The sky slowly begins to dim and turn shades of blue until blue is black and black is as black can be.We live on the edge of a small village in rural Northern Thailand and when evening comes the sky is brilliantly full of the shine from heaven – unless it’s rainy season, of course, and then the clouds block the brilliance from physical sight but not from imagination.
Cicadas hum for a long phrase and then stop.Hum and stop.Our dog returns home from his daytime adventures in the rice fields and plops himself on our front step.He’s ready for his self-appointed nighttime duty of keeping watch.A tukae lizard calls out.Our neighbours are quiet and have either gone to bed – it IS seven thirty already – or are busy watching the new Thai soap opera series or Thailand’s The Voice.
Day is done.Nighttime is coming.I’m here in this middle space of neither here nor there.
We are transitioning from our home in Thailand to my homeland of Canada.My daughters claim they’re “not Thai but English” – this is where the language and culture and nationality lines blur.I remind them gently that they are both Thai AND Canadian, despite their protests.
It’s a hard concept to grasp and I feel confused about those blurring lines in my own identity.I can never be fully Thai but I’m not the same Canadian who left thirteen years ago for the mission field.Does it really matter though?My true citizenship is in heaven, I know.But between here and there, what does it look like to live?
We dream of what life will be like in Canada.We plan, we brainstorm, we pray, we hope and we eventually give it all over to God.We submit and surrender what our future will look like.
Like the brilliance beyond the obscuring clouds, the future holds something so beautiful that we can’t even begin to fathom it.We trust and believe in His goodness to both clear the clouds and carry us through.We surrender our wills for His which is better than we can ask or imagine.
“How long will you be gone?” my husband’s grandmother, Uay, asks days later in Northern Thai.She pauses and wipes tears away from her eyes.She wasn’t looking at me when she asked but we were sitting next to each other on the bamboo platform, watching my youngest twirl with delight in her “princess” dress.Uay laughs as her great-granddaughter dances around, playing games with her shadow.“About three years,” I reply.She wipes her eyes again and she holds my hand as we sit in silence.
Transitioning means leaving where you were in order to arrive somewhere else.The bridge linking those two places, whether physical or cognitive, is complicated.How can one cross while their partner lags behind?How can one cross while the pull to remain is strong?How can one cross while the crossing pains a loved one?
My husband assures Uay that we will be able to video call her and that her son or one of her grandsons will certainly help.“Oh, I’m not good at that kind of thing,” she says, brushing off the attempt to console the upcoming loss.
The only way across is through one step at a time.We don’t have to jump across, only to land in the water, but simply put one foot in front of the other and walk.
“Let’s go inside,” Uay finally says, putting her cane in position to help her stand.Slowly, we begin to walk together.
Last Monday did not go as planned. What I expected as a simple trip to the border to get something specific done with my visa in my passport turned into a full-on migraine of a problem.
At the end of the day, we were returning home and we were all spent.
I said, “Well, THAT was not a very productive day. We’re no further along than when we left the house this morning!”
My husband said, “That’s not true!”
“Okay. Well, we learned what didn’t work.” My mind began to whirl with the knowledge that my husband was looking at this situation from an analytical point of view. Once a scientist, always a scientist.
I went on. “We’ve learned what still needs to be done. We’ve learned that the process has changed from how it was previously and although the advice we were given may have been accurate at some point, it’s not accurate anymore… Okay!,” I admitted,“I see your point.”
My husband glanced over at me with a knowing look as we neared our driveway. Our dog was at the gate, tail wagging with delight that we were finally home.
“We’ve learned quite a lot today. And we HAVE made progress.It’s just not the direction I had anticipated,” I ended.
No more needed to be said and we went into the house.
Our youngest had fallen asleep on the way home and I carefully brought her inside and laid her on her bed.I got our oldest showered and in pjs and together we went to the kitchen to have a little bit of mommy-daughter time – time which is usually shared with her two-year-old sister.
