Saturday, July 20, 2019

She is a TCK.

Johnny, at the park: MONGOOSE!
Me: Nope, that's a squirrel. Wrong country, Buddy.

Josiah, staring with interest at the stove: What kind of stove is that?
Me: It's electric. It runs on electricity.
Josiah: Oh, so if the power goes out, it stops working?
Me: Yep.
Josiah: That doesn't sound very good. You could be in the middle of cooking and then have to stop.
Me: Yeah, but the power doesn't go off in America.
Josiah: Not EVER?
Me: Well, sometimes in big storms, but yeah, not really ever.
Josiah (very impressed): Whoa.

Amusing quotes aside, the truth is that my kids are somewhat of an enigma. They don't fit into any particular category. They are Tanzanian by blood, but their parents are American. They are similar to other internationally adopted kids, except that they aren't being raised in their adoptive parents' home country, but their own birth country.

A Tanzanian friend once asked me if my kids identified more with being American or Tanzanian. I told him that I'm not really sure (and I don't think they are really sure), but that I would guess that they feel more American when they are in Tanzania, and more Tanzanian when they are America. Because they don't fit in perfectly in either place.

They can greet their elders with Shikamoo without an accent, but they would never yell Wazungu! when they see a white person walking on the road, like other Tanzanian kids their age. They love chips mayai and macaroni and cheese and wali na maharage and Pizza Hut. They have been taught to eat with a knife and fork but know not to use their left hand if there aren't any utensils available.

This would be true of any missionary kid who had lived in Tanzania, but my kids are different from even them. They know all about hair salon culture, but, of course, they go there with their white mom so they always get odd looks. They can go to the market and not stand out--that is, until someone assumes their Swahili is better than it actually is.

Haven of Peace Academy is a perfect place for my children, and so they've stayed insulated from a great deal of this struggle. Josiah has one friend who is ethnically Indian but has a passport and culture from Australia. Another friend is half Tanzanian and half Zimbabwean, but was born in South Africa. Another is half African-American and half Kiwi, but born in America. All are being raised in Tanzania. Josiah, with his complex identity, fits right in.

HOPAC is a middle life, a life in between worlds. Yet the life that HOPAC gives them is not sustainable.

It's like an airplane: Passengers from all over the world, all walks of life, a hundred different backgrounds--all crammed into a tiny tube hovering over the earth. Not belonging to any one place; suspended, for a short period of time, above all the world's nations. My kids live there, in that plane, at HOPAC. Yet at some point, that airplane has to land. And the older my kids get, the more I wonder and worry about how that landing will go for them.

I grew up in Liberia, so to some degree, I understand what it's like to grow up between worlds. But I was not adopted, I was not Liberian, and my parents always had a house in California for us to come back to. Yes, losing Liberia was traumatic for me. But it also was not my country. How do I help my children to navigate an identity that I can never fully understand?

My eldest daughter is a sketcher, and as we have been traveling in California these last three weeks (six cities so far), I've caught her sketching in fancy lettering--on Best Western Hotel notepads, in the sketchbook she bought in Istanbul, on any scrap of paper--I am a TCK. I am a Third Culture Kid. She is processing that identity--that life hovering above the nations, that life in between worlds.

I see this, and my eyes mist over. I am so proud to be her mom. It takes courage to be her. There is much she will teach me.

Saturday, July 13, 2019

Four Continents in a Week

When your flight plan takes you through Istanbul, Turkey, why not go ahead and just hang out for a few days?

And while you're at it, why not just head over to Greece too? I mean, as long as you're in the neighborhood. 

Why not? Well, visiting Greece involved missing the last few days of school, so just Grace and her Daddy got to be the lucky ones to do that part. Pretty awesome experience for my 13-year-old Percy Jackson fan. The rest of us left the day after HOPAC finished (Which, yes, this did mean that I departed Dar es Salaam by myself at 3 a.m. with my three remaining children. But no worries--only two of them threw up on the plane. That was totally fun.) Ahem. But hey--Greece for my daughter and husband: Worth it.

