with the next breath to tell me that her arm was broken, but in the moment between his breaths … I’m amazed at how quickly our minds can generate horrible possibilities. In that small moment, I saw my mother lying dead in the morgue, or covered with blood due to horrific injuries. Then, in an instant, my fears were relieved. A broken arm, we can deal with. It’s painful for her, and I’m sympathetic, but the tunnel vision receded and my calm, rational side kicked in. I called my sister and left a message when it went to voice mail. Upon Jeff’s advice, I went ahead and bathed Alexa while waiting for her to call back.

My sister called while I was bathing Alexa and spoke to Jeff. After I finished, we loaded up to make the 30-minute drive to the hospital in my hometown. (We’re on vacation in the States right now, staying at a hotel halfway between my hometown and the town where Jeff’s sister and father live. We arrived the night before last and had dinner with my mom, my brother, and his wife, but we hadn’t even seen my sister and her family yet.) On the way to the hospital, I posted a status on Facebook explaining the situation, then scrolled through looking at others’ statuses and photos. Right after I clicked “like” on a photo of a friend’s baby parked in a stroller beside Platform 9 ¾, I looked up at Jeff and asked, “Am I a bad daughter because I’m not frantic?” He pointed out that after what I went through in Egypt during the Revolution, this situation is not cause for frantic. Upon further consideration, I decided that he’s right.

Frantic is being told by security officers to lock yourself and your infant daughter in a room and hope that the bad guys, who are only a block away, either bypass your building altogether or are content to take your stuff and not take you, since the security guys don’t have the means to defend you and you’ve been forbidden the means to defend yourself. (Yes, I severely regretted the Department of State’s policy on guns for home defense that night, as I thought longingly of my husband’s Glocks and my Springfield XD that we’d left in storage in the States.)

Frantic is driving from your mother’s house on your way to church and coming across your mother’s totaled car just moments after the accident happened, or maybe even seeing it happen, and not knowing what you’re going to find inside that car, which is what my sister experienced last night. When I saw her at the hospital an hour after the accident, she was still showing residual effects of the adrenaline.

Frantic is receiving a call from your sister before things have had a chance to settle, and knowing only that your mother was injured in an accident and is on her way to the hospital, and you’re 30 minutes away but you make the drive in 15 because you don’t know what’s waiting for you at the hospital. That’s what my brother experienced last night—at least I hope that he didn’t make that unsafe drive knowing that Mom was okay, because if he did, then he risked putting our family through two accidents last night for no reason.

Frantic is not being told in one breath that your mother was in an accident and in the next that her most severe injury is a broken arm. That situation prompts concern, and sympathy, and prayers, and of course you go to her and help in any way you can, but frantic doesn’t enter in to the picture.

When we arrived at the hospital, I saw my brother standing outside the emergency room, talking on the phone. A quick glance through the windows showed no trace of my mother, my sister, or anyone else I knew, so I grabbed Alexa and made a beeline for my brother. Along the way, some concerned members of my mother’s church tried to dissuade me from taking Alexa inside, as the emergency room had received several patients with flu-like symptoms. I think I was polite—I tried to be polite—but I had laser focus, and I made the briefest of replies while not even slowing down as I approached my brother and we went into the emergency room together. He told me what he knew, which wasn’t much more than I’d already been told.

I waited with my brother, Jeff, and Alexa. I saw my niece, nephew, and brother-in-law for the first time in over a year—not exactly the reunion we would have preferred, but it was what it was. Then my sister came out and motioned for my brother and me to come back to see Mom.

Mom was lying in a hospital bed, propped up to a semi-reclining position. Her shirt had a little blood on it, but not much. Her arm was positioned so that the part that didn’t look injured was up, although I could see the edges of bruises and bloody cuts. She obviously was in pain, but she gritted her teeth and bore it—a hallmark of strength. It was hot, and a nurse aide brought some Sprites and some cups of ice to keep us all cool as the emergency room technician—maybe he was a nurse, I’m not sure—set and bandaged Mom’s arm.

My sister, as I mentioned before, was showing the effects of the adrenaline. Her eyes were red and puffy. She seemed to be shaking a little, and she was talking and moving more quickly than usual. She was reactive enough to Mom’s pain that I worried a little for her, but it turned out that she didn’t need my concern. She and my brother both were fine.

I was not.

When the nurse lifted my mother’s arm and put the wire things on her fingers to hold them in the air, forcing her bones to straighten, and my mother gritted her teeth in pain … I’m not sure what was going through my mind. Maybe an overactive imagination, thinking about what was happening inside her body and how it must feel. Maybe not any conscious thought at all; I don’t remember any. But I became aware of how the skin of my face felt, and I recognized the feeling. I was growing pale, and if it continued, I would pass out.

I looked away from my mother’s arm, tried to deafen myself to her quiet indications of pain, and tried to think of something—anything!—else. It didn’t help. I started experiencing some tunnel vision, and I knew I had to sit down or better yet, lie down. So I squeezed past my sister and went into the hallway, dodging left so my mother wouldn’t see me sit down in the floor. That didn’t help either, so I lay down right where I was. There was a gurney right beside me, but I avoided it for two reasons: I wanted to leave it available in case anyone had a real need for it, and it was positioned right in my mother’s line of sight. The last thing I needed was for her to be worried about me (although in retrospect, she probably noticed my abrupt departure and guessed the reason for it).