We got to work straight away on a puzzle, singing some Greatest Showman tunes and chitchatting about this and that.Soon enough, the puzzle was taking shape and I turned what I had been working on and joined it with my daughter’s portion.I continued working away on it upside down, which wasn’t as easy as I had thought it might be.Looking that way at the map of Canada (which is what the picture was) was unfamiliar. And a new perspective.I will admit that I’m not very knowledgeable of all the islands in Nunavat Territory.Placing them in their proper spot while the puzzle was upside down from my perspective was not even a little easy.
Later, after my oldest had gone to bed, I was looking at pictures of our puzzle time.I realised that my shift in perspective had not been my preference but it was my choice.
In the same way, my experiences from earlier in the day, as frustrating as they were, led me to reconsider what progress looked like.Sometimes it looks like a path in one direction, but sometimes progress looks jagged and confused with fallen tree trunks blocking the path.But no matter what the path looks like, I am still making progress.I’m still learning along the way.If I’m determined and persistent, I can still reach my goal even if my path takes me where I never thought I’d go.
I’ve been reading my way through the “Anne of Green Gables” books and earlier this week I came across a great quote from L.M. Montgomery in “Anne of the Island.” It was the scene when Anne and one her good friends and roommate from the past three years, Phil, were taking one last walk through their rental to say goodbye to the house.
Anne “wondered if old dreams could haunt rooms – if, when one left forever the room where she had joyed and suffered and laughed and wept, something of her, intangible and invisible, yet nonetheless real, did not remain behind like a voiceful memory.
“”I think,” said Phil, “that a room where one dreams and grieves and rejoices and lives becomes inseparably connected with those processes and acquires a personality of its own.I am sure if I came into this room fifity years from now it would say ‘Anne, Anne’ to me.” Montgomery, L.M.. “Anne of the Island.” Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc.. 1943. pp. 221-222.
There was something about that house and those rooms and the lives they lived in there that made it seem like their happy little existence would go on living forever, despite empty rooms and absent friends.
I feel the same way about my mom’s house.
Before my mom had passed last September, she told us that she wanted us to sell her house. There were many reasons why she felt that way, and, at the end of the day, she would let us decide what we would do but she wanted us to know how she felt. In the end, we did sell it and it sold quickly.
The new owners have been busy making it their own, so our former neighbours and dear friends tell us. They’ve been tearing out flooring, bathrooms, a chimney, redoing the electrical system, getting rid of all the brick downstairs, and the wooden panelling, converting the kitchen to a mud/laundry room and moving the kitchen back to what used to be our old kitchen before our family renovated the house 24 years ago.
While I’m sad that the house will have changed so much, I am curious to see the finished results.I like knowing that new life has been breathed into it.I’m also relieved. My mom’s house is no longer the same and forever it will, in my mind at least, be the last place where our family lived and loved and pressed on despite the sorrow that enveloped us.
I can’t go back to her old house. She’s no longer there. And the house is no longer the same. Life has changed. But there’s a conversation I dream I can hear from the other side of the hedge and fence. I dream there is laughter and a face full of joy. I’m homesick but it’s for a place and a person who are no longer there.
As I think about my situation, I’m sure there are others, involved in missions work and or in secular vocations, who can identify with me, as well. For those serving cross-culturally and preparing to go back to your passport country for the summer or longer, you may be facing the reality that loved ones are no longer in your hometown. Friends and family may have moved away or, in some cases, have passed away.
So what do you do when you’re homesick like this? What do you do when you’re homesick for a place and people who are no longer there?
1. Grieve your loss(es).
There’s so much that could be said on this point that I could write a book.And maybe I will.But not today.For now, I’ll suggest that you give yourself space, time, and self-care as you grieve the loss of your significant people or person and your special but changed places.Be kind to yourself in this season.
2. Take time to pause and express thankfulness to God.
Thank Him for your past, present and future and for the people He’s put into your life and will put into your life.When I thank God in this way, I’m able to grieve with hope and joy.Despite what seems like an oxymoron, joy and grief can and do co-exist.
