Transition

Outlawed Grief, A Curse Disguised

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by Jonathan

[Note: For an expanded version of this article, click here. The expanded version appeared on A Life Overseas in December, 2013 and is geared more for a missions/TCK audience.]

Someone dies, or gets cancer, or gets cancer and then dies.  Someone else says something eminently useful like “All things work together for good” or “He’s in a better place” or “I have a time-share in Florida and the carpet’s getting replaced this week.”

Someone moves to a foreign field, and it’s hard, and it’s sad, and they have kids.  And the kids feel it too.  They’re sad.  They miss grandma, and McDonald’s, and green grass.  Someone tells them, “It’s for God,” or “It’ll be ok someday; you’ll look back on this as one of the best things that ever happened to you.” Maybe their parents tell them that.

And grief gets outlawed, and the curse descends.  And the child understands that some emotions are spiritual and some are outlawed.

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A Sorrow Sandwich, and a Guest Post

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by Elizabeth

Most of the time living in Cambodia, I don’t feel like I am making huge sacrifices for God. In fact, I’ve found many things to love about living here. I’ve discussed this before, and in a future post, I plan to discuss more specifics about the joys of our life here.

I am so happy here that I sometimes forget that other people have made sacrifices for me to be here. Reminders come in the form of my children, when they miss the family and friends they’ve left behind in America. They come in the form of Skype sessions with my parents, when I realize anew how very much they miss us.

So I am sandwiched in the middle of two generations of people who have, in many ways, sacrificed more than I have – much more. My parents.  My children. I have caused people I love to suffer. And I did it voluntarily. You might not hear many people talking about this. You are more likely to hear people talk about the sacrifices of the missionaries themselves (whether or not it’s a missionary who is speaking). But I think that does an incredible injustice to the thousands of people in America who are sacrificing right now to send a loved one overseas.

My best friend in America was the kind of girl who dropped everything the day Jonathan’s dad was diagnosed with brain cancer, just to sit with me in my shock and grief. She’s the kind of girl who would drive to my house when my husband was out of town, so that after my kids were asleep, we could talk for hours and hours. She’s the girl I laughed with and cried with for eight wonderful years. She’s also a writer. So I asked her to write about how she felt saying goodbye to me. And this is what she wrote:

A Letter from Home

by Teresa Schantz Williams

Last year, Elizabeth and Jonathan and their foursome said goodbye to their families and friends and flew toward the adventure God chose for them. Those left behind, with none of the distractions of a new culture, slowly adjusted to their absence. The Trotters were missing from the daily landscape of our lives, and knowing this was going to happen didn’t make it less painful.

At first when they left, I kept forgetting. I’d pick up the phone, punch in their number and sheepishly hang up. Or I would think I saw Elizabeth coming out of the library and wave too warmly at a confused stranger.

It was like when you rearrange the contents of your kitchen cabinets and spend the next four weeks trying to relearn where you store the salt. Things weren’t where they were supposed to be.

Their pew at church was too empty. No squirmy bodies next to Elizabeth’s mother, Mary, munching on grandma’s snacks and vying for grandpa’s lap. Those first few months were hard on the families stateside, especially as news of distress and health crises came their way. Powerless to help, family prayed.

A missionary wife once told me she hadn’t understood what the extended family sacrificed when she and her husband left for the mission field. She had since come to see that they relinquished precious time with their children and grandchildren, forfeited shared memories of celebrations and milestones, and suppressed their instinct to rescue when things went wrong.IMG_0915.edits

Some are called to go.  Some are called to let go.

If you have to say goodbye, this is the century to do it in.  My grandmother had a dear friend who was a missionary with her husband in Burma during the 1950’s.  Somehow they held their friendship together with letters and furloughs, and in the long silences between, they prayed.

Facebook, Skype, blogs, email have closed gaps. Within the digital universe, both sides of the ocean can post photos and videos and updates. Elizabeth can share funny stories about the kids, so women back home can “watch” them grow. To celebrate their special days, one can browse their Amazon Wish Lists to find a gift, or select something from itunes. Even international travel is more feasible than it once was. Visits are possible.

