When God starts chopping away at the branches of my life, I can’t say that I am full of joyful surrender. I typically resist the spiritual machete that starts swinging in my direction. I don’t want it. “God, you can keep your machete to yourself. I’ll happily live with overgrown branches and dead limbs.” But the reality is that life in the Spirit – life in sync with Christ – requires a life surrendered to the pruning seasons.

There is a natural ebb and flow to the life of a Christ-follower: Pruning and Fruit-bearing.

When there are too many dead branches or the limbs are hanging low, they will no longer produce fruit, or, the fruit will not be as sweet. A good farmer knows about pruning.

We had rose bushes galore in our garden in Malawi. They were absolutely breathtaking. The family that lived in the house before us had planted this rose garden. As I poured my morning cup of coffee, I would look out of the kitchen window and gaze on the rich and colorful roses…

…Until the fully blossomed roses dried up and fell to the ground…one petal at time. Eventually, as the weeks progressed, the thorny branches of the rose bushes started growing in all kinds of directions. And they rarely produced any roses.

I’m not a gardener. I, honestly, have no idea how to keep any type of plant alive. As was confirmed in the case of our roses, I was clueless to the fact that the branches needed to be pruned in order for the roses to come back to life. I thought “the bigger the better”, but apparently that is not true…not true at all.

Our day guard came to me one day and asked me if I would mind if he cut the branches down. Kindly, he explained that the reason the roses were not blooming was because they needed to be pruned. No fruit could be produced until pruning had taken place. I gave him the go ahead to do whatever needed to be done to bring the roses back to life. After cutting them back, to what looked like baby bushes, and after some rain and cultivating of the soil, the rose bushes blossomed in full once again.

Pruning is a gift in the wilderness season of transition.

The empty nothingness of the in-between is often the perfect time for God to get into our lives and start pruning out the old and dead branches. This pruning is deep and, often, painful work.

“I feel like I got shot out of a cannon and straight into a plate glass window. I’m still pulling out shards of glass. I’m not sure how long it is going to take to heal.”

Joel shared this with me during one of our weekly breakfast dates. Still reeling from the pain and hurt he experienced in Malawi, it seemed like the process of healing was taking its sweet time. God wasn’t/isn’t done with the pruning.

When we are looking out upon the wilderness of transition it is not merely a vast nothingness that doesn’t make sense, but it is purposeful in the shedding of the old identity and claiming the new one. Part of the shedding process is pruning the old away so that the new can grow. It is imperative for this to happen. And so, we feel pain in the in-between, but that pain is a gift from God.

In John chapter 15 Jesus is challenging us to surrender to the pruning process. He is comforting us, even though it is painful, with the profound truth that in order to grow, in order to produce lasting and rich fruit, we must give ourselves completely to the pruning process:

“I am the vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit…”

John 15:1

There are branches in our lives that are not fruit bearing branches. It is God’s grace that offers to cut them out so that we are no longer enslaved to the superfluous materials and waste that clutter up our hearts, minds, focus and purposes. He cuts off every branch – every distraction and hidden issue – that does not bear fruit. What an incredible gift.

The in-between season in transition is probably the most vulnerable of stages in the process. Everything is laid bare. We can’t hide our dead and fruitless branches from anyone. While we may have been able to block out those hidden things behind our old identities and our old successes, when we step out of that place of comfort every single part of our souls become exposed.

And God graciously uses this time to cut off the dead branches.

“…while every branch that does bear fruit, he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”

John 15:1

Guess what…not every branch and every limb needs to be chopped. This is good news! In spite of ourselves, if we are walking with Christ and abiding in Christ, we will produce fruit. This is encouraging to me. However, like my rose bushes in Malawi, in order for the plant to continue to grow and become even more fruitful, it had to be pruned.

In his book, “Building a Discipling Culture”, Mike Breen discusses the natural rhythms of life in our spiritual journey. Like a pendulum that moves from one side to the other in a focused rhythm and steady speed, so our lives move from pruning to growing. Both seasons are necessary for ongoing growth and fruitfulness. He also likens this process to the balance of rest and work. These seasons of pruning – that we surmise as punishment or discipline or something painful to be avoided – are actually seasons of rest.

The pruning season allows us to rest in submission to the purposeful work God is longing to do in us spiritually. He prunes back the fruitful branches. Yes, we had experienced a great season of fruitfulness in our previous ministry and identities. We can point to specific victories that bolster our faith and give us the confidence to move forward. But to move forward and into an increased season of fruit bearing, even those past victories must be pruned. And the best way to walk through this process is to surrender to it and rest in it.

Breathe.

Take a Sabbath rest.

Inventory the areas that God is pruning, and let them go. Allow him access to every single fruit bearing branch.

Because, the next season to come is growth.

How do we do this? How do we allow this pruning process to take over?

Simple:

“Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing (emphasis mine).”

