Where can we go from here?

I am beginning to realize, slowly by slowly, that God is so much larger than my identity, that He is larger than my countries and all of the space in between. He is in the quiet, lonely dusk, filled with birdsong. God is not confined to one language. He is not confined to a certain culture. He has inserted the knowledge of himself into every culture in order to redeem people from each culture.

To misquote Victor Hugo: "As he spoke all tongues, he entered into all hearts"

He celebrates each of our cultures infinitely more than we do, because he made them. He hurts because of the pain in each of our cultures infinitely more than we ever could, because he was there when pain entered the world. As he has created all cultures, he remembers the children who cross all cultures.

He loves our cultures and can empathize with our hurt, rejoice with our joys, speaks all of our languages, even when we are so confused that we speak all of them at once. We believe that we are alone sojourning this earth. No one will understand every part of us. We will always be foreigners because in our host culture we feel at home, but don't look like everyone else, and in our parents' culture(s) we generally look like we belong, but do not feel anywhere close to belonging, and this can be isolating. But does the one who has intricately created each culture not understand the cultures we have adopted? Does he not intimately know our every eccentricity, our every unexpressed pain, frustration, joy, confusion, bitterness, exhuberation? 

He created all cultures. He knows our culture. The culture that we have made of the many in which we have lived and which now has become part of us. He understands and empathizes with us. And he loves us so much that he made Jesus a TCK. He was born in Bethlehem, lived in Egypt until Herod died, then moved to Nazareth. According to the Gospels, he was a nomad who had "no place to lay his head". So often I have failed to realize that as nomad kids ourselves, we are in perfect company with many great people from the Bible. Isaac was born to parents from Ur, but grew up in Canaan. Moses' parents were Hebrew, but he grew up with Egyptians until he ran away to Midian. Joshua's parents were Hebrews who had grown up in Egypt, but he grew up in the Sinai desert. Daniel was taken from his home in Israel and grew up in Babylon. Ruth was a Moabite who moved to Israel and married an Israelite. Esther was a Jew who grew up in Babylon. Timothy's father was Greek, and his mother Jewish. Paul was a Jew from Tarsus, and a citizen of Rome, which many people did not understand. But the Bible does not mention the fact that these people were third culture kids (possibly because David Polluck was not around during the canonization process of the Bible) but because the fact that they followed God was so much more important to convey than the fact that they were TCKs or CCKs. 

And this is how it ought to be for us. Our identity should be as adopted and chosen sons and daughters of the Creator of the Universe, not in the fact that we lived in five different countries before we entered college, or speak four languages, or had so many great or painful experiences that no one in any of our cultures will ever understand us. As Paul (this is the same Paul who was a TCK) says in 1 Corinthians "If I speak in the tongues of men (Chinese, French, Russian etc.) and of angels (definitely Arabic, but I'm biased), but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging symbol." If we have intimate knowledge of every airport, of the best and worst plane food, of the most authentic cuisine in our countries; if we live lives that surpass what people see in National Geographic magazines, but do not have God, we are nothing. Understand that Paul (the TCK) considered everything as loss in comparison with knowing Christ.

This is difficult. Because I value my experiences as a TCK. I value languages. I value learning about different cultures and getting to know people from other cultures. I value ethnic food. Sometimes I boast in my worldliness. But Paul, still a TCK, considered everything as loss compared to knowing Christ. So, if Paul is right, everything I value as a TCK, all of my TCK experiences, could never come close to value in knowing Christ, in fact they are so much less that they are considered losses.

I will be honest and say that often I lose sight of that. When I take on TCK as an identity, it often becomes crippling. My identity being a TCK is probably in large part a reason for why I do not have many American friends. Most of my friends in America are TCKs. When I arrived in America three years ago, I expected to have no friends from past experiences, and I used the fact that I was a TCK as an excuse to not get to know some people I could have. As my friend and fellow TCK Lizzy Wiley puts it "TCK is an experience, not an identity."

Loss: Wishing and Thanks.