Nothing substitutes for presence. These days, I can’t sit next to the bathtub and hold Faith while Elizabeth brushes the boys’ teeth. I can’t watch the boys wrestle or Hannah belly-surf down the stairs. I can’t go to a girly movie with Elizabeth and rehash our favorite parts on the drive home. I can’t watch her eat the frosting from the top of a cupcake and leave the rest because she only eats the part she wants.  I can’t hug her.

I concentrate on what I can do.  I translate twelve hours ahead and try to anticipate what they might need.  1 p.m. here?  Asleep there.  I pray that the girls aren’t waking them in the night, that their colds will soon be gone. I pray that they will be able to play outside every day this week. That Elizabeth can find hummus at Lucky’s grocery store.  I pray the details.

I can look over Elizabeth’s shoulder and see the frontlines of world missions and watch God’s plans unfold.  I can see what the Holy Spirit has done in her, enabling her to do things I wasn’t at all sure she could do. (Bugs, germs, smells, change in all forms.) And through her blogging, the special qualities I knew were inside her are out where others can see (humor, insight, modesty in all its expressions).

Perhaps it sounds overdramatic, but I’ve concluded that for me, missing my missionary friends is a standing invitation to resubmit to God’s plans. My true and proper worship.

“I thank God for you—the God I serve with a clear conscience, just as my ancestors did. Night and day I constantly remember you in my prayers. I long to see you again, for I remember your tears as we parted. And I will be filled with joy when we are together again.” (2 Timothy 1:3, NLV)

Journal Excerpts from Our First Month in Cambodia

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He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 2 Corinthians 1:4

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I almost didn’t publish the following journal entries, which I recorded during our first weeks in Cambodia. When I read them for the first time after a year, I was surprised by the intensity of my original feelings (although I’m nothing if not intense). I remembered that time as being bad, but not this bad. I’m sharing some of my journal here because I want 1) to give people hope, 2) to proclaim, along with Samuel, “thus far has the Lord helped us,” and 3) never to lose my compassion for those currently in the “depths of despair.” (Anne Shirley addicts unite! She still relates to all of life.)

I’m happy here now, and I’m no longer plagued by any of these yucks. We worked to correct some of them, while I simply became accustomed to others. The yays, however, persist – my dependence on worship, laughter, and a wonderful husband, haven’t changed at all.

Arrival Date: January 16th, 2012.

Friday January 20th. And there is absolutely nothing about this place that I don’t hate. Can’t think of any earthly reason why we shouldn’t just pack up and go back. So I pretty much don’t know how I’m ever going to survive here, let alone be happy again.

Theme #1: My Overreactor is dialed ALL the way up. You’ll see this repeated quite often.

Sunday January 22st. ICA was so good for my soul. “My life is in you, Lord, My strength is in You, Lord, My hope is in You, Lord, in You, It’s in You.” In worship today I just declared this to God, that He is my strength, my life, that I’m depending on Him to sustain me and only He can do it. We sang about going whatever the cost and up the highest mountain and through the darkest valley. God reminded me that I’m here to stay. Not just in Cambodia, but in relationship with Him. I’m not leaving Him. I’m stubborn on this point.

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Struggling to find God on our first Sunday

So tired. Can barely stay awake after 5 pm every day. Up 6 times last night with Hannah. There is so much dust here that has to be swept and mopped every day, and that gets old. It feels so futile. Just get up the next day to clean it all again. Everything here is so stinkin’ dangerous. Sharp corners on walls, slippery floors. So much more danger in general.

Theme #2: My Hope is dialed all the way down. (Again, oft-repeated.)

Theme #3: Worship music was my lifeline. You’ll see this one again too.

Monday January 23nd. Bought the wrong size diapers. Again. I can’t get this kilogram thing figured out! But I am doing better in general. So is Jonathan. Can’t wait to go back to ICA.