John 15:5

The first gift we receive from the wilderness of transition is pruning. The way to allow God full access to work out this process is by abiding and remaining in him. The fruit we bore in the past, and the fruit we will bear in the future, are not harvests we can manufacture on our own. This fruit is from God. Apart from him we bear nothing but dried up dead branches.

I don’t want leftover fruit. I want fresh fruit to grow out of my life and the only way to accomplish that is to remain steadfast in Christ. He is the vine…he is the source and the resource…apart from him I can do nothing.

Recognizing this and embracing this process will set you up to move into your new identity and your new beginning with humility and grace.

The wilderness is not a final destination, and neither is the pruning season. We were not meant to live in either of these stages forever. There will be many more in-between seasons to navigate throughout our lives, just as there will be regular seasons of pruning. Walk slowly and rest in the gift of the pruning zone.  Allow God’s work to be accomplished, and keep your eyes focused on Jesus.

Transitioning with littles and special needs.

I’ve shared our experience with transitioning with our older children. What about younger children? What does this process of transition look like with a three-year-old? Or a five-year-old? And, even more so, what about a child who has special needs- who, perhaps, cannot articulate their feelings verbally?

Jasper was three years old when we landed in Malawi. What we did not know at the time was that he is on the autism spectrum. If I had known that, it might have helped me a lot in navigating the transition with him. Without that knowledge, we did the best we could.

Jasper’s “speaking up” looked more like massive meltdowns (up to two-plus-hours of meltdown), as well as erratic and repetitive behavior. He was an unregulated little boy plopped into the middle of an unregulated and chaotic setting. From the smells to the language to the sounds and sights, he was overstimulated and out of control. I look back on that year in Malawi, and I can only say that it was God’s grace that brought us through. Sundays were a nightmare. He had no place to go that was a safe space. He was overwhelmed, and he could not string the words or thoughts together to express how he was feeling and what he needed. His language skills were delayed which compounded the emotional strain. I’ve often compared Jasper’s behavior to that of a pinball machine. The triggering stimulus or event would be likened to pulling the lever on a pinball machine that shoots the ball out of the corner. In similar fashion, Jasper would be shot out of his corner in the morning, and he would literally bounce all over the place, directionless and erratically throughout the day.

Picture this: our house in Malawi had five doors that all led to the outside. It is common for people to open up doors and windows of their homes- and keep them open- throughout the day in order to allow the breeze to flow through the house. We did this, initially, until we realized that these open doors created enormous stress for Jasper. He would run like a person on speed, in and out of the house, out one door and in through the next, circling the house over and over again. The running didn’t calm him down or wear him out. It actually revved him up and set him into a physical and emotional tailspin. When we recognized how the open doors were creating an atmosphere of stress for him- and for us- we decided to close all the doors except one. There would be only one open door for coming and going.

It really breaks my heart when I think of how hard that transition must have been for him. I tear up when I think about it because I know I didn’t always handle myself well in those high stress moments.

I can’t go back in time and fix all the mistakes I made in helping Jasper through the transition, but I can take what I’ve learned – and am continuing to learn – and apply it in our current transition and future transitions, and hopefully spark some creativity and hope to those who are also going through something similar to this.

With younger children, we have to slow down. We have to get on pace with them and their emotional process. I’ve heard it said multiple times that moving overseas is much easier with little ones than it is with older children. Speaking from my own experience, I would say that I disagree. It is not easier, just different.

Little ones explode in behavior. They meltdown, and they wear out easily. Fatigue creates a tired and angry little tyrant. They verbally can’t tell us, “Hey, I feel uncomfortable in this situation.” Or “I am scared, and I don’t understand what is happening.” We have to interpret their emotions, feelings, and grief through the negative behaviors we observe.

Slowing down means just that: slowing down. We want to take our new life by the horns and run, but our little ones need us to take them by the hand and adjust our pace to theirs. Jasper’s three-year-old legs were, and still are, significantly shorter than mine and Joel’s. If he was physically so much smaller than Joel and me, try to imagine the emotional equivalent of this disparity. We had to modify our pace both physically and emotionally to meet Jasper’s needs. It comes down to recognizing that the mountain we are so determined to conquer in one, two, or even four years, may take two, four-year terms instead of one. And we have to accept that and be okay with it. It’s not that the mountain will never be conquered; we will get to the top, but maybe not as quickly and heroically (from the perspective of the world) as we had anticipated. But to be very honest, I don’t want to make it to the top of the mountain by myself…a wise parent/leader wants to get there with their people. And so, we slow down.

Walking through the daily routines, creating visual schedules, and becoming intentional observers of our little ones helps them to feel more regulated and gives everyone a sense of control. Talking to them pre-event, rehearsing and play-acting on what a new experience might be like, also alleviates some of the internal stress. Pictures of places, people and possible sights that they will experience also prepares the child mentally for what is to come. They now have a frame of reference for the “new thing”.

