Missing Home

There is something extremely disheartening about coming home from a long journey to find mold growing in the corners of your bedroom. It’s even more disheartening to come home and realize that whatever course of action you might have previously taken to remove the stuff is now obsolete due to the equally disheartening realization that you can’t speak a word of Chinese.

No one told me living in China would be easy.

I understand that now.

Well, I’ve always understood that… but this is the first time I’ve felt actually defeated by the fact.

I guess the jet-lag and my own intrinsic drama-queen don’t help me much when it comes to coping, but the point is, when I got home from my Thanksgiving trip… all hell broke loose, and I haven’t been able to stop crying since.

I know this post is long overdue, and I’m sorry that I have to start it off so miserably. But I guess that I wouldn’t be writing honestly if I didn’t throw a few “THIS-IS-THE-LAST-HELICOPTER-OUT-OF-VEITNAM-AND-I’M-NOT-ON-IT!” posts in there.

The hardest thing about being so far away is missing the love that comes with having parents like mine. I even miss having them be angry with me. It’s very hard for me to live in a place where differences in culture are so extreme that a deep and meaningful friendship with anyone feels almost impossible. It’s hard not to know that when I come home at the end of the day, my father and mother wont be there to just… be family with me. No deep conversations, no true understanding of one another, no real laughter, no hugs, none of the familiar smells or faces. For a girl whose had that and more for the entirety of her life, suddenly being thrust into a world like Beijing is very hard, and I can’t write about it without tearing up a little. Missing my mother and father’s love is definitely difficult. Especially with Christmas on the way.

Yesterday I returned from a week-long vacation in the states. I spent part of the time in Florida for a cousin’s wedding (I will relate all in detail in another post sometime) and the rest of the time in New York City with my parents. Jazz music, the brisk air, the energy, the lights, the colors, the general spirit of creativity. Hugging my mother and drinking in the familiar smell, hugging my father and actually feeling well and truly safe for the first time in over 2 months. Walking hand in hand, our winter coats, family meals, being clean (Yes, even the air of New York City tastes better and clearer than the air of my bedroom here) laughing with them about something that was genuinely funny, our conversations...

Just being a family.

It was wonderful and beautiful and I miss it terribly.

That’s not to say I couldn’t have some of that here with my Chinese family. Not at all! I can connect with them and laugh with them and share my thoughts. But it is so very, very different. Whereas spending time with my real parents is an act of rest, spending time with my family here is an act that requires strength and patience and a truly open heart. None of which I feel very much of currently.

But I know that will change. I know God will show up for me in ways that I can’t begin to imagine. I know that each moment I spend here, my heart and mind and soul get stronger. I know that this is an opportunity of a lifetime, that I am on an adventure that some people would kill for, and I am deeply thankful. Truly, I am. I know that there are hard times, but I also know that God is God. That God is Love. That resting in him brings peace and understanding. I know He’s not going to let go of me… He wont let go whether I happen to merely be going through some homesickness, as I am currently, or if I suddenly find myself hiding in a bomb shelter. He’s always here, and his Love is the most important thing about my life. I trust in that. I have to.