It's a double-edged sword. Sometimes I feel like just living here is an accomplishment. After all, on the worst, most unproductive day, we're still here. I'm still making a home and raising my kids in a land where smoke and spices fill the air, cows and goats share the city streets with us, pants for men haven't become universal, and we are surrounded all day by foreign languages that we are beginning to decipher, to use. And by foreign, I mean languages that send me racing to wikipedia at the first sign of a suspected cognate to trace common ancestors through ancient tongues like Sanskrit and Persian. Some days it's enough for me just to be making a life here, hearing the storied trains howl through the night, walking to the store past landscapes right out of Kipling.
On other days, I feel the weight of this choice. My cousins were my favorite playmates when I was young, but I'm happy if my oldest can identify his cousins by name in a picture. My kids will never know the simplicity of moving through culture like fish in the ocean; there will always be something foreign about them, like an accent that can't be placed, a studied mannerism from the momentary pause to consider - is a handshake here appropriate or offensive? My parents are strong and energetic, and I see my Mom's tears every time we part; they want to invest the years they have in these children, and know them while they are small. I'm raising my children without a library. These things are always in the back of my mind; they get sidelined in the decision process, but they are the stuff of life.
And what I'm buying with this life, is it worth it? That sort of thinking can keep you up at night. I'm not here because it's better, or might be. I'm here because Jesus somehow, through years and doubts, brought me here. Because He's here, and this place and these people become worth my whole life and more in His love for them. I'm here because there's fellowship with Him down this road, and He is worth it. And so the adventure and romance don't have to stand on their own; they are just a bonus. And the cost, well, it isn't repaid here. For my part, it's an investment in eternity. For the part my parents and my kids have to pay, I trust that my obedience to the God who loves them better than I ever could is the best I can offer them. This is my service, my spiritual act of worship, this overseas life - cows and all.
On other days, I feel the weight of this choice. My cousins were my favorite playmates when I was young, but I'm happy if my oldest can identify his cousins by name in a picture. My kids will never know the simplicity of moving through culture like fish in the ocean; there will always be something foreign about them, like an accent that can't be placed, a studied mannerism from the momentary pause to consider - is a handshake here appropriate or offensive? My parents are strong and energetic, and I see my Mom's tears every time we part; they want to invest the years they have in these children, and know them while they are small. I'm raising my children without a library. These things are always in the back of my mind; they get sidelined in the decision process, but they are the stuff of life.
And what I'm buying with this life, is it worth it? That sort of thinking can keep you up at night. I'm not here because it's better, or might be. I'm here because Jesus somehow, through years and doubts, brought me here. Because He's here, and this place and these people become worth my whole life and more in His love for them. I'm here because there's fellowship with Him down this road, and He is worth it. And so the adventure and romance don't have to stand on their own; they are just a bonus. And the cost, well, it isn't repaid here. For my part, it's an investment in eternity. For the part my parents and my kids have to pay, I trust that my obedience to the God who loves them better than I ever could is the best I can offer them. This is my service, my spiritual act of worship, this overseas life - cows and all.
No comments:
Post a Comment