America for a missionary is a funny place. To us (and especially our children) it’s a great playground filled with delicious food, fun things to do for cheap (or free), and a whole culture who doesn’t treat us like lepers. People don’t stop my children in the street and rub their hands through their hair, people don’t stop to gawk and take pictures. We may personally feel very out of place here, but to everyone else around us we fit in, at least a little bit.
And then there is the fact that my work, when in America, looks very different from my normal work. Support raising is primarily fun meals with fascinating people and then interesting travel and catching up with old friends. Also, I get to be home with the kids a lot more than in regular life.
But it isn’t real life. It isn’t normal overseas life and it isn’t the normal life of a normal American. It’s something “other”. There are times, like runs through beautiful open spaces, where it’s invigorating. And then there are times, like when someone starts talking about their new vacation home, where our eyes glaze over and we get exhausted trying to engage. This is our third furlough in the last eight years, and it increasingly feels cross-cultural to come visit this place.
Though there are some things that we get used to again instantly, like how the roads are wide and people drive carefully. Or how the snack isles are filled with things I find delicious (instead of spicy chicken heads or pickled octopus).
I’m most thankful for the friends that care for me. Love me. And engage with me, even when they’re completely at a loss as to how to continue the conversation. I’m thankful for the sunshine. And I’m thankful for a God that gives rest to His people.