We met up in Istanbul, which we explored as a family for four days. We visited the famous Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia--the church turned mosque turned museum, and the massive underground Basilica Cisterns. We visited museums full of ancient statues, thousands of years old, and other pieces pillaged from Egypt and the middle east during the reign of Constantinople. We traveled by ferry and tram and bus and suspended trolley.

But our kids' favorite part was probably the food, especially since they had been inculcated by Mark Weins' food videos for a few weeks before the trip (who happens to be the son of a friend of ours). America sells nachos and hotdogs in their park stands, but Istanbul sells corn-on-the-cob and chestnuts. We never got tired of the thinly sliced meat and the piles and piles of Turkish delight. And of course, the ice cream sellers who always tease their customers with lavish performances before finally handing them a cone.

Since Istanbul has the distinction of being part of two continents, we were all pretty impressed that we went through four continents in a week: Africa, Europe, Asia, and North America. 

She's a runner, and now she's run in the original Olympic stadium. How cool is that?

Back together again in Istanbul

He went through four continents in a week, and I think his favorite part was this kitten. 

Sunday, July 7, 2019

All I Knew Was That I Didn't Want to be Michael Scott

I'm so used to processing my thinking in this space. These past two years, It has been odd for me to do a job for 45+ hours a week and yet write so little about it. And now that I'm in America (did you know that? I'm in America for the summer--surprise!), people ask me, "So how is it being principal?" And I open my mouth and I smile and nothing comes out. How do I even start? How do I begin to describe an experience that I haven't really processed yet? 

I think I watched way too much of The Office before I became an administrator. Michael Scott gave me the impression that bosses just prowled around all day, looking over people's shoulders and distracting them from doing their jobs. I knew I didn't want to be him, but I wasn't exactly sure what a good boss did do. 

I had spent almost 20 years involved in education, so I had worked for principals before, of course, but I really hadn't the foggiest idea of what a day in the life of a principal actually looked like. How would I figure out what I was supposed to do all day? It's probably a good thing I didn't admit this two years ago. You might have wondered why on earth I was qualified for the job. I actually wondered that myself, honestly. I just blindly trusted the people around me who assured me that they knew I could do it.

It took me approximately five minutes to realize that I didn't need to worry about figuring out what I was supposed to do. It's like a game of Whack-a-Mole. The first mole popped up, and as soon as I whacked it, five more took it's place. And from that first day, I just kept whacking moles for the next two years. They just never stopped popping up. If this had been Chuck E. Cheese's, I definitely would have earned 20 bazillion prize tickets.

(Don't worry; no children are actually whacked.)

So. Other than being really busy, how is it being principal?

I love it. Yes, I love it. I say that with no hesitation. This is a school that Gil and I helped to build, how could I not love it? I get to be a part of the 100+ staff from all over the world that make up Haven of Peace Academy. I supervise about twenty of them and work alongside the rest. The level of love and trust we have for each other, despite occasional conflicts, is extraordinary. We are not just a work place, we are a community.

I love these kids. Oh my gosh, I love these kids. Some of them crack me up. They come up to talk to me and I start laughing before they even speak, because I know it will be hilarious. Lots of them make me cry. There's the ones who are struggling to read but then win every race on Sports Day. The ones who are struggling to speak English but create masterpieces in art class. And the ones who are very familiar with my office. I think those hold the deepest places in my heart.

I read and commented on 150 report cards during the last week of school. It made my head spin and drove my stress up to an unhealthy level but I felt like a proud parent. So much progress evidenced on those ordinary pieces of paper. Evidence of teachers who poured their very souls into children--countless hours of energy and love. Evidence of children who read and calculated and imagined for 180 days, who allowed their minds to be expanded and their responsibility to be stretched. I'm so proud of my school. 

That's the easy part to talk about. Yes, I love it. But this job, these past two years, have been so much more complex than that. I love it, and it is intense. That intensity is the part that I haven't really processed, nor can I really write about in detail. Teachers struggling through anxiety or depression. Kids with learning disabilities that we don't know how to handle, nor are there better options available in Tanzania. Kids coming to school with emotional needs that we can't meet but suck us dry. Countless parents desperate to get their kids into our school, and I have to break their hearts. And the recruiting: Not enough teachers. Never enough teachers. A teacher who says yes and then has to back out due to medical concerns. Will God provide? He always does. Somehow. But still I am anxious. It all is a weight I fight to cast off my shoulders and onto His.