And good grief the mosquito bites. New ones each morning. So itchy. Jonathan had to fix some electrical wiring today. Plugs are never enough or in a convenient place. Can’t flush in the morning. Showers don’t drain well. The heat saps your energy. Driving saps energy — there seem to be no rules. The nationals and their police know the rules but we don’t. Street signs don’t exist and the roads aren’t N-S-E-W. Dirt is everywhere and has to be cleaned. Laundry must be hung and dishes washed by hand. (Did I mention I can’t wait to get a house helper??) The language barrier is huge and everything is in kg.

Tuesday January 24th. I’m not particularly happy. I’m not particularly unhappy. I am particularly exhausted. Everything is so hard here but I keep plugging away. “Whatever.” That’s how I feel much of the time. I can laugh, however. We laugh all the time. Mostly at the stupidity of living here.

Everything is so stinkin dusty. Floors, furniture, stair railings. Even clean clothes smell like wood fire and spices. Annoying. Hannah slept all night with the aid of Benadryl. Benadryl to Isaac for his hundred mosquito bites. They were super bad in the house yesterday. Feet hurt excruciatingly badly. I need house shoes with arch support because I can barely walk. It’s so humid here, even in air con, that my hair doesn’t dry at night.

Theme #4: I can’t survive without laughter. (Experts claim that the beginning of laughter signals the slow ascent out of the Abyss of Culture Shock.)

Thursday January 26th. Another day. Ugg. Why do I have to live here? I don’t want to live here. I don’t want to want to live here. And I don’t want to keep living. Life is easier back home and I want it. Everything bothers me. Why does it have to be so hard? Nothing comes ready-made. You have to do it yourself, and even then the electrical wiring comes apart. I hate mornings. Reminds me how unhappy I am. At least at night I can look forward to sleep.

I suppose one of these days these pages will be happier. But I have never been unhappier. It seems so hopeless. I want to go home. I want to go home so bad that I don’t even care that it would look bad, that my life story wouldn’t mean anything, that it would go against everything we’ve ever said, that it would disappoint people, that we would have wasted people’s money, that it might be hard to find a ministry job. But this life is so terrible. I can’t stand it. I can’t find meaning. I can’t find pleasure. I can’t find comfort. I can’t find ease. I can’t find understanding. I can’t even find food I actually want to eat. And every morning I awaken to more needs from the girls. That is so endlessly draining. Can’t clean or cook or do anything b/c Faith needs me to hold her. I’m off to more house work now. Dirty, stinky, unending housework. Bartering is so hard, and you do it in 2 different currencies, 2 different languages, and never know if it’s a good price.

So much to fix. I can’t see the end, it goes on forever. This morning I wanted to die. I told Jonathan I wouldn’t kill myself b/c I don’t like pain, but all I wanted to do was to get on a plane alone and run away. Coming here really did seem like a good idea at the time. Not anymore. Plus Faith is sick with a fever, poor cranky baby.

Repeat of Themes 1 and 2 (High on Overreactivity and Low on Hope)

Sunday afternoon January 29th. Been sick for 2 days. Pain, chills, fever (flu-like) along with abdominal pain and diarrhea. Could barely move last 2 days. I missed church and hated to miss it. When will my heart take up residence in this place? I worry about never accomplishing anything. Never making a difference. To make a difference I’ll have to learn this language (too hard).

Themes 1 and 2 strike again (Overreactivity and Hopelessness).

Somehow I want to make peace with living here as Jonathan has. Being here makes me love my husband more than ever. He is so sweet to me, taking care of me when I’m sick, being patient with my depressed moods and angry outbursts. Seeing him in this setting reminds me how special he is, much more loving than most men.

Theme #5 surfaces: I need my husband.

Wednesday February 1st. I was so sick. 3 days of diarrhea and pain, then went to Dr Modich at Mercy Clinic. (I thought I was going to die I was in so much pain.) I needed Cipro. Still not back to normal plus I have a terrible head cold on top of that.

Finding Him is no longer fun and exciting. It’s drudgery, fearfulness, pain, sadness. But I am determined to find Him in this dark place. He is the light of the world and those who seek Him will find Him when they seek Him with their whole hearts. I will find Him. Yes.

transitiontuktuk

Out to dinner with Jonathan’s sister before she left the country,

but still recovering from illness.