East Amman as seen from the Citadel

I wish I would have gone out more. I would have gotten into the taxi told him "Wasfi al-Balad, law samaht.", and gotten lost among the winding streets of downtown Amman, always taking photos, because photos are memories. I would have gone to Al-Salt more and wandered around that ancient, beautiful city. I would have gone to the church built in the seventeenth century for Easter service, even though I had just gotten back from Wadi Rum the night before, and probably would have been late, but then everyone is late in the Middle East. I should have taken more buses than taxis, because that is how everyone travels and it is so cheap. I would have gotten lost, been late, and gotten frustrated, but it would have been worth it. Just one more story to tell. I would have wandered more at night, because everything is still alive at night, and the colours of the city are breathtaking. I would have gone to Jerusalem, to Ramallah, to Jaffa, to Karak, to Azraq, to the Jordan Valley. I would have asked more questions. I would have tried to speak more Arabic, and in the process made more mistakes. I would have listened more intentionally to the call to prayer, because now, sitting at college in America I sometimes try to listen for a strain of it in the wind, but it's not there. I would have gone to the market more. Not the fruit and vegetable dukan by our apartment, but the market by Al-Husseini Mosque, the Friday Market at Abdali, and I would have found Souk Jara. I would have breathed more deeply. Because that place was filled with scents and odors that reminded me of home.

And while some of these would-haves are irreplaceable, others are things which I might be able to do next time. Inshallah bshoufek mara itani, ya Urdun!

But there is so much that I am thankful for as well.
I am thankful for Balqees, for going so far above and beyond being our Arabic teacher, for taking us to restaurants to practice, for showing us how things are done in Jordan, for being extremely compassionate and patient with us when we committed cultural faux pas and got things wrong in Arabic class, for graciously inviting us to her home for an afternoon and evening. Allah ybarek feek, ya Balqees!

I am thankful for Loay, Beth, and Hind, for being wonderful teachers and pouring their treasuries of knowledge into our minds, even though they probably won't be there to see their impact on us, even though they do this every semester to a new group of strange American college students. Thank you for teaching us, for answering our questions, and for offering your assistance.

I am thankful for Mohammed and Cecile for being great leaders. For taking care of us, and going on excursions with us all over Jordan.

I am thankful to have lived in a Muslim country. To learn about Islam and the way in which Muslims follow God. To hear the call to prayer every day, and to adopt some aspects into my own faith, particularly such extreme reverence for God not found elsewhere. I am grateful for my friendships with Muslims that I met this trip. You guys are awesome, and I love that our different faiths did not keep us from having great friendships! Uhib antum kteer.

I am thankful for the food. The falafel sandwiches which we ate when we ran out of groceries in the middle of the week. The shawarma lahm from Shawarma Reem, arguably the best shawarma in Amman. The hummus from Hashem is the best I have ever had. Really, all the street food was tantalizingly delicious. Helu kteer! (Except for the sugar cane juice. That I think might be an acquired taste.)
Tea. Limun ma3 na3na3.

I am thankful for the people. For my wonderful Arab friends, for my incredible teachers, for the ISA staff, and for Beit al-ISA