The visual schedule, while not a miracle-working resource, was a huge help in regulating Jasper. I found pictures online that would match his daily routines and printed them out. He and I went over them together multiple times before we started implementing them. For him to “see” the process of his day was incredibly regulating.

Creating visual stories also became a part of his life and has helped him significantly with all manner of transitions. From starting a new school year, to toilet training, to preparing to fly on an airplane, visual stories have helped give him a picture of what is coming up and what he can expect.

Just as routine and structure have been good for me and our older kids, it is of utmost priority for our little guy on the autism spectrum (and I would add that it is critical for any young child, on or off of the spectrum). Routine regulates. Structure creates security. When chaos abounds, the little ones need a place of refuge, and that refuge is home. This is not a critique on working moms. I’m not pushing an agenda. I am speaking directly to helping a child process transition in a season of chaos, and home is their refuge. It takes incredible focus and intentionality to create a place of stability in a complex situation. If a caretaker is sidetracked with work and meetings and the demands of a job, then the child is not going to get the focused attention that he, or she, needs. Meltdowns will intensify, and the family will live in an elongated season of chaos. This, I guarantee.

This pathway to adjustment is a slow path and also requires keen discernment on what to say “yes” to and what to say “no” to. I have found that in our current transition, I am saying “no” to things that I normally wouldn’t say “no” to. I am doing this because I see the ripple effect of each of those choices, and I have had to get really selfish with my time and my energy. The ripple effect is real. One decision impacts a million other areas of our lives. Some of those decisions are good, and the ripple effect is beneficial. Some of those decisions are necessary, and we have to learn to roll with the punches (and be really aware of how this unavoidable stress will affect our little ones). Some of the decisions we are faced with are not necessarily wrong or bad, but unnecessary. They can wait. If it can wait, then wait on it. Wait until life is more regulated. Because eventually, it will settle down, and everyone will be in a place of strength, and not constantly pulling from a tapped-out reservoir.

In addition to this thought, little ones- specifically little ones on the spectrum- are going to struggle with smells, sounds, tastes, and textures. They lack, especially without adequate resources, the internal fortitude to “handle” uncomfortable situations. From temperature to the volume of music, singing, talking, to the smell of new foods, Jasper was a walking time bomb. While I wanted to show respect in our new home/country, I also recognized that forcing Jasper to eat these strange foods, or force him stay in the church during service, was futile. The quickest way to completely unhinge that little boy was to force him into compliance. I had to let go of trying to please all the people. I had to say “no” to a lot of things. Those decisions to let my expectations fall were the best (and wisest considering I had no idea what I was doing) I have ever made.

Get the professional help and resources you need as quickly as possible. If you have a clear and professional diagnosis for your child before the major move, then you are well on your way to a “smoother” transition. I think it is most ideal if you are able to locate the necessary resources before you land at your new destination. If not, finding the appropriate doctors, therapists, and schooling options should be a priority upon arrival.

We came to South Africa, not with a formal diagnosis, but with a high recommendation from two doctors of what kind of help Jasper would need. We were referred to a Pediatric Developmental Psychologist in Durban, where we live, and as soon as the December holiday was over, we began the process of getting a formal diagnosis for Jasper. From that point on, we were thrust into a beautiful community of support, therapists, and resources for Jasper and our family. Having access to these tools has been- and continues to be- a blessing for all of us.

I believe the key to navigating transition with a child on the spectrum is formulating a plan of action well before the transition, ensuring that where you are landing will have the adequate resources you need, and adjusting your expectations on how it is all going to unfold.

And give yourself a lot of grace. It’s going to be messy. It’s going to be hard. There are going to be good days and bad days. That’s okay. Breathe deeply, and rest in grace.

How to Transition Well in a Season of Chaos

1. Give your people space to speak up and process.

Silence is not always a good sign. We often misread silent cooperation as a sign of compliance and agreement, when, in fact, what is going on internally is the complete opposite. The silent follower will eventually silently walk away.

I would much rather have a very vocal response to transition and change in the people I am leading – whether family or team – because then, I know exactly what is going on in their minds and hearts. A vocal dissent can be addressed. Knowing where the pain point is, or where the frustration lies, allows me to know how to better walk with someone through the transition. Silence seems golden, but it can be very costly. Navigating through unhappy and frustrated discussions is much more likely to turn into authentic support and authentic compliance.

When we moved to Malawi with our four children, there was a great deal of negative discourse on the whole matter.

Our oldest daughter was sixteen years old and knew exactly all of the amazing experiences she would be missing during the course of our first term. She was extremely vocal in expressing her anger and grief. I had no question in my mind where Sydney stood regarding our move to Malawi. She was very clear, even to the point of emphatically declaring, “I hate Africa!” There was no confusion. Her honest and verbal expression of her feelings gave us all the raw material we needed to walk alongside her through the process of transition.

