Putting your hand to the plow

Image from http://iowahomestead.wordpress.com/

There is a short dialogue in the Gospel of Luke that goes like this:

Yet another said, “I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” 

Jesus said to him, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

It's a short dialogue, one in a series of three in Luke 9. A few weekends ago I heard a pastor link it to the call of Elisha in 1 Kings 19:

So [Elijah] departed from there and found Elisha the son of Shaphat, who was plowing with twelve yoke of oxen in front of him, and he was with the twelfth. Elijah passed by him and cast his cloak upon him. And he left the oxen and ran after Elijah and said, “Let me kiss my father and my mother, and then I will follow you.” And he said to him, “Go back again, for what have I done to you?” And he returned from following him and took the yoke of oxen and sacrificed them and boiled their flesh with the yokes of the oxen and gave it to the people, and they ate. Then he arose and went after Elijah and assisted him.

The pastor later likened this to a business owner burning down his business (as opposed to selling it) to be overseas missionaries. (If you want to listen for yourself, go to 29:50 here.)

It got me thinking. One of the reasons that coming back to the US has been so difficult for me was that I took my hand off the plow and didn't turn back. I was in China; I didn't need to maintain all my professional ties (e.g. organizations, departments) in the US. I was in China; I didn't need to save or invest money in the US. I was in China; I didn't really need to keep up on all the ins and outs of US living.

It's not that I couldn't have done those things. It's not that it wouldn't have been useful in some ways. It just seemed superfluous. "I'm not there (US); I'm here (China)." I missed a decade of raises, promotions, and professional development; relationships, family history, and community investment.

Paths diverged. I took my hands off the plow. I burned it. I didn't look back. Then I had to return, without plow and without vision.

Between two selves

Present life often seems more like a child's scribbles than a well-composed narrative.

How long before I'm whole again? When does the feeling of weightlessness lift? When does life cease to feel like a mirage.

This morning I received an email from one of my closest friends (in China) about his new album, including songs we once performed as a duo and in our short-lived band Tarheel. I quickly downloaded it and ran through the tracks. Memories flooded back as if from a past life. Where am I?

Two months ago I wrote this:

I wake up every morning knowing that I'm in Texas, knowing that I'm at my father's home, knowing that ahead of me is a day of activities mostly revolved around getting a job and getting my family into its own quarters. At the same time, I wake up every day as if in a dream, as if I could wake up and still be in Changsha, in my apartment, in my bed, breathing emphysema-inducing pollution, ready to face a new day.
I'm not really here.

Now two months on, not much has really changed. I have new habits (e.g. making coffee daily as opposed to just on the weekends; checking out library books). I have new craft beers. I have new friends (whom I will soon basically leave behind again). I have a new, much less polluted environment.

But I'm still not fully here.

I suppose I would describe it as being two selves. There was the self I knew, the self of my post-university adulthood. That was the China self, the self that had grown confident, capable, comfortable in its own skin. The China self knew its place in the world, or at least thought it did, which is almost one in the same. The China self is the self of my memories.

Then there's the self I'm still trying to get a feel for: the new US self. This is the self that's somewhat uncomfortable, somewhat ill-fitting, and completely unsure. The US self doesn't know its place. The US self has no cache of memories or anecdotes to draw on. There have been both losses and gains, but the US self still doesn't know how to react.

What happened to China? It seems a world away, and it kind of is. It seems a lifetime ago, if it ever happened at all. Perhaps I'm Rip Van Winkle and I've awoken from a decade-long Chinese nap, bewildered by what has changed and what hasn't.

I'm watching cardinals hop around in my backyard. Cardinals are odd to me. They're completely ill-suited to a green environment, yet they persist, they survive, and they even seem to thrive.

A child's transitions to a new country

As difficult as it has been for me to transition from life in China to life in the US, I suspect it’s been more difficult for my eldest son. The younger son isn’t old enough to remember China. He’s only 8 months old and has been here for most of that time. My eldest, however, remembers.

He remembers relatives.
He remembers friends,
He remembers foods.
He remembers activities.
He he knows things are different, even in what he doesn’t remember.

Would you spend your Thanksgiving at a Chinese light exhibition? We did.

People say kids adapt quickly. People say kids are resilient. I’m sure they are. But I don’t wake up inconsolable in the middle of the night (four of the past five nights, twice last night). I don’t wake up from naps frantically looking for mama. He does. Neither of these things happened in China.

I suspect he still feels out of place. He still observes groups of kids more than plays with them, which was not true of his China social life.

I suspect the month away from mama last year has affected his sense of security.

I wish he could tell me what’s going on. He’s made new friends, but I wish he had the language and cognitive ability to explain his feelings. He understands cars and car seats, but I wish he could explain his need to held for hours after a nap. He loves story time at the library, but I wish he could explain what’s happening when he starts wailing at midnight.

In all of this, my wife and I are just guessing at how to parent well. What does he need? More firmness? More gentleness? Do we need to indulge his need to be held at the loss of hours in a day? Does he need be held and spoken to calmly at night or would it be better to firmly tell him to go to bed? (We’ve had marginal success with both.) I hope we don't screw him up too much. I really hope we don't screw him up too much.

Leaving never stops being difficult (but you get used to it)

Oh, how we will all miss story time with Donna ayi.

"If anyone knows how to say goodbye to people, it's you."

That may not actually be a direct quote, but something to that effect was said to me by a good friend a few days ago. Left by itself, divorced from context, such a statement could have a very vibrant life of its own, not necessarily a positive one.

