Yes, it’s spring time, and somewhere outside of Bangkok there are flowers blooming. But the time I’m referring to is decision time. Transition time.
I have always associated the months of March, April and May with stress, stress, stress. As a student, this is crunch time: exams, final projects, papers, recitals, formals, etc. etc. etc.
But on top of that, at the end of spring comes the highly anticipated yet simultaneously dreaded summer break, which we are taught must be for furthering our still kind of amorphous career aspirations. Get an internship! Volunteer! Go abroad! Then come with just enough time to kiss your family and head back to school.
Man, I’m glad that’s over…
Except, here it is again, nearing the end of March, and it’s my decision time again.
Do I stay in Bangkok?
Do I stay in Thailand?
Do I go home?
I admit that, as thoughts of summer time pools and hugging my dogs fill my mind, I get so overwhelmed that I want to pack my bags right now and hop on the first plane to Tennessee.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
I’m not exactly homesick, or even nostalgic. I’m just trying to find my place. Sometimes, I think home is my only place.
I thought about home, and what it means to different people. A line from the Hobbit [movie, unfortunately] popped into my head as a young Bilbo Baggins admits to his courageous friends “I do miss home. I miss my books. And my armchair.”
I feel ya, Bilbo.
Everyone around me is soaring off on grand adventures and making wild summer plans, and I just want to go home. Not because I’m lonely, or unhappy, or disappointed. I just love home.
Yet the word “home” also stirs up something else in my mind: a popular song by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, bearing the same name. When I studied abroad in Israel a few years ago, this song became our anthem; not only because we were young students half way around the world, but because home, in Israel, is a contested thing, not always permanent, and often transitory.
I struggled with homesickness a lot in Israel, and my close friend and counselor reminded me of the lyrics of this song:
Let me come home
Home is wherever I’m with you
He doesn’t say “home is a two story brick house in Mississippi with a front porch swing and a lot of dust bunnies.”
Anyone who’s moved a lot can tell you that a home is much, much more than the infrastructure; it’s the people.
And though my biological family isn’t in Bangkok, God has given me many satellite families. He has a way of bringing everything together in ways that are impossible by ourselves.
With men, this is impossible.
But with God, all things are possible.
I’ve been blessed with many friends and new family members who, like me, have uprooted themselves and replanted in a crazy new country. A very wise friend reminded me recently that “lemongrass and celery plants” can regrow in a new pot one they are uprooted and replanted.
Maybe this is us, she thinks. Uproot, replant, grow. This is the transition time, which comes from the decisions we make that we may never be completely confident in. But somehow, God keeps giving us soil, water, and sunlight. We just have to have faith.