Our older son, Jackson, was 12, on the verge of turning 13. He, too, was highly expressive with his negative feelings about living in Malawi. He was also dealing with severe anxiety, which began to surface the year prior to our move. He was struggling both overtly and internally with this transition. As difficult as it was to hear and receive all of Jackson’s negativity, we allowed him the space he needed to explode and process. It tore at our hearts, but at least we knew what was going on in that head of his. Even when he went silent, the physical manifestation of his anxiety gave him away. These outward and inward expressions of upset allowed us to know where he was and how to walk him through each phase of the transition process.

Our second daughter, aged 14, was our silent follower. Brooklyn is a peacemaker. She longs for harmony and will sacrifice her own needs in order to keep everyone happy. Her biggest fear in all of this transition was being an additional “burden” (her perception) on her parents. And so, she quietly went along, while feeling all the same emotions and fears as her siblings. I had a sense that she wasn’t doing as well as she was trying to portray, but oftentimes, due to the very loud and negative voices echoing through our home, her quiet struggles were buried.

Brooklyn wasn’t just wrestling with the grief of losing her life in the United States; of all of our older three children, she experienced, what I would refer to as, the most “trauma” at their new school. She was unjustly, and inappropriately, reprimanded by the headmistress for something she did not do; she was the target of ongoing teasing by the boys in her class, while simultaneously the girls in her class ignored her and marginalized her; and when she was struggling to understand a concept in math, her teacher yelled at her for asking questions (thankfully, he apologized to both Brooklyn and us, quickly recognizing his out-of-bounds behavior). It was awful. Brooklyn, our easy-going, life-loving girl, went deeply inward. She pretended to be sick in order to miss school and walked around in a state of apathy for the greater part of those first six months.

It took Covid-19 and a quarantine to give us a chance to dig deep into the heart of what Brooklyn was going through. I often reflect on what a gift Covid-19 was for our family. While Brooklyn followed along and didn’t rock the boat, out of our three older children, she was the one that was probably at the most critical place of brokenness by the time we were able to address her pain. I remember doing a Bible study with her and Sydney during our quarantine, and she shared with me that she was angry at God. Her pain was deep. Her grief was intense. Those precious months of processing with her opened up a tremendous opportunity for healing.

As difficult as it is as a parent, or a leader, to hear dissent, to hear the irritation and frustration of those we are leading through change, we have to challenge ourselves to see it as a gift, not a burden. Like I said at the beginning, I would much rather hear, and know, how my people are feeling – the good, the bad, and the ugly – than to think that because everyone is smiling and going along with everything without complaint that all is well. I can guarantee one thing for sure, no matter what the change or transition, there will always be internal struggles, fears, and negative feelings at some point. It is inevitable, and perhaps why there are so many books written on leading through change (Managing Transitions, by William Bridges; Tempered Resilience, by Tod E. Bolsinger; The Grief Tower, by Lauren Wells…to name a few).

Let the vocal dissent become your friend. Let it guide you as you walk with those you lead. An empathetic and listening ear will open up the heart of those who follow you and create trust. Dismissing authentic feelings as “difficult” or “bothersome” will inevitably create anger and hostility, and a lack of trust.

2. Walk your people through the transition.

What does it look like to walk people through transition? Every person has different needs in the transition process. For some, they need to understand the plan and to feel like they can get a handle on the part they play in all of it. Some just need to their feelings to be validated and noticed. Some need to take the transition in bite-size pieces.

First, as best as you can in the chaos of transition, create structure. Brooklyn needed to walk through the transition one step at a time. We have always created routines and rhythms in our home, regardless of where in the world we live. I function at my best in routine and structure, and so does our family. They need to know that there are consistent benchmarks that guide our days/weeks/months. For all of our kids, the daily structure we set in place gave them security, especially for Brooklyn. Taking life day-by-day, rather than event-by-event, gave her breathing room and a sense of normality that her new life in a very complex context did not always give to her.

Sydney has often shared with me that the effort we put into creating “normal” in her daily life helped her to feel safe and regulated. We told our kids that they were to pick an after-school activity to participate in (this was both when we were living in Malawi and before we transitioned to an online school). This was a non-negotiable. It turns out, even though there was some initial push back on this, that having an activity in their lives ended up being a huge part of what helped them settle into our “new normal”.

Second, create an atmosphere for processing. Regular and consistent family meetings that allowed our kids to open up and share, times for listening to music and worshiping together, prayer and laughter,  gave them a firm spiritual foundation in the chaos. We never pressured our children or told them, “You must love Africa.” Or, “You need to get on board and love this.” Giving them the freedom to not love any of it was the catalyst for changing their hearts. Those evening family times saved our family and relieved the pressure to feel feelings that they were not ready to feel.