A hospital employee noticed me and told me to lie down on the gurney. I declined, indicating that I didn’t want my mother to see me. She moved the gurney a few inches down the hall and said “She can’t see, now get on!” I complied. My sister—about whom I had been concerned so recently—stepped out of Mom’s room to ask me if I was ok, if I needed a Sprite, if I needed a bucket. I lied through my teeth—“I’m fine, don’t need anything, just a minute.” After a short battle with faintness and nausea, I felt better. I sat up slowly, staying on the gurney for another moment. When I realized that I was much improved and getting better, I went back into Mom’s room, pretended like nothing had happened, drank my sister’s unopened Sprite, and was able to make it through the rest of the procedure without additional problems. Of course I’d missed the worst of it, for which I am both grateful and a bit embarrassed.

I’ve always been a little sensitive to the sight—even the thought—of serious injuries and their treatment. But I never imagined that I would be incapacitated by that sensitivity. I don’t believe in being incapacitated by anything but the most severe trauma; I never considered it an option. My philosophy always has been that whatever life brings my way, I just have to get through it and do what has to be done. When it comes down to it, there really isn’t any other choice but to give up and let life beat you, and what kind of option is that? I always assumed that if I were incapacitated by anything, it would be by physical reality—some injury that my body simply couldn’t overcome, like my mom couldn’t lift her broken arm—or by psychological trauma so severe that death would start looking like a viable option. I never imagined it would be something as simple as me not being able to tolerate the sights, sounds, and thoughts generated by watching a friendly emergency room employee set my mother’s broken arm.

I could console myself with the thought that my body got away from me because I was just watching—there was nothing that I had to do, but if there had been, I would have been able to do it. I could say that if my brother and sister hadn’t been there, and I’d been needed to help the medic lift and reposition various objects like he had them doing, I’d have been able to keep control of myself enough to help him, or if it had been Alexa who was injured, and she needed to see her Mama there by her side, that I could have done that. But the reality is that I can’t quite convince myself that that’s true. There’s a real possibility that I would have had to leave the room even if I were needed, and the only way I’ll ever know for sure is to be in a similar situation in which I’m needed. I’d just as soon never know for sure.

I could console myself—and have consoled myself, somewhat—with the knowledge that at least I recognized what was happening and removed myself from the situation, doing everything I could not to distract those who were doing what needed to be done. At least I didn’t give that medic more work to do. This knowledge is a comfort, but it’s still just a consolation prize.

So I’m left with this conundrum. I am a person who believes in doing what needs to be done. I am a person who believes that obstacles that must be overcome can be overcome. And I am a person who has run into an obstacle that one day may be a must-overcome obstacle … yet who has real doubts about her ability to overcome it. And I’m wondering what to do about that.

Should I take a first aid course? I had a friend who took one, years ago, and I looked through her workbook and recoiled in horror at the illustrations. But if I could make it through the course, then I’d be at least a little desensitized, and even better, I may be able to help someone one day instead of standing around calling for someone else to help. I’m having a hard time thinking of other options to overcome this, but I don’t even know if I’ll be able to find a first aid course in English in either Cambodia or Kosovo.

So tell me: what do you think? Should I try a first aid course? Can you think of any other options to help me overcome this … problem? (Yeah, I know I titled this post “Weakness,” but I still can’t force myself to use that word in relation to myself … apparently I need to write a post entitled “Pride.”) I need to do something, but I'm not sure what. I welcome your suggestions!

Make It Yours

Yesterday at church, we had some visitors: an American missionary to a nearby country and his wife. This missionary didn’t preach the sermon, but he was invited to introduce himself and give a testimony. In his testimony, he emphasized how God is able to open doors that people can’t close, and close doors that people can’t open; God can do the impossible, and He can work in impossible situations.

After service, we had a social time as we said farewell to a couple who are going back to their native Norway. During this social time, the visiting missionary chatted with different members of the congregation. At one point, he approached Jeff and me.

As we engaged in the expected small talk, this missionary revealed that his daughter is in college, attending a Christian university that happens to be located in the same city as my own alma mater. I made him aware of this common ground, and then the conversation got interesting.

“It’s too bad when organizations fall away from their heritage of faith,” he said. You see, my alma mater used to be affiliated with a Christian denomination, but they disaffiliated not long before I began attending there. Although I’ve been a Christian since childhood and did consider attending a Christian college, it never bothered me that the school I had chosen was not a Christian school. I knew going in that the professors had a reputation of being liberal, and that there was a liberal element among the student population, but that most of the students were fairly religious and conservative. I pointed out to our visiting missionary that, at least when I attended the school, the students were pretty religious, although most of the faculty were not.

The visiting missionary sighed and stated, “You shouldn’t have to fight your professors for your faith.”

Now, I admit that my hackles were already raised. We’d been having a pleasant conversation when he decided that it was appropriate to start criticizing my alma mater, and by extension, those of us who had chosen to study there after the disaffiliation. But this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I couldn’t explain it completely at the time—I understand it better now that I’ve had some time to think about it—but I felt a strong urge to contradict this missionary, and I chose not to fight the urge. So I shared with him one fact about my college experience: “Actually, the one professor who probably did the most to help me grow as a Christian was an atheist philosophy professor.”

“You mean a Christian professor who taught atheist philosophy?” (I expected him to be surprised, but I didn’t expect this—not only did he not believe me, but it was so far out of his realm of belief that he didn’t even understand me!)

“No, a philosophy professor who was an atheist. He helped me grow as a Christian because he treated every philosophy we discussed the same way: he challenged everything. He forced me to think about what I believed and why I believed it. It wasn’t enough that I’d been taught something; I had to think it through. He helped me make my faith my own instead of something that was just passed down to me. He did more for me than any of my Christian professors did.”

Then Jeff made a simple but profound statement: “It’s an example of God using someone who would never, by his own choice, be available to be used by God.” The disbelief on the missionary’s face gave way to chagrin—almost disgust—before he made his polite excuses and turned away. I’m sure he was just as upset with me as I was with him.

