My word for 2012 is story, but honestly, it kinda ended up being my word for 2011, too. At least, that’s what I see when I look back. See, my family and I, for the first time in a long while, lived in the States for more than a few months, and we did normal things like buy couches off Craigslist and find the best deals in town for ground beef. Tate went to school for kindergarten, we joined a homeschool co-op for first grade, and we finally caught up through season 5 on 30 Rock.
In many ways, these daily liturgies were things I dreamed of when we lived overseas. I grew to love our cross-cultural life, but I’d be lying if there weren’t many days that I longed to completely understand the language spoken around me in coffee shops, for my blonde children to not be stared at, to not be the foreigner. I’d read about my friends’ playdates on Facebook, and I’d yearn for Everyday American Life.
2010 was a blur, because we lived in a waiting room for most of that year. Are we living here? Are we living there? What are we doing for work? And who are you again? But once we knew we’d be stateside for awhile, it felt insanely good to just settle in. Toss the cardboard boxes, and let the kids hang things on the wall. We had complete peace that God was leading us clearly, so we followed excitedly.
We still are. We moved to a brand new town 2,000 miles away, knowing not a soul, and we jumped in with both feet. It was actually easier than we anticipated; I guess because we’d done the same thing four and a half years ago, but in a new culture with a different language. Moving to Oregon was a piece of cake compared to that—we just needed to stock up on polar fleece vests and remember that it’s pronounced Will-AM-ette.
But now that we’re here, living in our passport country, I get the itch. I miss being foreign. I miss everything being interesting. I miss all the good things of other cultures, and wish I could brush away all the bad things about American culture.
More than anything, however, I miss living an adventure.
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