Third, a very important part of this process is having a sense of humor. Laughter is therapeutic. Transition is so serious and stressful. It zaps us of our energy. Finding times to play and laugh and just pull out of the heaviness of the moment brings rest, hope and cohesiveness.

By the end of March, 2020 Covid-19 had shut everything down, and while Malawi never imposed a formal lockdown, most businesses were closed, and life came to a screeching halt. School migrated to an online format, which brought on a whole new kind of stress, and our routine and structure had to pivot quickly. By July, we were beginning to feel a little stir-crazy. And so, we decided to do “Christmas in July.” We put up our Christmas decorations, baked Christmas cookies, set up our video projector to watch Christmas movies, and even did our traditional “Secret Santa” gift exchange. For a week, we escaped the mundane and the heaviness of the pandemic and played. It was marvelous, and our children will tell you it is one of their favorite memories.

3. Validate. Don’t alienate.

In chaos, none of us are functioning at our best. I will forget side conversations, and sometimes the bigger vision gets buried in all of the chaos of transition. And so, I like to ask questions. I have learned that not everyone likes or appreciates questions. In chaos, I also will reach out for clarity or even request structure to help me along the process. I have also learned that this, too, is not always appreciated. The sad thing is, the more those questions, efforts at clarity-seeking, and requests go ignored, the less I feel compelled to continue following along, and it feels alienating. In seasons of chaos and transition, when we want our people close, our dismissive behaviors actually push our people away.

I noticed this a lot with our kids during transition. I think I’ve made myself clear. I’ve answered the same questions and explained the plan a dozen times, and then someone comes and asks for clarification. I can get frustrated and irritated because in my mind, I’ve already answered those questions. Why do I need to repeat myself one.more.time?

The reality is, when we are in transition, when the chaos is all around us, our brains can’t hold on to all the information, and we struggle to keep the facts in order. Therefore, we continue to ask questions.

It is somewhat like we revert to our preschool selves. Have you ever watched a group of preschoolers play at recess? Their play is often a representation of something they are trying to internalize. For instance, when I taught preschool, there was a little girl in my class who wanted to play “funeral” every single day at recess. She would gather her friends and they would reenact a funeral over and over again. I thought to myself, “why on earth would a bunch of three-year-olds want to play such a dark game of pretend?” Then, when this little girl’s mom came to pick her up from school, she briefly mentioned that they had been to a funeral over the weekend, and it had been a heavy week for their family. This little girl was processing all that she experienced and observed over the course of the previous weekend. She used play to solidify the experience. It was how she made sense of something so enormous. And here is the key…she didn’t just play “funeral” one time. She played “funeral” for a solid week until she understood her experience.

I believe this same concept can be appropriated to life transition. We keep asking questions in order to grasp what is happening. Questions should NEVER be seen as a threat. As the leader/parent, we should really be proactive in repeating the vision, the purpose, the plan, and the daily goals over and over again, no matter how repetitive it may seem. The repetition will bring ownership and peace. When we think we’ve made ourselves clear, we need to repeat all of the above again (and again, and again).

One of my favorite Christmas songs is “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”. One variation of this song begins with this line: “I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love even more than I usually do…”. Every time I hear this, my thoughts are instantly transported to my grandparents’ old farmhouse in Wellston, Ohio at Christmastime. I can see the tree in the corner of the living room, and I can smell my grandmother’s baking in her little farmhouse kitchen. It’s like time stands still for a moment. Christmas at Nanny and Ba’s house- some of the most precious childhood memories I have. It makes me feel homesick, not just for that old house, and my grandma’s baking, and my grandpa’s endless teasing, but homesick for a moment in time that felt warm and cozy and safe. Homesick for a feeling. A feeling of “home.”

The topic of “home” has been a recurring theme in my life over the past few months. Where is home? What is home? Is home a place, an idea, or a feeling? What is it?

If you were my son, Jasper, your connection to home might be family. He had to do a little project for school about all the different kinds of homes there are in the world. We brainstormed, and he came up with a long list of all the various types of homes that are possible: wood homes, stone homes, brick homes, glass homes, ice homes, etc.. His list was long. The next part of the project was to talk about his own home. Once he described what he believed his home was made of – brick and wood – he then went on to explain what he loved about his home- what makes it special to him. Interestingly, he didn’t talk about specific features, but rather, it was his family that made his home so special to him. For Jasper, it was family that defined home, more so than wood and brick.

As a missionary, I often find myself wrestling with this idea of “home.” It feels uncertain because of the unstable nature of this kind of life. I try my best to plant roots and dig in deep wherever I am, but there is always this reality – way back in my mind – that all of this is temporary. Even now, as we look ahead to itineration in approximately six months, “home” is already being disrupted by the anticipation of our upcoming transition.