Throughout the afternoon, I replayed our encounter, trying to determine exactly what it was that had gotten me so angry with this man and why my respect for him had plummeted so fiercely. I finally realized what had happened. It was a combination of factors.

I became irritated when he felt free to ignore the rules of polite society and criticize choices that had nothing to do with him; I assume that he felt justified because we both were Christians and therefore of course I would lament the demise of Christian heritage just as he did—but he didn’t know me well enough to realize that I did not view the disaffiliation as a loss of Christian heritage so much as a recognition that the school had room for more than one perspective and a belief that it was beneficial for students to be exposed to more than one voice.

I became defensive when he acted as if young Christian adults in America are somehow less than believers elsewhere in the world. After all, he lives in a country where Christianity is banned and Christians risk everything, but we shouldn’t have to fight our professors for our beliefs? What exactly does that mean—that our professors shouldn’t challenge us, that we should be given a pass from critical thinking because we’re Christians, that we shouldn’t be willing to deal with the possibility of failing a class for our faith when believers in other parts of the world may be killed for theirs? Even more telling, exactly how is it that Christian students have to fight their professors, when the students are the ones who chose to go to that school and take those classes? Does the world oweus a safe, Christian environment, whether we choose such an environment or not? We are not entitled to an easy faith! Too many Americans choose an easy faith, when struggling results in a faith that is deeper and more real.

I lost respect for him when I realized that he does not believe that God is able to use an atheist professor to work in the life of a Christian student. This man stood before the congregation and stated that God can open doors no one can close, He can close doors no one can open, and He can work in impossible situations. Yet his reaction to my statements about my professor showed that he does not believe that God can work through an individual who does not honor Him. This lack of faith in God’s power is unbecoming in one who depends on that power so much in his own life and ministry.

I have no doubt that this man serves God to the best of his ability. I have no doubt that he is doing God’s work in his host country. I am, however, disappointed that he is so set on his own understanding of “The Truth” that he ignores the realities that Christians can have different viewpoints; that disaffiliation from a Christian denomination does not make a university less than it was; that non-Christians have something to offer to Christians. After all, American Christians are not exempt from Jesus’s statement that “in this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33) and from His command to be “prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you” (1 Peter 3:15). It is true that too many young Christians “lose” their faith while attending secular schools, but that isn’t because the schools didn’t do right by the students—it’s because the students were not prepared for the challenges that come with life outside of a Christian enclave. We are called to be in the world but not of it (implied by John 17:14-17, when Jesus specifically refrains from asking God to remove us); how can we function as Christians in the world if our faith is not strong enough to withstand the world’s challenges? The problem is not the universities; it is that the Christian young people who fall away never made their faith their own. Rather than behaving as if the world’s attacks on our faith are unfair trials that we shouldn’t be expected to face, we should expect them, prepare for them, even welcome them. Maybe then we’ll not only have fewer Christian students falling away—we’ll have unbelieving students becoming believers!

Disclaimer:

Please do not misconstrue anything in this post as a criticism of Christian schools. I do not question this man’s choice to send his daughter to a Christian school; nor do I question her choice to go. There are many good reasons to attend a Christian college. However, if your primary reason for choosing a Christian school is that you do not believe that you can withstand the challenging of your faith that you will experience in a secular school, please do yourself a favor—spend your time at your Christian school strengthening your faith so that it can withstand the challenges you will face in the real world. And if your reason for attending a Christian school is that you do not believe that God can work in your life in a secular environment, I suggest that you re-evaluate which God you serve: the impotent god of your imagination, or the omnipotent God of the Bible.

Our Year in Ornaments

Malya's Laughter, 2009, Deborah

I’ve mentioned before that Jeff and I, upon our marriage, joined with his mother and her husband’s family in their tradition of an annual Christmas Ornament Competition. Here’s how it works: each member of the family picks an ornament that represents his or her year, then presents it to the group. The three judges (chosen by the patriarch, my mother-in-law’s husband) then come to a consensus on who had the best ornament, which often means who had the best story. Ornaments can be purchased or made, usually with extra points from the judges for homemade ornaments. Jeff won the competition the first year we participated with his U. S. Constitution, representing why he works for the U. S. Government; I won the third year with my home-made pyramid that represented our move to Egypt, with each side containing a picture of a different significant event in that year. This year, Jeff won again.

Cairo Traffic, 2008, Jeff

I have to admit, my competitive nature does ensure my interest in the results of the competition. But my main interest in this tradition is the memories. At the beginning of the year, I rarely have any idea what the year will bring or what ornament possibly could represent an entire year of my life. But the knowledge of the ornament competition prompts me to pay attention to the year, to look for repeated themes, to be more present in my own life. By late summer, I usually have an idea of the theme that I want the ornament to represent. Then, just as soon as Hallmark and American Greetings start to bring out their ornaments, I’m online, searching away for that perfect one that will capture my year. I love the idea of having these ornaments years from now, looking back and saying “That one’s from the year I volunteered at the orphanage! The first time I heard Malya laugh, she was standing behind me pulling my hair, just like the little bear is standing behind the big one” or “That’s the one Jeff got to commemorate the traffic he put up with every day in Cairo!” I view these ornaments as memory keepers, and each of them is special. I even try hard to pick one for Alexa that represents my best guess of what the year was like for her—although next year, probably she’ll want to pick her own, and it will be “The horse represents my year because I want a pony!” *sigh*

Anyway, without further ado, I present the ornaments that best represent Jeff’s, Alexa’s, and my life this year …