3. Redeem a place with new memories.
The pain of your loss may be overwhelming and paralyzing, at times, and may be heightened when you are back in that place and your person or people are no longer there.Don’t be afraid to enter those spaces again, but, when you’re ready, begin to make new memories there.Initiate creating community and new adventures.Invite friends to meet for a picnic at a park where you used to go for walks with your loved one.Start a new Christmas tradition, while infusing some of the precious traditions you shared with your loved one.
4. Create your pile of stones.
In the Bible, God’s people often built or did something to cause them and their descendants to remember a specific act of God.In the book of Joshua, chapter four, the people of Israel constructed a pile of twelve stones as a testimony of what God had done to bring His people into the promised land.
“And those twelve stones, which they took out of the Jordan, Joshua set up at Gilgal. And he said to the people of Israel, “When your children ask their fathers in times to come, ‘What do these stones mean?’ then you shall let your children know, ‘Israel passed over this Jordan on dry ground.’ For the Lord your God dried up the waters of the Jordan for you until you passed over, as the Lord your God did to the Red Sea, which he dried up for us until we passed over, so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of the Lord is mighty, that you may fear the Lord your God forever.” (Joshua 4:2-24, ESV)
There are a lot of ways to remember how God has helped you, provided for you, counselled you and shown his love for you.You could make a physical object, like a pile of stones, or a painting or sculpture.You could take a picture of a place, person or event, frame it and place it somewhere in your house where you would take notice of it frequently. The bathroom?The kitchen near the sink? On your bedside table?Choose what works for you.Another way of remembering is through words – journaling or writing a poem or even a book.Ask the Lord how to show you how to commemorate your loved one or place.
This list has no time limit and there is no one method for accomplishing each of these steps.They do not need to be done in chronological order and may even be done simultaneously.
I suggest that you invite a friend to journey with you in the process. Find someone who can listen well and love you as you share about your loss(es). You may find it helpful for them to keep you accountable for some aspect of your journey. Try journaling as a way to process each step.I find writing a cathartic experience and I appreciate looking back and seeing how I’ve grown and what I’ve learned along the way.Maybe you will too.
But most of all, know that you’re not alone in missing someone who is no longer in your life.You have good company with people who are also grieving various losses.
We may be homesick, and that’s okay.May it not end there. Let us look to the future, into Christ’s face.
“I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:16, ESV
I recently looked back at some of my early blog posts, dating back a little over thirteen years ago. I was in the middle of preparing to go to the mission field and, as I read, I was reminded of the many ways that the Lord prepared the way for me. I was single, young, determined, adventurous, and possessed a heart full of faith to follow the Lord where He was calling me. Now, all these years later, I am married with two small children, not as young as I used to be, just as determined, more cautious than adventurous, but still with a heart ready to follow Jesus as He prompts me through His Spirit.
We are heading back “home” to Canada this coming August and I am unsure whether to call it home or not. My mom passed away last year and my dad twenty years before that. My sister and her family live two hours away from where we’ll plant ourselves, and many of my close friends now live scattered across Canada.
Someone asked me recently about what was waiting for us in Canada, assuming we had jobs lined up and a place to live. “Oh,” they replied when my response was negative towards both of those things, “so you’re just waiting on God to see where He’ll lead you?”
The unknowns in my present are just as intimidating as they were when I was anticipating moving to SE Asia. But the difference now is that I have almost thirteen years of experience of walking through unknowns, following the lamp that the Lord’s provided to show the path in front of me, and the regular discipline of reminding myself of what is true.
I know He is El-HaNe’-eman – “faithful God” (Deut. 7:9 ESV). He never changes and, despite circumstances around us being uncertain, He is unwavering in His character.