I was listening to a speaker recently unpack this topic of “home” to a group of fellow missionary women. She shared about a time when she was attending a high school graduation in Nairobi, Kenya. The graduation speaker, who was a third culture kid, asked the question, “What is home?” Later, she answered the question by saying, “God is home.”

This really struck me.

God is home.

Brooklyn and I were out for one of our coffee dates, and she opened up to me about some of the things she’s been processing lately. She is a senior in high school and is looking ahead at a lot of big transitions in her life. Like I mentioned earlier, itineration is just around the corner for our family, but even more startling is the reality that Brooklyn’s transition doesn’t end when she leaves South Africa. She will be in an ongoing state of transition as she begins university in August of next year. For her, this feeling of unsettledness is profound. There is so much uncertainty. And she made a comment to me that nowhere feels like home.

South Africa, while it is her current address, doesn’t feel like home to her. She doesn’t feel as connected to it as she did to our home in Portland, Oregon. And yet, Portland doesn’t feel like home either. It is has changed. Everything that made it “home” to her has completely flipped upside-down, and her connection to a place that would seemingly be home to her feels very foreign.

As we were talking ,two things came to my mind: First, I remembered the message I listened to that encouraged us that “God is home,” and second, thankfully we can say that our “family is home.”

Nothing is constant, except God. And while I am grateful that I have a family that is secure, stable, authentic, and a safe place to land, I realize that rooting myself/ourselves in family can’t always meet that need for “home”, but God can. Because God is constant. When we are rooted in him, we are secure. He keeps us and he holds us. He anchors us when life threatens to blow us over. He is faithful.

I don’t think this concept applies only to missionaries and third-culture kids. I think it is universal to all Christ-followers. How often do we look around at the world, or even the city we live in, and feel so very foreign? How often do we wonder where exactly we fit in? And how many times do we struggle to find a place that feels right and whole and “home?” My guess is that we don’t feel these things very often. Maybe you are fortunate enough to be a part of a body of believers that gives you a living picture of safety and security and fulfills that longing for home. Like my family, it is a place of rest and peace and trust. Or maybe the body you have been connected to has been dysfunctional, and it has disappointed you, and you are thinking to yourself, “Is there really such a thing as a healthy church family?” Regardless, I would guess that many of us, whether in healthy or unhealthy environments, feel very foreign in this world. And those feelings are very valid.

Earth is not our home; Heaven is our home. This is not to say we don’t get planted and rooted where we are, but we do so with the awareness that this is not our forever home.

In Hebrews chapter 11, the writer is drawing our attention to those who trusted and lived by faith, waiting and believing in the promise to come. Even as they passed from this earth, they were still living by faith.

All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country – a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.

Hebrews 11:13-16

Are you longing for a better country? Are you reminiscing about a time gone by that felt warm and secure, but doesn’t exist anymore? Do you feel like a stranger here on earth? If yes, then you are in good company. Those who lived by faith and are acknowledged as those who put faith in action in the Scriptures, also felt those same feelings. This broken world, these dysfunctional systems we try so hard to control, are not our home. God is our home.

And our mandate from Christ is to bring as many other people home as we possibly can. Our purpose is not to live so secluded and insulated that our light grows dim. Our purpose isn’t to create better systems or even to make better leaders. As we live as strangers in this world, our responsibility is to bring people to Christ; to bring them home with God. Making disciples who make disciples. Because God’s home is not for a select few, but we know that he longs for all to come and dwell.

God is our home.

I am so grateful for that promise and assurance today. This Thanksgiving more than any other, this truth feels even more comforting to me.

“Every beginning is a consequence. Every beginning ends something.” Paul Valery, French Poet

We are officially in the “in-between”.

I wrote a little on transitions here and here back in January. Today I am revisiting this topic as we are a year into our journey towards career missionary work and almost five months deep into the complete uprooting of our entire work/family structure.

While we are waste high in the in-between season of change, I am learning so much about the power and necessity of a proper ending. As the French poet wrote “Every beginning ends something”, I believe that there is both beauty and tension, anticipation and grief as we wade into the process of closing one chapter and opening another. And even though both are separate and stand independent of each other, they also overlap and pull bits and pieces from each other before the beginning has become the new normal; before the ending has truly ended and the beginning has fully begun.

The “in-between” is the ending and beginning converging on one another – giving and taking, pulling this way and that way, and sometimes wearing both sadness and a smile all at the same time.

This is where we are. Not every day, mind you, but when we face an ending the texture and weight of the “in-between” season feels very tangible in our hands.

And I am learning the value of saying goodbye.