Jeff's 2011 Ornament

Jeff’s ornament is a saddle. That’s right—a saddle, like what you put on a horse when you ride it. He said it’s because this year has been the wildest ride of his life. All things considered, that’s saying something. It started back in January. On 25 January, to be precise. When the Egyptian people began the protests that turned into the uprising that turned into the Revolution that toppled Mubarak from power. The Revolution that caused the American embassy in Cairo to do what we never, in a million years, would have thought we’d have to do: evacuate. Jeff was the only member of our family, one of the few members of the embassy community, who did not evacuate. He spent three months at the embassy with his officemates, the security personnel, and a very few other embassy employees, with much of the time spent under severe movement restrictions because of security concerns. Once that stressful time was ended, he had a month of me frantically trying to get ready for our packout. Then a month of constantly going all over the place, introducing his replacement—his best friend—and his wife to all our favorite places. Then a week in a 1-bedroom hotel suite in the Washington, DC, area, with his wife, his child, two cats, and six huge suitcases’ worth of stuff. Then the summer with all of that, plus a little more stuff, in a bedroom at his mother-in-law’s house, with two short side trips. Then a month in a 2-bedroom hotel suite (we learned our lesson!) in the DC area, while our departure was delayed time after time. Then, finally, a trans-American, trans-Pacific flight to his new home, with the last three months or so spent adapting to new coworkers, a new language, a new culture, and a wife who couldn’t seem to remember how to cook. A wild ride, indeed! It’s no wonder Jeff won this year’s competition.

Deborah's 2011 Ornament

My ornament is an airplane made out of Legos. At first glance, you’d think: “Oh, well, she did fly from Egypt to the States alone with an almost-seven-month-old, then from the States back to Egypt alone with an almost-ten-month-old. Then she flew with her husband, an almost-one-year-old, and two cats back to the States. While in the States, there were road trips and a flight to Arizona and back. Then she flew from Baltimore to California to Japan to Bangkok to Phnom Penh. An airplane fits her year pretty well!” But you’d only have half the story. The truth is, I was looking for an ornament to represent homelessness. Because that’s how I felt this year. I was in my home in Egypt, when suddenly I wasn’t. Then I was in my home (my mother’s home, the one in which I grew up) in South Carolina, except that it wasn’t my home anymore. I was in exile from my home, the home I shared with my husband. Then I was in my home, the one I shared with my husband, except that it was painfully clear that it wasn’t really my home because I couldn’t stay there—I had to get ready to leave. Then I was in a series of temporary homes—a hotel, my mom’s house (I am grateful for the hospitality, Mom, and I hope you realize that it doesn’t reflect on you that it just isn’t my home anymore!), a second hotel during a road trip, a third hotel during the same trip, a friend’s house, back to my mom’s house, my mother-in-law’s house, my mom’s house, then back to the first hotel. Finally I was in my new home … except that it in no way felt like home yet. Other than the first month of this year, I’ve felt like a homeless vagabond, a wanderer, with no place that was really mine. But I could find no ornaments that depicted homeless people. So I started looking for one that had something to do with homelessness, maybe one that would benefit homeless people. That’s when I found my ornament. I purchased it online from a family that makes and sells Lego ornaments every year and uses the proceeds to benefit their local homeless population. This year’s profits were going to buy blankets for a local homeless shelter. That’s the full story of my ornament—homelessness plus endless travel equals a Lego airplane.

Alexa's 2011 Ornament

Alexa’s ornament was purchased from either American Greetings or Hallmark. It’s a silver key, with the words “New Home” inscribed on the handle. Like mine, it makes sense at first glance: “Oh, she just moved to Cambodia, so she has a new home.” But that doesn’t represent the entire year. You have to remember, infants are not so much aware of the concept of “future.” For them, there’s right now, and maybe, just maybe, some inkling that there used to be something different. But whatever there is right now is, in their minds, what always will be. So Alexa did not, and maybe still does not, fully comprehend the concept of “temporary.” Every time we moved, even though Jeff and I knew it was temporary, it was a new home for her. She had a home in Egypt with Mama and Daddy and her two kitties. Then she had a home in South Carolina with Mama, Grandma, Uncle Mike-Mike, and Aunt Kay-Kay, with other family members nearby, but Daddy was just a face and voice on the computer screen, and the kitties were gone. Then she had a home in Egypt again with Mama and Daddy and her two kitties. Then in a cramped hotel suite. Then at Grandma’s house, with Mike-Mike, Kay-Kay, and her other relatives again. Then in a hotel with just Mama and Daddy, but near Great Dee. Then a hotel with just Mama and Daddy. Then at Daddy’s friends’ house, but she didn’t like that home, because she was sick there. Then back to Grandma’s. Then she had another home at her other Grandma’s house. But then she was back to the South Carolina Grandma. And then she had a home in a hotel again, with Mama and Daddy and the cats. And then there was the long trip, in airplanes so similar that she could be forgiven for thinking that it was just one plane, and that it was her home now. And finally, she had a home in a big house with Mama, Daddy, and the kitties, and then her new friend Miing (the polite form of address for children to use with Khmer adults, referring in this case to our housekeeper) started coming over a lot. So how many new homes is that? I lost count! Her entire year was a series of new homes, so a “New Home” ornament seemed perfect for her.