I know He is Eliezer – “my God is help” (Exodus 18:4 ESV) – and Ebenezer – “stone of help” (1 Samuel 7:12 ESV). I’ve experienced His provisions countless times and often in the most surprising ways. Like Samuel in 1 Samuel 7:12, I have set up various stones – some real, some in my journal, and some through a picture or other creative means – in my life as a way to honour the Lord and remember how He has moved to help me and others around me.
I know He is Immanuel – “God with us” (Isaiah 7:14, 8:8, and Matthew 1:23 ESV). This has been the biggest reason why I’ve been able to persevere in serving the Lord. I have never had to tackle any task, assignment, follow-up visit, language and culture lesson, visa trip, immigration question, sickness, home assignment, dangerous road, sermon or annual reunion conference by myself. He has always been with me and will always be with me. Despite Satan’s attempts to convince me otherwise, I was never alone in that village in the wooden house, never forgotten in that mountainous assignment, never left behind when my husband went off to work and I was home alone with our children. His presence has satisfied my soul, calmed my anxieties and empowered my heart.
So, I anticipate returning home with great expectations of the Lord to remain the same. I know He will lead us through new challenges and adventures, He will provide exactly what we need (and sometimes what we may think we want) and when we need it, and He will remind me that He is with us and will continue to be with us through it all.
Home has changed. And I’ve changed too. I don’t know what home even really means anymore except for it to be the place where God invites me to be, too.
If you’re returning home for the summer or for longer, which testimonies of God’s goodness is the Holy Spirit reminding you of so your soul may be strengthened?
Ever since my daughters were born, as a part of our day, we would often call my mom via Skype while we were eating breakfast. I’m sure it wasn’t the most thrilling conversation for my mom but it was such a normal interaction and it made it feel like she was close even though she was half a world away.
When my husband and I would see notifications on Facebook letting us know that Mom had “liked” or “loved” our most recent posts and pictures, we knew my mom was up late, favouring her night owl tendencies. She would be faithful to leave a comment of encouragement on whatever we had shared. We used to joke about how she “liked” everything but deep down we truly were appreciative of her efforts to connect.
Now that my mom is gone, having passed away last September, it feels abnormal to go through a breakfast without calling her. It feels empty to not see her comments and likes on Facebook. It feels sad that we no longer receive cards in the mail from her. It feels strange that she’s no longer just half a world away but actually in heaven.
But we’ve found ways to include Mom in our everyday. We talk about our visits to her in Canada. We sing songs that were the old reliables that my mom would sing to my daughters on Skype. My daughters draw pictures to put in a journal for Grandma. I tell my daughters that this book or that toy or this stuffy or that dress was from Grandma. I include extra details throughout our day that help us connect to the memories of my mom. It doesn’t give the allusion that she’s still alive but the memories give us the full picture that she was both my mom and my daughters’ grandmother but, ultimately, the Lord’s child.
We include memories of my mom in the everyday so we don’t forget.
In my mom’s backyard garden, there was always a persistent patch of Forget-Me-Nots. Those tiny blue buds were a happy sight each spring, bursting forth with jubilation and triumph over their successfully large plot in a non-garden area in the yard. They were planted, with good intentions, in the middle of a grassy spot and they did their thing – they spread.
Every spring after my dad died, my mom would dig up a fistful of Forget-Me-Nots, roots and all, and would take them to the cemetery where my dad’s ashes had been placed in a columbarium. There was a small, orderly garden plot directly across from the plaque behind which my dad’s urn sat and my Mom would faithfully replant those Forget-Me-Nots in new soil.
The cemetery had strict guidelines for items placed at graves, in front of columbariums and in the garden plots scattered around the grounds. They were firm that you were not allowed to plant anything yourself but you could pay the cemetery to plant trees in memory of your loved one. We did that one year with a black walnut tree – much like the ones in the yard where my dad grew up on his farm, outside of Wallaceburg – and they stationed a small plaque at its base identifying that it was my dad’s tree.
While the tree and the plaque were nice, there was something to be gained that was satisfying for the soul through the act of replanting these flowers. My Mom would defiantly plant those Forget-Me-Nots each year, without fail.