And then there's me: Will I be enough? Can I be enough? Every time I think I'm ahead, another five moles pop up. I'm a task-driven person, and this is a job full of tasks, but I worry, constantly, that I'm choosing tasks over people. In working with teachers/parents/students, I straddle the line between grace and policy, forgiveness and law. Am I getting it right? I second guess myself often. Did I say the right thing in that email? Did I handle that discipline situation correctly? Well, no time to ponder that, because I'm off onto the next thing. Make me enough, I pray. But I won't ever be. It's only God who is enough. So let the stress go, Amy.

Two years down. Have I succeeded? Well, at least I know I'm not Michael Scott. At least there's that. And that's something, right?

My core Primary (Elementary) teachers this year. We've been through thick and thin, we seven. I am so grateful for them.

HOPAC Primary Team

My "other" team....the office staff: Principals, operations, procurement, finance, counseling and other admin

Our brand new beautiful Performing Arts Centre

This is why I love Primary: First grade teacher asked her students to copy down their favorite Bible verse....and this is what one of them gave her. Now I just made your day, didn't I? You're welcome.

My heart.

Saturday, June 15, 2019

The Happiest Kind of Sadness: Portrait of a Friendship

"I heard you are going to the clinic today," I texted my friend Alyssa. "Would you mind taking in my kid's urine sample?"

"Sure," she texted back. And then we tried to figure out how to get it to her. 

"Oh! Mark's at the bakery with his prayer group," she remembered. "Just take it to him there."

This is when you know you've hit the level of BFF: You can hand a man bag of pee at the bakery with his prayer group and feel no shame.


By the time our lives crossed with Mark and Alyssa Dunker and Ben and Lauren Snyder, it was about six years into our Tanzanian life, and Gil and I were friend-weary. Both couples, in fact, had contributed to that--they had come into our lives for about a year, and then left. Like so many before them; like so many would after. 

But the Dunkers and the Snyders were different, because even though we assumed we would never see them again, they came back to Tanzania. We still had our guard up, though. Friendships between missionaries can go deep and strong in a short amount of time, but they tend to not last very long. Best not to get too attached. 

But life just kept throwing the six of us together. 

Being part of Reach Global, that made us automatic "family." The unwritten rules of missionary culture state that mission teammates stick together. You might have barely met these people, but they're the first ones you ask when you need someone to watch your kids. There's an assumption you'll get invited for holiday dinners. When you can't figure out how to debone a chicken or get a driver's license or kill the ticks on your dog, they are the first ones you call. You know, like family. Except in a desperate, lonely, out-of-options sort of way. You don't really have a choice. You either depend on these people, or die.  

But with the Dunkers and the Snyders, our relationships became more than mission family. Because of Haven of Peace Academy and Reach Tanzania Bible School, our lives started overlapping and boomeranging back on themselves. The paths of our lives became a mega-highway, intersecting and crossing and merging all into one. 


Think about all of your various friends. You've got your church friends, and your Bible study friends. There's your work friends, and your soccer mom friends. There's your friends who are the parents of your kids, and your community friends, who you keep running into in the grocery store or the local pool. 

Now imagine you have a friend who falls into every category. Every single one. And then imagine that you just happen to be living in a foreign country with that friend. 

You get the idea.


We were at Ben and Lauren's house when Josiah took his first steps. Lauren and I planned Haven of Peace Academy's first graduation ceremony together. The four of us shared a common love for HOPAC, and a common passion to see it get bigger, better, see its impact increase. Lauren served as school counselor, Gil as chaplain, and Ben quickly climbed from math teacher to director. I joined the board of directors for several years, then Ben and his team hired me as elementary principal. 

I drove Mark and Alyssa around Dar es Salaam their first week, and I was with them when they bought their car. Alyssa and I bonded when she spent hours picking lice out of my hair. They came to Tanzania to train pastors, which, besides HOPAC, was our other passion. So when Gil decided it was time to leave HOPAC and start training pastors, we now had a reason to stay in Tanzania. The Dunkers had started a Bible school, and we enthusiastically joined in.