There you have it—our year in ornaments. I think others who were in Cairo at the start of the Revolution will agree that the experiences we all had there and during the evacuation shaped our experience of the year 2011 in ways we did not anticipate. Even now, as I communicate with others who were in Cairo then but who are not there now, a pattern is emerging: many of us seem to be having an especially difficult time settling into our new lives, wherever in the world we are, and the difficulty seems to be positively correlated with how much we enjoyed our time in Cairo and negatively correlated with the amount of time we had in Cairo after the evacuation. In our family, our Christmas ornaments certainly reflect the reality of the Revolution, the evacuation, and a scheduled departure from post that prevented us from settling back into our lives in Egypt and, in our case, prevented us from settling anywhere until the year was almost over. These ornaments perfectly represent our chaotic lives in 2011.

I Remember

I remember standing in line to pay for my coffee in the cafe on campus. I remember looking up at the muted television mounted to the wall. I remember seeing the smoke billow from the Twin Towers, and reading the closed captioning, and wondering how a plane had gotten so out of control.

I remember realizing that it was a deliberate attack. I remember the shock. The disbelief. The horror.

I remember staying on campus and pretending to work, while refreshing Drudge every ten seconds or so. I remember giving up and going to my apartment so I could turn on the television news.

I remember the tears streaming down my face as I watched images and heard stories of broken people and broken lives.

I remember the grief and pride of knowing that heroes rushed in, sacrificing their lives, while others rushed out.

I remember the rage that burned away the last of my shock and forged a determination to do what little I could to prevent something like this from ever happening again.

I remember, and I will never forget.

Lifted

The evacuation order has been lifted!

I know; I'm a few days late in sharing the news--we received word Thursday that it would be lifted Friday--but I've been exceedingly busy since I found out. Within half an hour of receiving the word, I was on the phone with the government's travel agency. I wasn't allowed to get tickets yet--it was Thursday around 4:30pm, and I couldn't get tickets until the order was lifted officially Friday morning--but I was allowed to make reservations, and reservations I would make! I quickly discovered that it would be easier said than done. The itinerary I wanted was sold out for both Saturday and Sunday, and I wasn't sure if I was allowed to make reservations for Friday since I wasn't certain when the paperwork would be signed. But I finally made reservations on a different airline for Sunday afternoon.

The next two days were a flurry of activity. Friday morning I dealt with a mistake by one of the travel agents, who misread my travel orders, claimed that the government was not going to pay for our tickets, and refused to issue them. (Thanks to Dianna at the State Department for helping clear that up.) Then I packed, attended one last gathering of the family, attempted to finish replacing the velcro and elastic on a bunch of cloth diapers (thanks, Mom, for doing most of it for me), and acquiesced to Alexa's rather piercing demands that I take frequent breaks to hold her and reassure her that the flurry of activity wasn't a prelude to my leaving her. On Sunday morning, I attended church in jeans and a t-shirt, then went directly to the airport. My mom rode with us to keep Alexa happy in the backseat on the 45-minute drive, and we were followed by my sister-in-law, sister, and niece, who came to give Mom a ride back home and to see us off.

I had a brief period of worry at the airport when I realized that there could be a problem with Alexa's visa, but it was alleviated pretty quickly by phone calls from the ticketing agent to her supervisor and from me to Jeff. Then it was just a matter of getting through security, to my gate, and on the plane. That part was much easier than it could have been because Jeff and I had planned ahead and purchased a Gogo Babyz Travelmate. It's basically a cart that you can attach to almost any car seat to give it wheels and a telescoping handle--effectively turning the car seat into a bare-bones stroller. I went through a total of four airports, including my originating airport and Cairo, wearing a backpack, with a diaper bag worn diagonally over my torso, pushing (or at times pulling) the car seat. I was happiest when Alexa was in her car seat, but there were times when I managed to get through the airport with all my stuff while carrying her, which I never could have done without the Travelmate. I also had a Moby wrap available in case I needed to tie her to me, but my connections all were quick enough that I didn't really have time to tie it on and use it.

Once I arrived in Cairo, I wasn't sure whether or not to expect an expeditor. Jeff had said he'd try to get one for me, but the arrangements all had to be made over a holiday weekend, so he wasn't sure if it would work out or not. There was no expeditor waiting for me at the plane, but I managed to get through immigration, baggage claim, and customs without one--God bless porters who are willing to work for baksheesh plus the $1 cart rental fee.

I expected to see a driver with my name on a card as soon as I cleared customs, but none of the signs had my name on them. A phone call to Jeff's office resulted in the phone number for the travel agency's switchboard, and they sent me the number of an expeditor who was looking for me. At that point, I only needed the driver, but I knew that the expeditor would bring the driver, so I called him anyway. It turns out that the expeditor had misunderstood which flight I was on; he was waiting at a different terminal. He sent the driver to me but didn't come himself. Just as well--I wasn't in the mood to tip him. The driver came and collected me, along with Alexa, all of our carry-on baggage, our two large checked bags, and our checked fold-up travel crib. In no time we were on the Ring Road headed to Maadi.

Jeff was waiting for us at home. He'd been able to get off work early, and he met us at the gate. He was thrilled to see us, of course, and couldn't get enough of holding Alexa. The guards and staff all welcomed us back enthusiastically. It felt so good to be here again!

Since we arrived home, I've been trying to unpack. Alexa is adjusting, although she's gone back into full separation anxiety--she'd had it bad when the evacuation first started, probably due to stress, and by the time we left the States, she had just started to be okay spending time with the extended family without me. Now she wants me all the time, and she gets very upset if I'm out of sight. But that was expected, and she does enjoy playing with her daddy as long as I'm there too. And she grins like crazy when she pets the cats (under our careful supervision--she likes to pull hair, tails, ears, anything she can). I'm sure she'll be fine before long. She's been through a lot in the last few months, and it just takes some time to adapt.