A Jordanian man in the traditional kuffiyeh

I am thankful for the memories. "Mabrock!!" (love you Josh :P), 201's daily Arabic study/homework sessions at school or Gloria Jeans, 201's post-school ice-cream and Sherlock times, Monday night Game of Thrones, our trips to the Friday market at Abdali, the first trip to Wadi Rum and sleeping on top of the rocks and forgetting Jack in a random village and Nadia going Darija on the taxi driver ("Tehki 'Wallah!'") and trying to get into a nice hotel beach in Aqaba ("Gorman"), chilling with Bedouins smoking hash in Petra, unsuccessfully trying to go to three different churches for Easter Sunday and getting koshary instead, getting to and from Umm Qais, walking the girls back to their apartment late at night, witnessing taxi driver fights (and when Josh tried multiple times to replicate the roundhouse kicks back in the university), which reminds me of *drumroll* Josh's laugh!!,  Acts with Josh and finding a house church, going to Cecile's church with Josh, Grace, and Trinidad and getting fruit bowls afterwards, going to the kebab restaurant in Salt with Balqees and Joshua's tomb ("It's not kidnapping if they say 'Ahlan wa sahlan!'"), the times with Raihan, Argina, Leo, and Joey, the family birthday dinners (Operation Halal Birthday Dinner), the late night walks, Rainbow Street with Grace and going to the Good Book Shop and sharing ice-cream with a little boy, the time that we practically got dinner for free by walking down Gardens street and checking out random stores (hospitality is incredible), our bus driver Musa, the time Josh and I were trying to pray and an inebriated guy tried to sell us honey, (but Josh got it down from 30 JD to 3), secret agent Damen, when Cara and I went downtown to study for Islam and take photos and this guy thought we were married and wanted to see where we lived and then called me for weeks afterwards, lunches at the university which were always fun--Indiana, Pizza, or Faruz ("Hillary!"), my first taxi ride in Jordan with Jack and Grace (We couldn't hear for a bit afterwards, but alhamdulillah we didn't die!), sneaking into King Abdullah mosque with Raihan, the post Ghor sickness, Mickelstein, "Mostly", the bus rides, 201 cuddle fests, when Rabia and I became an old Arab couple in traditional dress, the last full night in Jordan staying up til 2am studying for our Arabic final with all of 201/202 and listening to the Qur'an and drinking Trinidad's exquisite chai. The list could go on.

I am thankful for the conversations. About faith, God, Islam, Christianity, relationships, life, the deep stuff, Jordan, politics, the Middle East; in the streets, in our apartments, in the desert late at night, on the balcony at dawn, in taxis, on the bus, at school, at cafés, on the beach, outside the falafel place at Maghreb, while eating kunafa, while waiting for Faruz to make our zinger sandwiches.

They think that four months is not that long. Four months is an eternity.

Senses of Home

This is an exercise in exploring the places that raised me and what they smell, sound, taste, look, and feel like.


Serbia smells like cigarettes, freshly-cooked ćevapi (kebabs) sun-scorched blacktop, burning coal, diesel, Turkish coffee, incense
Slovakia smells like garlic, garlic-breath, vypražani syr (fried cheese), alcohol-breath, pine, rain
America smells like freshly-cut grass, barbecues, sun-screen, mosquito spray, chlorine, fresh air

Serbia sounds like church bells, car horns, party music (not in English), swearing, laughter
Slovakia sounds like the screech of trams, the boom of fireworks, "Nasledujúce zastávka...", Switchfoot,
America sounds like the crackle of bonfires, cicadas, the radio, the whir of a boat motor

Serbia tastes like srpska salata (Serbian salad) strawberry juice, pljeskavica (kebab in plate-sized burger form) a kifla (like a French baguette)
Slovakia tastes like cheesy garlic soup in a bread bowl, cabbage salad, lentil soup,
America tastes like mustard, Haagen Daas, steak,

Serbia looks like trash-riddled roads, old forests, rich history, cyrillic, grey buildings, fortresses, Orthodox icons, white walls, wood floors,
Slovakia looks like sunsets, grey days, vibrant colours, Baroque architecture, cobblestones, yellow walls, clay tiles, graffiti,
America looks like Walmart, sidewalks, big houses, carpeted floors,

Serbia feels like an old friend,
Slovakia feels like a storm cloud,
America feels like an airport terminal and a holiday,


Serbia smells revolting, comforting,
Slovakia smells normal,
America smells clean,

Serbia sounds chaotic,
Slovakia sounds quiet,
America sounds peaceful,

Serbia tastes rich,
Slovakia tastes wintry,
America tastes store-bought

Serbia looks ancient
Slovakia looks important
America looks wealthy,

Serbia feels comforting, exciting, challenging,
Slovakia feels cold, beautiful, stoic,
America feels impermanent, uncomfortable, friendly, luxurious.