We grew together with the Snyders by building Haven of Peace Academy. We grew together with the Dunkers by building Reach Tanzania Bible School. Somewhere along the way it became the six of us. Sure, we had common interests--missions, adoption, politics, theology, culture--but I think it was common life more than common interests that brought us together.

It's now been ten years. These ten years have not been easy on any of our three families--at many times bordering on tragic. At first we relied on each other because it just made sense--these were the people closest to us. But go through that enough times, and one day you realize that you really know these people. And they really know you, and they still like you. And you think, Wow, this is something really special.

In tangible ways, but also in very real emotional and spiritual ways, they kept us here. We kept them here. 


Have you ever been in an emotionally intense situation--a short-term missions trip or a week-long camp, where you didn't know anybody but formed deep friendships quickly? There is something about being away from home together, living in close quarters and experiencing intense emotions together that bonds people for life. 

Now take that kind of experience and multiply it by five hundred.


I sit here in my quiet living room and watch the darkening sky, listening to the crows bidding goodnight and the crickets waking up. This small space, with the weird pink tiled floor and the couches we could never make very comfortable, is alive with memories.

I see the Christmases. The plastic gangly tree in the corner, the stockings strung across the window, the stale smell of air conditioning pushing out the stifling heat seeking to consume us. Many are here in the room, many we love and consider family, but they come and go during different years like Ebenezer's ghosts. But the Dunkers and the Snyders, they are the constant. They are here every year. 

I see Friday nights with my floor strewn with popcorn and my throw pillows with holes in them and the sweat stains on my couch from dozens of teenagers. Ben and Lauren are here in the midst of them, Ben and Gil playing basketball with the boys outside the window, the girls chatting with Lauren and me. Sometimes the power goes out. And we sit here in the dark and laugh hysterically and sweat even more. 

I see Lauren and me on one of those Friday nights, sitting in that corner on the weird pink tile floor, the swirl of teenagers laughing around us, while I tell her about my trip to see Lily. And about another little girl named Zawadi, who also needed a family. 

I see Alyssa and Lauren and I, all three of us on the well-worn carpet, weeping in prayer over Zawadi. Weeks and months and years. 

I see movies projected on the wall while my kids snuggle in with Aunt Alyssa or Uncle Ben. And finally, Zawadi is there too.

I see the Medina and Snyder and Dunker kids sitting on that tile floor with their striped melamine plates filled with homemade pizza. Don't sit on the carpet! I holler every time. They don't. They know better. Because I say it every time.


There was also the traveling.

We went all over Tanzania together--for language school, for vacation, for HOPAC trips--to Zanzibar, Moshi, Lushoto, Kigomboni, Arusha. And then out of the country--Kenya, South Africa, even Slovenia. 

It wasn't always all six of us, and it was rarely just the six of us, but again, the Snyders and the Dunkers and Medinas were the common denominator. Together we navigated airports and taxis and foreign languages. We caravanned in our mini-vans and would stop on the side of the road for kids to pee. We would always send each other text messages about speed traps. 

We took students to camp and on spiritual retreats, sports weekends and senior trips. We went to mission conferences and HOPAC conferences. We went to the mountains for the week after Christmas--every single year. 

We sat around beach campfires and laughed about ridiculous inside jokes. The guys played board games for seemingly every waking hour. We prayed and played with students side by side. We explored other missionary schools together, collecting ideas that led to passionate conversations late into the night, planning together how to make our school better. 

Every place, every drive, every airport, we wracked up more memories. Sometimes bad ones, most of them good.


Their friendships snuck up on me. 

I was so used to holding loosely to missionary friendships that at first I didn't even recognize the bonds, thin as gossamer webs, slowly beginning to pull us together. Events that seem insignificant, if there are enough of them, one day start becoming quite significant indeed. Building memories, after enough time, becomes building history.

And one day, several years ago, I woke up and realized that the Snyders and the Dunkers and the Medinas weren't just family. When you work and play and grow and cry alongside each other, for so many years, the description is closer to siblings than anything else.

The day I came to that realization was also the day I began to grieve. I was in deep; I was past the point of no return. What we had was quite extraordinary, but what we had would never last. When you move overseas, there should be flashing red lights around a huge sign that reads, "Beware: Make friendships at your own risk. They will be amazing, but they will break your heart."