I'm loving being back here, with my husband, in my apartment, taking care of our daughter and our cats. I haven't gone out yet because I've been focused on unpacking, but I'm looking forward to getting out there again. I have a feeling Jeff will want to be with me the first time, making sure I'm aware of new security guidelines, although I think he's filled me in pretty well. I intend to make the most of my last couple of months in Egypt. I'm just so grateful to have them!

The Third Culture

Part of a Skype chat exchange between me and a friend who left Egypt last summer and spent some time in the U.S. before moving overseas again:

Friend: Do you have some moms and babies you can get together with where you are?

Deborah: Nope, not really. Probably could if I made the effort but that feels like settling in here and this isn't home anymore.

Friend: I understand. When we are in US for our breaks, I never seem to put forth much effort into 'hanging out' with other women or going to their parties.... they all look at you funny anyway, like you are some sort of alien being that does not belong....

Deborah: The ladies at church are supportive and sympathetic but ... at a Greek restaurant the other day, they thought the pastor was insane for eating goat. Goat! That's pretty tame ... we just don't relate.

Friend: Hahaha, goat? Who'da thunk it?? And yes, it is pretty tame... how big is the church?

Deborah: It wasn't even that they didn't want to eat it, but how vocally disgusted they were ... very small, just over 100 on a good service

Friend: Sounds like the one we went to while in US.

Deborah: It's a good church, with good people. It's just that the small-town South doesn't understand wanting anything different ... is it possible for an adult to become a "third culture kid" after just a couple of years overseas?

Friend: Oh yes! You adjusted well. You jumped in with both feet. It's the ones who do not participate in the culture, whether that is with other ex-pats or with locals, that do not become that tck..... It's much better when one is adventurous...

Overall, it is better when one is adventurous. It makes life overseas rich and rewarding. I wasn't even that adventurous, really. I spent a lot of time in the embassy bubble. If I have any regrets about my time in Egypt, it's that I wasn't adventurous enough. I didn't spend enough time with locals. I didn't learn enough of the language. I didn't immerse myself in the culture fully enough. But if I had done those things ... the adjustment now would be even harder than it is.

You see, when you live overseas, you have a choice to make.

You can hang on to the culture of your home country. You can hang out only with other Americans, in my case. Cook and eat only familiar foods (at least to the extent possible). Refuse to adapt your clothing and behavior to the local culture. This choice makes it harder to function in the new country. Expats who make this choice often hate being overseas; they constantly compare the new country to their home country, and they find the new country lacking in almost every respect. During my time in Egypt, I learned quickly to identify those expats who had made this choice and to avoid them as much as possible. They were toxic to my emotional state. Too much time with them left me depressed and dissatisfied with life in Egypt, at least until I recognized the mindset and instead got angry at those who seemed determined to poison everyone around them.

The other extreme is to "go native." Spend as much time as possible with local citizens. Shun all but local foods. Dress and behave so much like a native that you can't be told apart from a distance. Become fluent in the local language and look down on anyone who doesn't speak it. I don't have any experience with expats who make this choice--to my knowledge, they either shun other expats or live in areas where there are no other expats to shun. It seems to me that this choice would lead to the easiest life overseas once you've gone native, although the process of getting there would be long and difficult.

The third option, the one most often chosen, I think, is to strike a balance. The precise balance varies from person to person, but the goal is to adapt as much as necessary to facilitate and enjoy life overseas while not losing touch with the home culture either. Learn the language and use it, but don't stress about speaking it just like a native speaker. Adapt your clothing and behavior to show respect for the local culture, but don't try to turn yourself into a local. Be open to new experiences. Make friends with other expats and with locals, to the extent that language skills and the culture allow. (My few Egyptian friends are women who are fluent in English, for example; it wouldn't be appropriate to have male friends, and my Arabic isn't good enough for small talk, much less real conversation that doesn't center around driving directions or price haggling.) Adopt a blend of both cultures in order to function as well as possible in each.

As you can guess, I chose the third option. For me, the balance was tilted heavily toward American culture, as it often is for foreign service families who know they won't be in any one place for more than a few years. As I mentioned earlier, my balance may have been tilted a little too heavily toward American culture. But no matter where the balance is, the experience of overseas life, the experience of a culture not your own--even if your experience of it is limited--changes you. Children who grow up as expats have a unique culture that they experience as their native culture--it isn't their home country's culture, or their host country's culture, but a mix of the two. These children are known as third culture kids, trans cultural kids, or tck's.

Third culture kids often feel most at home with each other, even if their native languages, religions, and home--or "passport"--countries differ. The culture to which they often have the hardest time adapting is the culture of their own country. They often can move without too much difficulty among other cultures, but they just don't fit in once they move "home." I suspect that's because the kids at "home" have been exposed to all sorts of subtle cultural influences that the third culture kids missed. The third culture kids also just aren't used to a situation where their classmates' experiences are so homogeneous--where's the kid with a stronger Asian influence, or a stronger African influence? What do you mean, everyone claims Christianity, and almost everyone is Protestant? Where are the Muslims, the Buddhists, the Orthodox Christians? How is it possible to believe that this is the only way to live--haven't you seen anything different? No, I guess you haven't, since everyone here lives similarly.

If all goes as Jeff and I hope, we will be raising at least one third culture kid. I pray that we will have wisdom in that endeavor, and that our daughter--as well as any other children we may have--will adapt readily to her unique culture and to American culture when that time comes, keeping the best of her various cultural influences and discarding the rest. But in order to raise her to do that, I also need to figure out my own place, my own culture.

I grew up in a small town in the American South. Those years shaped me, and I will never--nor do I wish to--escape those influences. My time in other parts of the U.S. caused subtle changes in my personality and outlook. But my time in Egypt--brief though it was--has changed me more than I think even I realize. There are some surface changes, some deep changes, and--I suspect--some fundamental changes to the core of my personality, or at least the beginnings of fundamental changes. But at this point, if I so chose, I could slip back into the culture of my growing-up years with only slight modifications.