Third Culture Kids: Nomads or Pilgrims

Disclaimer: This thought is still very fresh and rough, mirrored in my frenzied writing. 

This idea first sprang into my head because of watching a marionette version of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' with some good friends, and sprouted because of a video I saw, ironically with an excerpt from Pilgrim's Progress. here.

I had considered myself a nomad on this earth, and to a certain extent I am. To be a nomad is to wander. Traditionally nomads wandered to places where their flocks could find food, but in my circumstance, it merely meant 'to wander'. It seemed to epitomize my life experiences. I was born in a place that I do not remember, spent a significant amount of my life traveling to a few different countries, and now, now I am again restless in the place where I currently am. And yet, defining myself as a nomad seemed to condescend a hopeless manner upon myself. As if in desperation I travelled, as if I were always looking for another patch of grass, a new diversion, a different culture, never to be fully satisfied.

And yet I see where the term 'nomad' correctly defines many people like myself. For they do wander, seemingly aimlessly or with superficial goal in mind. And now as I think about it all, I realize that I need not merely wander from place to place, to leave no footprint on the earth save the course that I travel. For I have more to hope for than to wander. I am traveling to somewhere, and all the places that I travel are simply byroads. In Noah Webster's 1828 dictionary, he defines a pilgrim as "a wanderer; a traveller; particularly, one that travels to a distance from his own country to visit a holy place. In Scripture, one who has only a temporary residence on earth. Hebrews 11."

This is what I am. I have a temporary residence on this earth, I am a wanderer who is traveling. But traveling to where? I suppose we must all settle in our own minds where we are traveling to, but as for me, I am traveling to God's heavenly dwelling, exploring bits of His Kingdom along the way, whether that leads me to Eastern Europe, America, Africa, Asia, it matters not, for the Kingdom of God is not a matter of geography or ethnicity or religion, but of righteousness, peace, and joy. And this is what matters in life.

I am a pilgrim on a journey to God's heavenly dwelling, and will indulge myself in seeking His Kingdom until I arrive home. 

transition is the bane of life.

Does it ever really go away? The feeling that you are still adjusting, still transitioning to this place? It is hard. Hard because everything around you is good, the places are ever becoming more familiar, the people that you love more dear, and you are being grafted into community. It is all so wonderful that guilt rises up in you just after the feeling that you don't quite belong here, the feeling of being called somewhere else, a sudden remembrance of a distant haunt. You begin to feel belonging here, but you are afraid. Afraid that allowing yourself to indulge fully will tear the delicate fabric that attaches you to everywhere you've ever called home. And yet, you are afraid not to indulge. You see people laughing at a good joke, carrying on a deep conversation over breakfast, and you desperately want to immerse yourself in their world. But you have a world of your own, a world that screams for your fidelity. A world that recalls to mind the smells and sounds of the markets, the myriad of colours, of spring rains, summer greens, autumn sunsets and winter skies. A world of many tongues and points of view. But you want THIS world, the world before your eyes, the one with which you daily interact with now. You hunger for those good conversations, you want to make those memories that we will laugh about years from now. And you want to be able to keep your own world, keep it locked away, to take out when you are alone, but not now, not with other people, who do not know or care about this or that place. And so you try, you try to talk, to interact, to become like them. And you think you can, because you are a master of identities, but when you open your mouth, your world leaps off your tongue, because what is natural for you is still there. And then you feel ashamed that you have mentioned something that they cannot relate to. You hope that they saw you, saw what you have been through, and not an upturned nose that you never intended. And when you take your shoes off at the door instead of leaving them on, when you eat your meals a certain way, when you try not to give them blank stares when they talk about sports or popular culture or colloquialisms that are in English but carry no meaning to your ears, your world seeps through your flesh like vapor, and everyone can see a glimpse of a different world than theirs. Ever so desperately you ache for authenticity, while trying to hide behind a man that you have concocted to look like them. You are afraid of being thought of as someone who is attempting to be better than everyone, someone who looks down on people, brags about what he has done, what he has seen, where he has been. And this you hope they will never see. So it's always a dance, a dance between who you are, and who you are trying to be, a confusing and chaotic complication of characteristics. 