Thursday February 2nd. One thing that’s hard about living here (only one!) is that people like to touch my kids, and they don’t like it. How to stop it politely? I don’t know. In a moment of frustration today I started singing Magnificat. I knew I had to praise, and sure enough, I felt better.

Theme 3 (Worship) to the rescue again
Saturday February 4th. “This world may pass, and with it common trifles, but God and I will go unendingly.” These are the common trifles . . . mosquito bites that itch, heat and humidity, laundry that smells like fire (if window open) or mildew rotting (if closed).

Sunday February 26th. Church – great worship. Your Grace is Enough. How Deep the Father’s Love. A Zoe Group song I listened to while pregnant with Faith and during her labor. I cried during You are My Strength. Great a cappella song. Felt so good to sing. Made me homesick for heaven when we’ll all be together again singing praises to our King.

There I am, relying on Theme 3 again (worship).

March 27th. A few weeks into Cambodia I realized it would be more difficult to pack up and leave for home than to stay.

And then, inexplicably, I stopped journaling. Apparently I didn’t feel the need to journal my unhappiness anymore. So to anyone considering following God in a “big” way, no matter what that is, please do not give up Hope that life will improve, that Transition will pass. Do not believe that the rest of your life will be as dreadful as it feels right now. Hold on to Hope.

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We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance;perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.  Romans 5:3-5

Why Transition is Terrible, But Having a Sending Agency is Not (Looking Back on a Year in Asia Part 2)

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In light of my first post, in which I explain how much I love life in Cambodia, I felt it necessary (in the interest of honesty, which is, after all, one of my highest values), to talk a little about our first month here.

IT WAS TERRIBLE.

And we even had help. Lots of help:

Help #1: My mother-in-law and sister-in-law came to Cambodia one week ahead of us and bought the essentials like beds, washing machine, kitchen appliances. Apparently it was not the purchasing of the beds and refrigerator, but the transporting of them up to the right floors, that was quite the feat. (They may even have this on video.) Bonus: They stocked that fridge and made those beds, and when they were all done with that, they picked us up from the airport.

Help #2:  A different sister-in-law made the 24-hour long international flights with us, our 4 (sometimes motion sick) children, and 16 pieces of checked luggage. Bonus: She stayed for an entire two weeks to do whatever we crazed parents needed her to do, like, say, wash the dishes, or watch the children. This was not overkill, as I initially expected it to be. When Mommy got holed-up-in-the-bathroom-sick, she was there. When Mommy was camped-out-on-the-couch-wanting-to-die (that’s not a joke), she was there. Her and her Angry Birds game.

Help #3: When I was brand new to the country and didn’t know how to cook or grocery shop, three different families brought us meals.

That first month was the worst month of my life by far – and that is no exaggeration. Our luggage got stuck in Seoul, South Korea, and didn’t land in Cambodia with us. It didn’t arrive until midnight the next day, leaving us without such luxuries as diapers, shampoo, clean clothes, and tooth brushes for yet another 24 hour-period. (If any of you know my obsession with careful attention to clean teeth, you understand what a hardship that was.) I think I had brought some deodorant in my carryon. Oh yeah. I was real prepared for missionary life.

familyonporch

Fresh off the plane and smack dab in the middle of Transition.

Note the missing shirts, proof of our lost luggage.

Mosquitos ate us alive. Hannah and Faith were jet-lagged. We were jet-lagged. Jonathan had to drive that very first day in country (remember the lost luggage??). As a newbie driver, he got pulled over by police four times that first month — twice on the first day. Such a wonderful welcome to the country, don’t ya think??

One meal was just . . . rice. Another was eaten in the haze of burnt French toast. The plastic-y cheese on those first grilled cheese sandwiches never did melt. Even our kids have bad memories of those days.

I didn’t have any privacy — we didn’t have curtains in the bedroom yet. We didn’t have padding or carpeting for stair safety, and the gates hadn’t been installed yet. (Everything is concrete here, and the stairs are majorly steep. My Harm Avoidance had kicked into Overdrive.) And I couldn’t for the life of me convince the hot water heater to produce hot water, no matter how many exasperated sighs I let out. (My husband, on the other hand, had no such issues with the water. He did, however, find the nightly sighing sessions quite humorous.)