But it will be the happiest kind of sadness.


It didn't matter how many ways that our roads had intersected. At some point, we always knew they would diverge. None of us belong to this country. It would be just a matter of time before those paths would start going in opposite directions. The Snyders are leaving Tanzania. It's the end of an era.

Of course, the friendship won't end; that would be inconceivable. But it won't ever be the same.

So I am grieving. I guess I always have been. That's the danger of loving something or someone too much in this overseas life. I guess that's the danger of loving anything in this fleeting life. There is no constant. There is no permanency. Not on this side of the veil, anyway.

But we do sometimes get glimpses of eternity in this fleeting life--a perfect sunset, delicious ice cream, a belly-laugh with a spouse or child, a resonant symphony. Extraordinary friendship fits into that category. What's temporary now will one day be forever. And it will be glorious. How grateful I am to have had that glimpse.

Lily's "Support Tree" in first grade: Mom, Dad, Uncle Ben, Aunt Lauren, Uncle Mark, Aunt Alyssa

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

What Did I Ever Do to Deserve This Blue Passport?

I read this week: "Since last October, U.S. Border Patrol agents have apprehended 268,044 people who illegally crossed the southwest border...and about half of them were families...That's a 300 percent jump in the number of family apprehensions compared with the same time period during the entire 2018 fiscal year."

I'm not going to give my opinion on what the US government should do about this crisis; I'm not that stupid. Or rather, I am quite stupid, because I don't know the answer. All I know is that those numbers take my breath away.

These are families. Moms and Dads and children and babies who are willing to walk for 2,800 miles in hopes of finding safety and a new life. Walk. For 2,800 miles. Or how about this from the same article? "Munoz and his family hauled themselves up on top of running freight trains and clung onto the top, the women taking turns to hold onto the baby."

It's beyond my comprehension. Walking with my children for thousands of miles, seeing dead bodies along the way, hoping for the goodwill of others to give us something to eat--all in the hope, the desperate, tiny hope--that a judge will pick my family out of a crowd of thousands and let me into a land where my children will be safe.

My family and I are traveling to the United States in just a couple of weeks. And I read this story and thought, Sheesh, all I had to do was contact our travel agent and it's done. Tickets in hand. We'll get to the airport in Los Angeles with our bleary eyes and disheveled clothes because 20 hours of travel feels like eternity. But we'll show our blue passports and no one will blink an eye. No one will ask me questions. No walls will block my way. My children won't be separated from me. I can hear the immigration officer's nonchalant stamp in our passports. And we're in.

All because God put my soul into the body of a person who happened to be born on US soil. That's it. There is nothing else differentiating me from the soul of the Honduran woman holding desperately onto her baby with one hand and the top of a moving train with the other. I am not better than her. I am not more valuable than her. I have not worked harder than her. There's nothing I have done that makes me deserve that blue passport more than her.

I don't know the answer for the hundreds of thousands waiting for help outside America's borders, or the hundreds of thousands more waiting for US embassy interviews in scores of other refugee camps around the world. But I do know one thing: At the very least, each of these people is worthy of our compassion. And each of these people should cause every American to pause and thank our lucky stars that somehow, some way, we ended up in America. Because for all its faults and divisions and weaknesses, it's the country that millions of people around the world would give their right arm to get into.

Let's not waste it.

Thursday, June 6, 2019

Only God Sees Around Corners

Several years ago, when we had just begun our year-long home assignment in California, Gil and I found out about a ministry opportunity that would have provided us with free housing and a stipend for the time we were in the States.

It seemed absolutely perfect to us. We were incredibly excited by the opportunity, and it seemed like an exact fit with our passion and experience. But we were too late. We didn't find out about it in time, and by the time we applied, they decided not to keep the position open.

We were bitterly disappointed. And I wondered, Why would God show us an opportunity that seemed so perfect, only to take it away? What was even the point of letting us see it in the first place, if he wasn't going to make it happen?

I've wondered that a lot of times since then.