I am a missionary kid. The transient lifestyle is not foreign to me. I remember all the goodbyes. I remember the tears and the hugs and the missing of family and friends. Goodbye was normal. But what was also normal were beginnings. Say goodbye here, and say hello there. Over the years I developed, almost, an ability to turn my emotions off and on like a light switch. I could feel the goodbye deeply in the moment, but then feel completely fine twenty-four hours later. In fact, in my adult life there have been many times that I just forwent the goodbye altogether. I’m not sure if it was some sort of callous on my heart, but I just didn’t feel the sorrow of parting ways anymore. I would feel sad about the ending, and I knew in my head that this was a sad moment, but I could move past it very quickly. I found that I simply didn’t want to deal with goodbyes. I’d rather just assume, “I’ll see you later,” and keeping on moving forward.

This past year I have been learning that grieving is a gift, and goodbyes are precious. Grieving is not weakness. It is not a sign of some inner frailty or inability to cope. Grieving and making goodbye a priority are absolutely necessary in order to detach from the past and embrace the future.

Yesterday afternoon after we picked the kids up from school, Joel and I took the family to the Pumpkin Patch. We went on a hayride, ran through the field of pumpkins, the kids picked out their favorites (even Jasper), we looked at the animals in the barn, played in the dirt, and sat around a picnic table eye-to-eye, relishing in a moment that we will always remember as both an ending and a beginning.

Will we never see the likes of a pumpkin patch again? Doubtably so. However, the next time we are in the United States Sydney will be in college, and our family of six will look a little bit different by then. We are ending, not just an annual family tradition, but we are ending a way of doing something as an entire family unit. While Sydney will still be under our roof for several more years, the next time we find ourselves watching the leaves turn red, yellow and aubergine, she will be in college. I think I’m saying two goodbyes in one this time.

Never-the-less – and please forgive the sappiness of this post! – the value of the goodbye, the ending, the concerted effort to recognize or create a “ritual”, so to speak, is that it allows the heart to feel its emotions and open itself up to the new beginning.

On our ride home yesterday evening, covered in hay and dirt, I let myself feel the goodbye. I cried a little bit. And today I am looking forward. I am thinking about planting pumpkins in Malawi, and wondering if that’s crazy. Today I am embracing the joy that is before us. We made our memories and we all knew it. We were all aware of how precious that moment was yesterday. The consequence of giving ourselves permission to say goodbye to this family tradition is that our hearts are increasingly drawn towards the beginning of this new chapter in our lives. We can’t move on until we’ve let go. And letting go requires a goodbye.

What is your “in-between” right now? Are you bouncing back and forth from ending and beginning and feeling the instability of it all? Are you feeling unhealthy shame for your need to put closure on something in your life? Are you burned out on change?

Here is a quick recap of what I am learning in my own season of transition:

Say goodbye.

Whatever the ending is for you, take the time, and give yourself permission, to officially say farewell. Maybe it is a “last” for you, kind of like this year will be for us. Maybe it is a ceremony of some kind to give you closure. Maybe it is simply journaling your feelings and letting things go. Maybe it is an action step to close out today’s chapter and start the new one tomorrow.

Let the ending come so that the beginning can begin.

Say goodbye.

“There is…a time to plant and a time to uproot…a time to weep and a time to laugh…a time to mourn and a time to dance…a time to keep and a time to throw away…He has made everything beautiful in its time.” Ecclesiastes 3

Even thinking about it now takes me back to the smell of chai and mandazis. I can almost taste the rich aromas of the coffee and tea plantations we drove by daily to get to school and church. Or the not-so-pleasant stench of “goat city” that, we too, had to drive through to get to school and church. I can see my white Keds turned red Keds from the red clay dirt that seemed to find it’s way into just about every nook and cranny of our lives. I can hear the sound of silence – sweet, calm and serene – on a typical night, where you can still see every star immeasurably scattered across the vast and boundless Kenyan sky. Coastal vacations on the white sands of Mombasa – the succulent salt air wafting through our hotel room beckoning us to put our toes in the sand and walk for miles. Reaching Mount Longanot’s highest peak – laden with camera, food and pretty much everything my mom thought we might need for a fun, “little hike” – as a family.

There are subtle, and then many not-so-subtle, moments when I look at my own children and it hits me that they are so “American”. I scratch my head and fret that because my adult life has led me to settle in the United States, my children may never have the opportunities like I had growing up. I stress about it…a lot. I hear “Americana” dribble from Sydney’s six-year-old mouth and I just want to cry. Will she ever realize that the world is much, much bigger and holds infinitely more, than her collection of Sleeping Beauty paraphernalia and stash of “golden” rocks hiding in her jewelry box? I know…she’s only six, but I desperately want her to know what I only wish I could have grasped as a little girl: that those experiences that take us outside and beyond the ordinariness of life, are the very things that open our hearts, minds and souls to a measureless world called “life”. I want my kids to actually have something to write about someday. I want them to be able to remember “the time we…”. I want them to breathe air that doesn’t smell sweet, or lose their shoes in something really disgusting, catch a parasite or two, sit in a room with five different languages carrying on conversations, set up a picnic five feet away from a python. I want them to know that there is ministry far more dangerous than an internship in Detroit; an adventure far more exciting than a vacation to Disney World; and a cultural experience far more unique than Canada.