Of course I'm choosing not to. I enjoy my expat life, and I'm looking forward to raising my third culture kid. But there are costs, and there will be costs to Alexa in the future. In order to help her later, I have to continue to work my way through my own adjustments now. The one I'm most noticing: the faint but ever-present feeling that this place just isn't home anymore, that I don't quite fit in, and that I shouldn't settle in.

If you're interested in how truly third culture kids fare after being suddenly repatriated, as in the current evacuation, here are a couple of news articles about their experiences.

Balancing Act

Life as an evacuee is a balancing act.

I have a life here. But it isn't my real life, the one from which I was torn away so abruptly. I don't even know if I'll be allowed to return to that life. State Department regulations state that evacuees who are scheduled to leave post within a certain time frame (90 days, 6 months, I'm not sure of the specifics; reports vary) won't be allowed to return to post. If it's a 6-month rule, I'm already within the limits, and the powers-that-be won't send me back. If it's a 90-day rule, I'm only a few weeks away from the limits. There is some question of whether that rule will be waived in this case. There also is some question of whether the rule allows us to return if we pay for our own airline tickets, rather than being reimbursed by the Department. But more importantly, there is some question as to whether the evacuation order will be lifted before we're scheduled to leave anyway, making the rule a moot point.

But back to the balancing act. Alexa and I are in limbo. We are experiencing what our lives would have been if we hadn't moved away from my hometown, or at least something resembling it. I'm being a stay-at-home mom, but the home where I'm staying is my mother's house, not my own. I'm attending a small, close-knit church where everyone knows and cares about each other--and they've been very supportive of me and Alexa--but I don't know anyone. I'm driving in my SUV (Jeep Grand Cherokee--very nice!) to my nephews' basketball games and birthday parties, but the SUV is a rental and when I get to those basketball games and birthday parties, I don't know anyone other than my own relatives. I've been living away from this area, coming back only to visit, long enough that I don't have any friends here anymore, so my time is spent with my mother and her friends, or with my siblings or sister-in-law. The highlight of my days is talking--or better yet, skyping--with Jeff.

The bottom line is that I don't belong here right now. If I'd made different decisions in the past, I could have belonged here. Depending on the choices I make going forward, I could belong here in the future. But right now, at this moment, I don't belong here. I belong in Egypt, with my husband, living the life that we've created together.

But if I'm not allowed to go back to Egypt, I'll be here until September, other than a few short trips to DC for processing or to other states to visit other relatives. (Our plan has been to spend most of the summer here on home leave between posts.) That'll be seven months total. Over half a year. Long enough that I should try to belong here. Long enough to make it worthwhile to rent a furnished apartment, find a playdate group, join a Bible study. Settle in a little and act like I live here.

But if I am allowed to go back, it will be sudden. If I go back under Department orders, with them covering the expenses, I'll have three days from the time the announcement is made until I have to be on a plane. That's three calendar days, not even three business days. If I'm in a furnished apartment, my understanding is that they'll pay the fees associated with breaking a lease, but have you tried to make those arrangements suddenly over a weekend? I haven't, and I don't want to. If the order were lifted today, I could call the travel agent, pack our bags, and be on a plane first thing tomorrow morning. If I settle in here more, that would be much more difficult.

It's the uncertainty. Some who were evacuated, especially those with school-aged children, made the decision from the start that they wouldn't return to Egypt, or they wouldn't return until the end of the school year. Their families, their children, need that stability. I need stability too, but much less than those families. So I haven't made that decision, and I won't make that decision, because what I need more than stability is to get back to my life in Egypt, to wrap it up the way it should be wrapped up before I leave for good.

There's so much still to do in Egypt. I haven't even started sorting and purging for our move to our next post. I haven't bought any of those beautiful alabaster lamps with the copper accents. I haven't even taken a tour of Coptic Cairo! And I haven't said good-bye. To my friends, to my church, to the guards who worked so diligently to protect us. To Road 9, the Khan, the drivers who won't stop so I can cross the street unless I step out in front of them. The taxis whose horns create a cacophony of beeps, honks, and out-of-place melodies. The women on the metro who wouldn't offer me a seat when I was pregnant and wearing short sleeves, but who insisted that I sit when I was holding a baby and wearing culturally appropriate clothing. To all the sights, sounds, and smells of a huge city in a developing country. I need to say good-bye, to all these things, in my own way.

I so hope to go back. I so need to go back. But in the meantime, I'll go on with my balancing act. Fitting in enough to stay occupied, to provide the stability that Alexa needs, to use this time to allow relationships to develop between Alexa and her extended family. But not enough to create problems if I do get that call, that email, that notification that we have three days to board that plane. I'll continue to tell myself that we're going back.

Because I just can't bring myself to accept that my life in Egypt is over.

Evacuated

This is just a quick post to say that Alexa and I were evacuated from Egypt on Monday, along with 1498+ other Americans. We just arrived at my mother's house tonight and are desperate for sleep. I hope to post more within the next few days.

Jeff remained in Cairo and will continue to remain there so long as he is needed. (He does not expect to evacuate.) We have every confidence in his safety and in the safety of the remaining mission personnel.

Quick Takes

It's been so long since I've written anything! There's so much to update you on, too, but very little time to do it. Alexa just went down for a nap, but she rarely naps for longer than 45 minutes, and sometimes not even that long. So rather than trying to do a series of posts, I'm just going to do a bunch of short "quick takes" in this one. So buckle up, it's going to be a quick ride!

