Like a worn out mule I have carried this shame, this stand-on-the-sides-of-my-feet-and-keep-silent shame. It is the progeny of a struggle, this shame. The struggle? Jesus’s return to earth makes me nervous and a little sad. Our church is going through Revelation line by line, context and background discussed. Goodness, I have learned so much about prophesy that I never knew. It does seem like a lot of things are coming together, and our Lord could return at any time. And I am twitchy and undone.
One day I sat on my bed after weeks of this struggle. Pulling my knees to my chest, I began talking out loud to Jesus. I told Him how I was sorry and that I knew I should not love my life here more than the one coming, but that the one He gave me was so good. And babies, I wanted babies.
But I knew the right answers. I knew that this life and all the joys in it are good gifts from God, but eternity is better. My life with Eric is simple and sweet, something I prayed for a very long time. The thought of not being his wife anymore makes me a little crazy. It is like telling a kid at Disneyland, “We’re going to leave your favorite characters and awesome rides to go to this place you have never seen, but it is better I promise.” Better.
During my adventure in Malaysia, Elizabeth and I went to Batu Caves—a common tourist spot for those who stay in Kuala Lumpur. The statue/idol was (as far as size goes) rather impressive. We came prepared and modestly dressed to be able to hike the nearly 300 steps to enter the Hindu temple.
(Read it and weep, girlfriend. No bootie shorts for you. My question: are there rules for men?)
As we climbed the famous steps, monkeys scurried about our feet and above our heads. I was fascinated, but Elizabeth, who was reliving past encounters with the creatures, was less than enthralled. As we entered the cave, its majesty swept over us, and then the heaviness settled over the dark and damp tomb. The beauty of the cave was overshadowed by oppression. And then it hit me: Jesus will make this place better. He made it, and one day He will claim it again.
What a lovely relief. He will make it better. All better.
Stranded on the top of a mountain in an unfamiliar country wearing a pretty pink dress is a cute idea for pictures on Insta, but it turned out to be quite stressful in real life. We had just finished enjoying scones and tea at an overlook in the Highlands of Malaysia. Taking a cab up the mountain, we were told to just grab another one on the way down.
We enjoyed delicious tea and scones (which definitely felt a bit odd in this setting), but this place was built and farmed during the era of the sun next setting on the British empire. We took pictures of the rolling hills with both locals and fellow travelers, and figured it was time to get home before it got dark. Approaching a taxi driver, we were told the taxi was already spoken for. The driver said, “No taxi today. There is traffic jam."
Really? No taxis at all? Okay, then. I vividly remember where I was standing when he told us this. Realizing we were miles and miles from our hostel, my travel adventure buddy, Elizabeth, found a safe-looking trio who also spoke English (they were British): Pete, Aunt Shirley, and Aunt Shirley’s friend to take us down the mountain to the nearest village where there were allegedly taxis (there were not). It was a restful fifteen minutes in a stranger’s car, even though I am captain of “stranger-danger awareness.” Good thing we got some rest.
The day continued with *miles* of walking from village to village, hoping, praying to beat the sun and avoid those rogues who called us charming names such as “white rose.” I have blondish hair and Elizabeth has reddish hair. Neither of us pass 5’ 1.” Clearly we are twins, or so everyone thought. And we might as well have been wearing signs that said, “Hello! Look over here!”
There were three phases of emotions I dealt with when being whistled at, yelled at, and approached: fear, annoyance mixed with amusement, and anger. At home on Guam, I am accustomed to being a minority, but it is wearisome to feel objectified. And I know I am privileged to begin with, but it's still scary and no fun at the time!
I was processing some firsts at the time...
Never in my life had I been surrounded by head-coverings and veils (niqabs) that only allowed for a woman to peer out through a narrow slit in the fabric. I found myself desperate to make eye contact with them, determined to see them for more than a body with a black tent, attached to their husbands. There were others, of course, with bright and glitzy hijabs, beautiful faces showing, laughing freely.
I know they thought I was a wild child in my spaghetti straps and free-flowing hair. There were several local teenagers who asked to take photos with us. Their smiles, innocence, and “pleases” caused us to consent. My shoulders rubbed against theirs, and I remembered how much God loves us all. And there it was: my heart swelled--it dilated-- and I was able to see more clearly.
Back to the hitchhiking story...
A car full of local women waved us over and offered for us to jump in with them, but they were also in the traffic jam and our walking appeared to be faster anyway. We thought surely we were close to the next taxi station--and we were.
We eventually did make it back to our sketchy hostel, but first we had dinner at the outdoor Indian restaurant in the same village. I have never been so happy to be anywhere in my life. Truly. Ordering copious amounts of food, we filled our bellies with delicious naan, curry, and tea. Comfort food is the thing when you've been hitchhiking, you know.
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.”
(Matthew 22:37b-40)
An ocean of prairie grass billows and the wagon sways like a ship, heavy with hope. Those brave pioneers crossed miles and miles to claim a new land as their own, as their home. Ever since I was a little girl, their stories have drawn me in, but little did I know how they would define me.
It is going on five years since I boarded that United plane bound for the Pacific island of Guam. I was a little girl, really, en route to my destiny, an adventure I could not resist. I did some teaching and some falling in love. Now I am married and this is my home.
It hit me the day I got my driver’s license, the day my husband first teased me about my local accent, and the day I felt more comfortable chatting with local firefighter’s wives than military wives who were pining for Starbucks and Target. This, this quirky place infused with island, Asian, and military culture was home.
If you search for “Guam Scenery” on Pinterest, your eyes will feast on striking beaches, the bluest waves, and breathtaking cliff lines. And they are real! However, those, lovely as they are, do not make this place my home. I would bet that Pinterest will not show you my humble studio apt in the jungle. Yes, the jungle. It will not show you the crazy roosters and my neighbor shouting at the other neighbors who have an all-out rock concert at 1am.
Photo Credit: Paige Overturf Photography
On vacation. Did I cry when I saw the cornfields? Yes. Yes, I did.
I have struggled with how to make this place my home. A lot of my prized possessions are in the States–in plastic totes my parents are gracious enough to keep. I have thrown away a lot of things along the way, just like my pioneers who braved the west. They threw over heavy chests and other heirlooms that carried too much weight. So have I. But they clutched the lighter items, the quilts, the china, and stored them in their homes of sod and timber. A semblance of their past married the reality of their future. And it was home.
The days I have compared Guam to the Mainland and all that I miss and what I want at my disposal, those have been miserable days. And the days I have pretended to not miss Indiana and just embrace island life with no looking back, those have been dishonest days.
Truth is, I have made this place my home because this place has changed me. The people changed me. I let them change me. In order for a place to be home, you must embrace both your past, your present, and the juxtaposition that it brings. Yes, I now have a twinge of an accent, I kiss those I meet (save military) on the cheek, and I love red rice. But I also still love my blue and white china I brought in my carry on, and anything else antique and English. Every Christmas I make my aunt’s cinnamon rolls. My bookshelf boasts some old Shakespeare books from my great grandpa.
It is possible to have the ocean and miss cornfields. I know. But it is also possible to be thankful for both. I am a heartland girl turned island girl. And because I am choosing to embrace my past and my now, I can always be at home. For in the end, Jesus is with me, and He is my home.