But I understood what my friend was communicating: Over 10 years, saying goodbye to family and friends in the US, saying goodbye to the parade of expats coming and going from Changsha, goodbye has become as normal as a birthday. It's almost a rite of summer. You get used to it.

That doesn't mean it's easy.

And I hate being the one to leave.

Though not so extreme as going from China to the US, we're slowly getting ready for another big move: from Texas to Arkansas. This time, rather than the huge cultural change were readying for a lifestyle change, one of trading the safe harbor of my fathers'' home for the uncertain currents of independent life.

But as with China, we don't just leave a place; we leave a people.

We haven't put down roots in Texas, so to speak, but neither have we been rootless. Liao Sha's been involved with a mother's group. I've been involved with two morning mens' groups. Our family has been meeting with a city group hosted by one of my old Des Moines roommates. We've enjoyed our time with my fathers' church in Weatherford. We've felt at home with the Chinese church in Fort Worth and have grown close to a Korean family in that body.

These are people we've prayed with and for. These are people who have prayed for us. These are people with whom we've shared concerns and meals. These are people who've extended open hands of friendship and open hearts. These are people who've surprised us time and time again with clothing and toys for the boys, food products, invitations, and even money. There are people we don't even know who are right now contributing to a project initiated by my wife's friends to gather up household goods we may need in Fayetteville: dishes, blankets, etc.

And soon we will leave them. For the second time in less than eight months, we will uproot for a new horizon, and new people, and a new way of life. It never gets easier. At least it doesn't for me. And I would always prefer for people to leave me than I them. Yet, off we will go.

Something that just hit me yesterday is that this will be the second time since November that Barnabas will have his social world turned upside-down. (Perhaps annihilated?) He still occasionally mentions old friends in Changsha, most commonly Mai-mai, Chu-chu, and Enosh (in that order of frequency). Now he'll say goodbye to his seven-year-old cousin (whom he adores), Marley jiejie, Dong-dong meimei, Stephen gege, and Naomi meimei among others. He'll lose story time with Donna ayi and playtime with relatives. When I thought of this yesterday, it nearly caused me to cry.

This post is for our friends and family in China, whom we still miss on a daily basis.
This post is for my friends and family scattered across the US, whom we hope to see.
This post is for our friends and family in Texas, whom we will miss and already grieve leaving.

Thank you for being part of our lives.

American isolationism

How do you throw a birthday party in China? Take food out to the playground. The guests will already be there.

The US has anything but an isolationist foreign policy. This seems to be in stark contrast to the way modern life and society seem to work in the US. At least that's my take on it.

I am an extrovert (though not as out-going as I'd like), and I have been almost continually lonely since I've been back to the US. Yes, my wife and children are around me. Yes, I see family everyday, as we still live together. My reprieves are two morning men's groups (Thursday at 6:30 a.m. and Friday at 6:00 a.m.), a Tuesday night gathering of mostly young families, and Sunday late morning and early afternoon at a Chinese church in Fort Worth. This may seem like a lot to some, but it's a struggle for me.

Part of the blame is my own. Despite trying to live as normally as possible in this small town, I admit that I've neglected to pursue a few community involvement ideas simply because I know I could be gone at basically any time. Also, not yet having a job, living off the charity of others, it doesn't seem wise to go out to social events that require spending. And with the cold winter we're having in the US, people aren't outside hanging out much. Options are limited.

Where do people congregate here? Perhaps a better question is whether people do congregate. To hear people talk, once out of college, you've basically got bars and churches. I find the habits I'd built in China are all but useless right now. There aren't dozens of people and children just walking around outside in a central location, playing, talking, laughing. There aren't events like English corners or  discussion just popping up for no reason other than to have one. There aren't hundreds of people who are all next-door neighbors.

Of course there are other factors. Living with my family, for example, means it's not my home. I can't just invite people over, especially not families with young children. Nevertheless, even if we were in our own place, I suspect it would be difficult. Makes me yearn for the days of apartment living.

What non-work, non-church, non-bar things do you do you to meet people and socialize in the US?

Interstitial space

I'm not here, not really, not fully anyway.

Family reunited in Texas: early December 2013

This is a thought that has occupied my mind since last week. I can't recall which day. The full force of it hit me Thursday night while watching this performance from the CCTV Spring Festival Gala. At end of bit: a family dinner. I saw it, and tears welled up at once.

I wake up every morning knowing that I'm in Texas, knowing that I'm at my father's home, knowing that ahead of me is a day of activities mostly revolved around getting a job and getting my family into its own quarters. At the same time, I wake up every day as if in a dream, as if I could wake up and still be in Changsha, in my apartment, in my bed, breathing emphysema-inducing pollution, ready to face a new day.

I'm not really here.

I know I won't see the food venders lining the road, but I know they should be there (unless, of course, the chengguan makes their rounds).

I know I won't see the high school kids from my building waiting at  the bus stop, but I know they should be there.

I know I won't hear the abrasive yet warm (with a hint of aggressiveness) tone of the Changsha dialect, but I know I should hear it.

I'm now almost three months into this transition, one that I didn't want to make but knew I had to make. I know I've pushed myself too hard over the past few months, not using the time I was gifted to actually let myself face the transition head-on. Perhaps now I'm letting myself do so.

I didn't want to make a personal blog. I wanted to just stick to my "professional blog". Probably that was the smart thing to do, as the first few months were more about being disappointed and angry and a slew of other emotions. However, I think this may be a good way to process and invite others into the process. I may discuss my own state. I may discuss cultural observations based on the contrast with China. I may pose questions I have about the US. I may even quit blogging when I feel the moment has passed.

Want to join me on this journey?

My last few minutes wife family in Changsha: November 6, 2013