My little brother is now a married man! He married his long time sweetheart in early October. It was a true family affair for us--Jeff arrived a couple of days before the wedding, as he was a groomsman. I was a bridesmaid. Alexa was a flower girl, at least in name. She wore the same dress as the older flower girls and was carried down the aisle by the mother of the groom. It was a beautiful wedding, with a fall theme, which made for gorgeous decorations. My sister sang and even managed to get through it without tears. The bride was, of course, beautiful.

After the wedding, our little family spent a few days visiting friends and family in other states. Everyone was completely taken with Alexa. We spent quite a bit of time in the DC area with friends, whom we convinced to go with us to the Maryland Renaissance Festival. We'd been a couple of times before we moved to Egypt and loved it, so we couldn't pass up the opportunity to go back. It was just like we remembered, with elaborate costumes, decadent food--can I just say croissant sundae?!--and all sorts of attractions, from jousting to shopping to watching the drunks to knife throwing (I think we avoided the drunks throwing knives, though). Our friend who went with us got her first henna tattoo. I've never had one, but it was interesting to watch. I documented the whole process in photos, but since this is a quick takes post, here's the one and only picture you get: the artist with his work.

The flights went very well, overall, and Alexa was wonderful. She slept through all of our flights, with just brief awake periods for food and diaper changes. Luckily she didn't have any dirty diapers on the planes, saving those for layovers, so it wasn't too difficult to do lap changes. Also, may I just say that United was very baby-friendly? They had no issues with us taking on the car seat once we established that Alexa had her own ticket, they offered us an infant life vest before we ever took off, and there was room (in economy plus, to which we always upgrade because of Jeff's long legs) for the person in front of Alexa to recline his seat without interfering with the car seat. Lufthansa, on the other hand ... grrr. They didn't want us to use the car seat; we had to repeat two or three times that it was airline approved. Then they refused to give us an infant life vest when we requested one--they tried telling us that we wouldn't be flying over water because there were no large bodies of water around Frankfurt. Apparently the flight attendant didn't realize that we'd be flying over the Mediterranean Sea on the way to Egypt! She finally told us that it was their policy to give it to us only if/when it was needed. So apparently it's important for every passenger and crew member to have immediate access to a life vest--every passenger except infants, that is. I guess if there's no time for a busy flight attendant to go get the life vest before the plane hits the water, parents can miraculously grow suction cups on their arms to prevent the wiggling--and at that point wet--child from slipping out of their arms. My blood pressure still goes up when I think of that one. And then, in a final blow to Lufthansa's credibility in my eyes, the person in front of Alexa put his seat back, hitting the back of her car seat and causing it to pop up into an unsafe, unusable position. Luckily, Jeff was feeding her at the time, so she wasn't in it. Needless to say, I am no longer a fan of Lufthansa. At all.

Alexa has been sleeping through the night ever since we got here. She slept incredible hours on the planes, probably due to the vibrations, and has been doing it ever since. She usually goes down for the night between 10 and 11 and wakes up at 7 or 7:30. I would like her to fall asleep around 8 or 9 and stay asleep, but she currently naps for half an hour or so starting at 8 or 8:30, then wakes up for 60 to 90 minutes for one more feeding and diaper change before going down for the night. Until the last week or so, her longest naps during the day were around 45 minutes--she'd take several short naps ranging from 20 to 45 minutes, with 90 minutes of wake time in between. Lately she's been taking a long morning nap of 2 to 3 hours. I think that's because I've been laying down with her for that one, so when she starts to wake up, I soothe her back to sleep--I need a long nap, as I'm getting up between 5 and 5:30 every morning so I can pump, shower, try to get breakfast, and maybe get some laundry started before she gets up.

Speaking of pumping, I haven't shared the whole saga here yet. I had intended to breast feed Alexa, but that hasn't worked out. She was unable to take anything by mouth for the first two days, and after that, she had a hard time latching. Combine that with the fact that I wasn't producing enough milk in a day to get her through one meal, and well, formula supplementation via bottle was necessary. She never took to the breast, despite my best efforts and assistance from a lactation consultant. So we invested in a good pump, which I use regularly. Lately I've been able to produce enough milk that we only give her one 8-ounce bottle of formula a day. The rest of what she eats is milk. I'm not sure how long we can keep it up, but we're going to keep going with that as long as possible. Breast milk provides the best nutrition for her, so I'm committed to pumping until I can't produce milk anymore or until her first birthday, if I make it that long.

We're fully on cloth diapers now. I had purchased some used BumGenius 3.0's before Alexa was born. When I tried to switch from disposable to cloth diapers a month or so after her birth, I discovered that the BGs were too big in the legs. So we used prefolds and covers instead. We're still using those during the day. We were using disposables at night until shortly after we returned here, but we decided to bite the bullet and see how well cloth worked at night. We realized that the BGs didn't fit in the legs because the elastic was shot, but we found two that still had decent elastic, and we used one of them with a doubler overnight. It worked wonderfully! No leaks and, thanks to the stay-dry layer, Alexa felt dry the next morning. We've used them every night since then (other than a couple times when we needed to use diaper rash cream). We bought a couple of new BGs on sale and LOVE them. They're too expensive to justify buying for all-the-time use, though. So we'll keep going with prefolds and covers during the day and the BGs at night, at least unless/until we find someone who is able to replace the elastic on our used BGs. It almost makes me wish I knew how to sew ... but I do NOT have time right now to learn a new skill.

And now Alexa is awake, so if I forgot anything, it'll have to wait until next time.

Just in case the next time isn't for a while, let me just say to you all:

Merry Christmas!!