As a principal at HOPAC, I am up close and personal with the recruiting process, which is gut-wrenching, to say the least. I've lost track now of how many times it's happened: We interview someone amazing; everyone is ecstatic that such a cool person is interested in HOPAC; we all get our hopes up.....and then for some reason or another, it doesn't work out. It happened to me twice in the last two weeks.

And I wonder, Why is God getting our hopes up if we're just going to be disappointed in the end? Why dangle a carrot in front of our noses if he's just going to yank it away?

And I don't know why. So I sit here in a funk, kind of mad at God for making me think he's answering my prayers when instead I imagine him saying, "Haha! Made you look!"

Except I am not God. And I don't know what he's thinking; I just need to trust he knows what he is doing. He's got a million moving pieces; how dare I question him on what he's doing with each one? Here I am focusing only on how I personally am affected by the disappointment--how God let me down. But what if the situation wasn't about me? What if he needs me to trust him with this disappointment because it was a necessary part of what he is doing in another person's life?

Or, what if that disappointment is, in the end, saving me from something far more tragic? What if that disappointment is actually an expression of God's mercy, but I, like the screaming toddler, throw a fit when her mother yanks away the luscious-looking, but deadly poisonous berries?

Andree Seu Peterson writes, "Only God sees around corners, and therefore it is very wise to not try to figure out our own way to happiness and safety by relying on our own understanding and worldly wiles. The wise person will trust in God’s ways and stick to them, knowing that life can get messy in the middle, because the person who makes God his trust, the story will turn out well in the end, in the very, very end."

Monday, May 27, 2019

Mad is Not Our Only Choice

As I recently described, a certain child of mine is prone to rages. It happened again at school this week on Sports Day, which meant I had to be mom and principal at the same time. It's rough to be the principal's kid, but personally, I think it's even harder on the principal.

Of course, the chaos and exhaustion of Sports Day can bring out the worst in anybody, but this child made some pretty bad choices in the heat of an argument, leading to some extremely unkind things hurled at a good friend.

I led my scowling, glaring child to a picnic bench away from the din of children who were gleefully passing sponges over, under, over, under.

We worked on empathy. "How do you think you made your friend feel when you said those things?" I asked. "How would you feel if someone said those things to you?"

"I would feel mad."

I tried again. "But your friend isn't mad; your friend is hurt. How does that make you feel?"

My child glowered. "I'm just mad!"

Something clicked for me. "Honey," I said, "I just realized something. I think that sometimes you choose feeling mad over feeling bad. You choose mad because that's a more comfortable emotion than feeling sad or guilty. It's really hard to admit when we do something wrong, and it's a lot easier to be mad at someone who is mad back at you."

And I get that, don't I? It's easier to feel anger than regret. It feels much better to point fingers or deflect blame or lie to myself than to deal with the harsh reality of my own failure. 

I looked into my child's belligerent eyes and thought, My child just needs the gospel.

There, at the foot of the cross, we find freedom from shame and guilt. But the first step is kneeling there, acknowledging that we need freedom from shame and guilt. And that kneeling is the hardest part.

God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.

Let a Bible story--just think of your favorite from Sunday School--run through your mind. Doesn't every single one tell this story of pride and humility? Those who chose not to be humbled--well, their stories didn't end well. We find them eating grass like an ox, swept away by a flood, aimlessly wandering in a desert. But those who submitted to it--in prison, in the belly of a fish, separated by the veil, flat-faced in the dust before a holy God--those are the ones we see restored, redeemed, made new by grace.

And of course, once you've been made new, nothing ever looks the same again. Mad is no longer the default emotion. It's okay to feel shame and guilt, because you've found mercy. It's okay to feel sadness and regret, because you've found a waterfall of Hope.

I look over the timeline of my life and I see the same recurring theme: God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. How many times I have walked through fire--beleaguered, exhausted, depleted of everything in me, my face in the dust, and I've finally said, "Okay, God, you win." Which was most likely the point all along.

Barbara Duguid writes, "You will never be able to find steady joy in this life until you understand, submit to, and even embrace the fact that you are weak and sinful."

I look again into my child's blazing eyes. My sweet child, may you come to embrace that mad is not your only choice. Let it go, and you'll find everlasting grace on the other side.

And then I remind myself (again) of the same thing.