Yesterday, was the anniversary of my dad’s death. Twenty-one years have passed and my mom, after her own Cancer diagnosis, joined him in heaven last September.
I may not be in Canada this spring, but when I’m there in the future, I hope to continue not only the small rebellion of planting Forget-Me-Nots, but also little acts of love that will help me remember and honour my parents. They were quiet protesters in their own right, advocating for the voiceless, the poor, the sick and the oppressed. Their names may never enter history books, but they left a legacy of kindness and love and of sacrificial giving of themselves.
Those tiny blue blossoms. No matter how hard the winter, they are resilient, persistent, and multiply joy. May we weather storms of life in an equal manner.
I remember after my Dad passed away, twenty-one years ago, that I envisioned our family like a stool. Initially, our family had four secure legs, but after my Dad died, and after some time to process the loss and grief, I could see our family as a three-legged stool. It was different. We had to reposition ourselves. But after these adjustments (this makes it sound so easy), we would be able to stand. My Mom, my older sister and me.
Now with my Mom gone, I don’t think that analogy works anymore. Not because I feel like I can’t stand but because I can (although hurting and missing my Mom something fierce). My sister and I both have our own families, but beyond blood relatives and married-into-the-family relatives, I feel that we have a stronger sense of the community that is also a part of our family. If we were still a stool, we’d be one with more than a hundred legs.
We called my Mom’s support group, Team Becky – maybe that’s what we still are even though she’s now gone.
I felt like the longer my Mom’s Cancer progressed that there were fewer things that I could give her. It felt like my offers to her were piddly but yet it turned out that those were the things that were most precious.
Gifts were of little value to her but she still appreciated drawings from her granddaughters and stories of cute things they’d said or done.
I started using essential oils in July and they became a conduit for us to connect. On almost every visit after she was in the palliative ward at Parkwood, I would massage her hands and feet with essential oils. Sometimes I’d let her choose, and sometimes I’d choose for her. Up until the last several weeks of her life, hand and foot massages would relax her so much that she could go to sleep. When she battled so much pain and confusion in her last month or so, I was relieved that I could offer her something that gave some peace and comfort.
The use of the EOs gave us a gift that was impossible to find elsewhere.
I kept telling my Mom that she was so brave during her last several months of life. Her prognosis hadn’t given her much to be brave about and yet she lived her days with grace, kindness and love. She grappled with God at times (“Beth, I had a debate with God last night about free will… but we’re on good terms still”). She grappled with us sometimes. She never retreated. She only persevered onwards.
She continued to do things that mattered to her – like remembering all the names of her nurses, PSWs, doctors, and even the cleaning staff. She wanted to hear stories of her granddaughters and the sweet things they’d done or said (“Tell me a cute story about Jesse and Kate, Beth”). She wanted us to reach out to her friends and keep them updated on how she was doing – she was usually more worried about others than she ever was for herself.
Her bravery was modest, and meek but was strong and loud.
Getting my Mom to eat much was challenging at times. Her appetite overall was fairly good, until it wasn’t. So we would try to entice her to eat more with bringing in some of her favourite snacks and treats. Cadbury Crispy Crunch bars, Dairy Milk bars and plain Miss Vickie’s chips were generally all accepted, as were chocolate pudding cups.
There was a Tim Horton’s in the basement cafeteria in Parkwood, where my Mom spent the last one and half months of her life. I thoroughly enjoyed Tim Horton’s again, as I’m not normally in Canada, and would order various treats throughout the week. My Mom’s favourite donut was the chocolate dip donut, but when she stopped her interest in that I reverted back to the good old blueberry muffin – something that would always bring me back to my childhood. Sure enough, I didn’t have to twist Mom’s arm very much to convince her to share some with me.
I’d give her the top portion (which is always my favourite part), to which she’d say, “Why don’t you give me the bottom part, Beth?” She had sacrificed enough in her life, always putting her family and friends first. Giving her my favourite part was the very least I could do.