My brain is a never-ending tirade of an unsatisfied wish list. I thought I was weird growing up because my experiences were so out-of-the-ordinary. Yet, here I am – the grown-up me – realizing just how extra-ordinary those adventures actually were. Even as I write this, I find myself challenged to take all of those encounters and incidents, collect them warmly in my heart, and allow God to use them through me. They are a part of my life story. They have shaped me and made me the woman I am today. While my children may not grow up overseas and share the same stories I write about, their’s too will be great. They have me for their mom, and through the telling of my own experiences, their minds will be opened to endless possibilities of the places they can go and the things they can do! Maybe they won’t grow up in Africa, but I am certain they will have a desperate longing to go there someday, taste the nyama choma, smell the maize crackling on a make-shift grill along the street, and hold the tiny, orphaned, diaper-less babies.

Experiences. My experiences. They may not grace the pages of a book or magazine, or be the topic of conversation at the next social gathering, but my experiences will hopefully inspire and encourage my own children to reach for the stars and seek wild, insane adventures of their own.

I wish I could say that I have always appreciated the life story God chose for me. Take my childhood in Africa, for example. God in His infinite wisdom called my parents/family to Kenya. I have spent a lot of time wondering of what use my experiences could be: a good party story or outrageous testimonial? How does one make sense of so many random situations and off kilter scenarios? Life in Africa, life in America after Africa – each holding bizarre and embarrassing moments that still remain a mystery to me.

For instance, the time my sister, mom and I were sitting in the Dairy Queen drive-thru placing our orders for three Snickers Blizzards. In Africa we were accustomed to enunciating our words thoroughly so that we could be understood. My sister and I, 11 and 13 years of age, sat mortified in the back seat of the car as we observed the skinny, pot holed faced teen-age kid in the drive-thru window making fun of our mom who was clearly articulating our order for “threeeee Ssss-nick-errrs Bliiiiizzzz-are-dssss.” We wanted to die. And what made it all the more horrifying is that EVERYWHERE we went, my parents had to announce to everyone – the check out girl at JC Penney, the waiter at Denny’s, every employee at the mall, for that matter – that we live in Africa. As if, by simply looking at us they couldn’t already tell that we were not “from these parts”!

Adjusting to America was painful. As I sat in my math class at Jackson Middle School in South Bend, Indiana the only voice ringing in my head – as the boys ruthlessly made fun of my wild, multi-colored floral Palmetto jeans – was my mom’s, emphatically drilling the words, “Nine, Ninety-nine!” into the heads of my sister and me as we were shopping at the outlet mall for school clothes. We were on a tight budget and the maximum amount of money we were allotted to spend on anything was, “Nine, Ninety-nine!” To this day, when I am out shopping, I still hear my mom chanting, “Nine-Ninety-nine!” It’s insane.

Kids would talk about T.V. shows or some pop culture trivia that I was completely clueless about, and I would just sit silently. Nobody wants to hear about the Kikuyu woman who died during one of our church services, and after a bunch of people ran over and laid hands on her during worship, she came back to life and started pounding on a drum and jumping up and down. Stories like that just weren’t “cool”. Or the time we were driving out to another Kikuyu church and had to stop our car so that a herd of elephant could cross the street (elephants have the right of way!). And the countless stories of the obnoxious hawks (kites) that would swoop down during lunch time at school and snatch the food right out of our hands…well, who really cares about that?

Nobody wanted to hear the story about the time a bat flew up and hit me on my bare rear end while on a school camping trip. Or about the camel safari that left me constipated for a week. Or the time I got malaria. Or when my foot was only a few inches away from stepping on a coiling cobra. Or when my sister and I were on a safari in Swaziland and were chased by a herd of elephant…on foot (we forgot to give them the right of way)! Oh no…the American kids wanted to hear stories from the guy who spent a few weeks of his summer working in Detroit. Detroit! Are you kidding me? But alas, perhaps it was God’s gentle way of keeping me humble so that all my “experiences” wouldn’t go to my head.

Of course, the time I actually did open my mouth to say something it turned me into a “freak”. I asked the girl occupying the desk beside me if I could borrow a “rubber” – which, by the way, in Africa a “rubber” is an “eraser”…just clarifying. Of course, you can only imagine the uproar of laughter that sprung up in the classroom – filled with twenty junior high boys! All I could think was, “what did I say?”

I was “That Girl From Africa”. Not Meryl Streep from “Out Of Africa” – I could only wish – but “That Girl…” That shy little girl, who so desperately wanted to belong and be just like everybody else, but whose parents had to follow the call of God so that I could grow up in an exotic, life-transforming place called…Africa.

(End Part One.)