And all you want is authenticity. All you want is to be authentic.

I am an...

Today in Arabic class I learned a lesson that went beyond the Nisba adjective, and the masculine and feminine endings. I learned the difference between being from somewhere and being a belonging of that somewhere. Let me explain. In class, we learned how to say things like, "I am from Egypt. I am an Egyptian." (أنا من مصر. أنا مصري) Thankfully our teacher did not have us go around the room and say where we were from and what we were. She may have assumed all of our answers would be the same anyways. But I felt that it would be lying if I said that I was a Serb or a Slovak, or anything else for that matter. I don't look Eastern European. I look American, or Northern European. Therefore the closest thing to the truth would be to call myself an American, since both of my parents are, and my passports says that I am an American, and the American government has given me the privilege of voting, so I suppose that makes me an American. But I am not from America. I was raised in Eastern Europe. That is where part of my home stands. I know enough of the language to get by. I can buy food at the markets. I can take the trolleys and trams anywhere I fancy. I know many of the cultural rules and can easily abide by them. I love the food, the cultures, and the people. But in America, I hardly know which of the superstores to go to when I need to buy something. And when I finally get to the store that I am looking for, there are multiples brands of everything! And in a city where driving is perfectly safe, how is one's faith in God supposed to grow at all? I speak English, but what are all these other words and phrases doing here? And how much physical interaction is appropriate? I've got the no kissing part down, but what else? How close are you allowed to stand next to someone before they feel uncomfortable?
I have decided upon this paradox for myself in Arabic: أنا من صربيا و سلوفاكي. أنا أمريكي (I am from Serbia and Slovakia. I am an American.)

Which Self? Finding Safe and Common Ground

Whenever I am new to a situation, I always attempt to discern what sort of people I am around. I've become more aware of this since we have moved to America. It's as if I have to guess at the kind of people that they are, so that I can know which 'me' to put on. This might sound like I am being superficial, but honestly all of my different identities are truly me, just me in different contexts. For example, if I decide that the group of people I am around are Serbs, then I make a mental note of all of the social rules I have to follow: Never put your feet on top of a coffee table. You don't have to be punctual. Always leave a tiny bit of food on the plate, or a bit of drink left in the glass to let the host know that you are satisfied with what you have received, but do not wish to eat or drink any more. Show hospitality with food and drink, i tako dalje (etc). But the problem with living in America is that I do not know alot of the cultural rules. People didn't blatantly tell me that "Hi, how are you?" does not merit a 500 word response, and sometimes is not a question at all. And I had to total a car before I realised that police in America are generally not out to cause you harm, or demand bribes from you. So when I try to gage the cultural climate of the people I am around, I also try to observe any specific cultural rules that I can. This is generally why at a larger gathering I hardly ever go up to someone to introduce myself to them right away. If you talk to me, of course I will talk with you and engage in conversation, but for my part I would much rather listen than talk, as I get to hear about you, and try to get cues as to who I am allowed to be in your presence. Am I only allowed to be a person who is similar to you? Have you been out of the country so that I am allowed to talk about another place and you would not think me a prick? Have they had extensive or qualitative time overseas beyond tourism, that I might speak with them about cultural differences? Are they a military brat that I should refrain from mentioning any negative sentiment I might possess regarding America's handling of foreign affairs or America in general? This will help me to determine how much of which of myselves I am allowed to be. And the friendship does not have to be superficial at all. I have some friends who might know that I have lived overseas, but I am not sure. Nonetheless, we find common ground elsewhere, and have fun together. If I might emphasize something I've learned. Common ground does not always have to be on your turf. It could be on anything from 'Lord of the Rings' to philosophy, to a hobby, to what classes you have together. I've found that this common ground is more comfortable for the American, as it is more normal to find friends in these areas instead of finding common ground in experiences, like TCKs often do.