We didn’t know where to buy anything, and we didn’t know the language to negotiate a reasonable price if we had.

And everywhere we went, Cambodians touched my kids. They hated that.

My feet ached from walking barefoot on the concrete floors.

I was so hot. And we came in cool season.

Everything was so dirty.

And I was so miserable.

While Help #2 watched the children, I lay on the couch and wanted to die. Jonathan cried. That’s very characteristic behavior for us, by the way. Under the influence of stress, I shut down; he cries. (He tells me this is the Trotter Way, and he is ok with it now.)

We sent out a desperate “please pray for us” email. (Thank you for praying! We felt all your prayers from the beginning and continuing throughout this past year.)

Then one day, three weeks in, I got curtains in my windows. Privacy! Yay! My stress levels went down by 50%. That was the day I decided I could live in this place. (“They” say transition ends when you make the internal decision to settle in the new place.)

Then a week later, gates were installed on the stairs. Now I didn’t have to follow my toddler around every.waking.minute. My stress levels went down by another 50%. If you’re calculating correctly, I was now functioning at 25% of the first week’s stress — although it’s debatable whether lying on the couch wanting to die counts as “functioning.” That 25% slowly but steadily dropped to pre-flight levels over the next couple months. (Sporadically, levels do pop back up, but only temporarily.)

That first month is what we call Transition — the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad period of physical, emotional, and spiritual Chaos. (To read actual journal entries from that time, click here.)

I’d like to take a moment here, to say, that without the training and support we received from Team Expansion, we’d probably still be drowning. We use the material from Team Expansion’s required training multiple times a week. Our sending church’s elders also requested that we attend a week of intensive marriage counseling before leaving the States, and we use that material nearly every day as well.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Transition is Terrible. Sending Agencies are Amazing.

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Post Script:

While my first month overseas was by far the hardest month of my life, it does not follow that my first year overseas was the hardest year of my life. That distinction belongs to 2008. I do not merely speak for myself in this; Jonathan agrees. That was the year he began work as a first-year nurse in Truman Medical Center’s Emergency Department, while continuing to work part time at Red Bridge Church of Christ. He had to work nights and attend extra trainings and was extra tired. I was pregnant with Hannah, endured intense morning sickness, and fought overwhelming fears about health throughout my pregnancy. 2008 definitely beats out 2012 for the Hardest Year Award 🙂

A Good Day

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– By Elizabeth

I had a good day today.

Yes, it’s true.

I had a good day yesterday too.  And not just “good for Cambodia,” but honest to goodness, downright good.

Last November I climbed a 20 foot pole.  And jumped off it.  (I know you’re all asking yourselves if this is the same non-athletic Elizabeth Hunzinger you thought you knew.)  I climbed it with no fear.  But when I got to the top, I froze.  The transition from crouching at the top of the pole to standing on the top of the pole was incredibly frightening.  It’s the shortest part, about 1 second of motion, but it’s the most difficult.  And I needed Jonathan to coach me through it.  Once I was standing, I felt fine again.

It’s the same in labor.  Transition, that part of labor just before full dilation, is the shortest part.  It’s also the most intense and the place where a mom doubts herself.  She needs help to get through it.  (Jonathan claims that since he did this for me 4 times, I owe him 4 doula fees).

At MTI last fall we learned about the “Chaos Bridge,” which is an analogy for transition (or “transsizion,” as our South African SPLICE leader called it).  We start out settled and stable, move into unsettled with all its farewells, and then into the bouncy bubbly transition.  We start to come out of it while resettling, and then finally reach a new settled state.

When I was neck deep in missionary transition, you supported me with prayers and encouragement.  I couldn’t have made it through without your doula-ing, as all my birthie friends would say.

Transition.  The most terrible part.  The shortest part.  Now I know with certainty that it doesn’t last forever.  And I can assure the next person I see experiencing transition that it does indeed end.  It’s painful, but it won’t last long.  Not much longer now.  I promise.

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Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4