A sense of “place is
significant—significant physically, emotionally, and spiritually,’ writes Marilyn
Gardner at A Life Overseas.
“As humans, at our core is a need
for ‘place.’ Call it ‘belonging,’ call it ‘home,’ call it anything you like.
But all of us are integrally connected to place,” she says.
I wrote in my memoir that Lomalinda’s odors made me
long for familiar smells—the perfume of fir trees in the rain, the aromas of Puget
Sound and seaweed drying on the beach.
I wrote: “I compared Lomalinda to everything back
home—red-orange soil instead of my dark foresty earth in Seattle; heavy, humid
air and triple-digit temperatures pressing down on us instead of cool, fresh
Pacific Northwest air.
“I wished for a North American grocery store,
well-known flavors, paved roads, and a warm shower. While our temps soared, I
missed the anticipation of autumn’s chilly, crisp days back in Seattle. Folks
back home would soon pull out wool sweaters and scarves and socks but, in
Lomalinda, we were shedding shoes and as many clothes as was decent. (From
Chapter 9, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)
Later, I wrote:
“September turned to October. Back
in Seattle, people would be inhaling familiar scents of gold-emblazoned maple
leaves and hints of smoke from fireplace fires, and they’d be bundling up in
sweaters and jackets to ward off autumn’s cool temperatures.
“But in Lomalinda, summer didn’t turn into fall into
winter into spring. We had only two seasons, hot and humid, and hotter and
arid.
“And so it was that in October, the annual five-month
rainy season ended after dumping a hundred and fifty inches. Temperatures rose
and muddy roads dried. (From Chapter 14, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: AFoot-Dragger’s Memoir)
I wrote this about turning the next calendar page:
“November turned to December. Back home, Seattle would
be a place of swollen clouds and rain, and frost once in a while. People would
be wearing rain boots and raincoats and stocking caps and gloves.
“Family and friends would have recently gathered for
Thanksgiving, a squally season when tempests stirred up wild seas and sent
ferry boats bobbing and careening, when wind storms downed trees throughout the
Puget Sound region, caused widespread power outages, left half-baked turkeys
and pumpkin pies in cold ovens, and drew people together around fireplaces in
homes perfumed by wood smoke.
“But Lomalinda was into the dry season with clean
cerulean skies and hardly a wisp of a cloud. Daytime temperatures rose to over
a hundred degrees in the shade—cruel, withering.
“The green scent of rainy season had given way to the
spicy fragrance of sun-dried grasses. Immense stretches of emerald disappeared,
leaving grasslands stiff and simmering under unrelenting sun.
“Muddy paths and single-lane tracks turned rock-hard
and, with use, changed to dust. Yards and airstrips and open fields turned to
dust, too.
“From sunrise to sundown, a strong wind blew across
the llanos, a gift from God because it offered a little relief from the heat.
On the other hand, we had to use rocks and paperweights and other heavy objects
to keep papers from blowing away.
“Dust blew through slatted windows and into homes and
offices and settled on our counters and furniture and in cracks and crannies
and on our necks and in our armpits and up our noses. (From Chapter 16, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)
Yes, for the first few months, I
compared my Seattle home with my new home in Lomalinda.
Looking back on that time,
I feel guilt over my too-slow struggle
to transition out of my Seattle life
and into my Lomalinda life.
But, given what Marilyn Gardner says next,
maybe I should extend a bit of grace
to myself.
“When those places are taken away, we
suffer from a ‘disruption’ of place,” Marilyn continues.
She gave words to what I was going
through—
a ‘disruption’ of place. My battle
had a name.
“The late Paul Tournier, a gifted
Swiss psychologist . . . says that to be human is to need a place, to be rooted
and attached to that place,” Marilyn says. “Many of us downplay this connection
to place by over spiritualizing it or underestimating its importance.
“We need not dismiss it,” Marilyn says, “we need not idolize it; we must only acknowledge it and recognize it as
valid.”
Oh, how I appreciate Marilyn’s
perspective.
If you plan to move to the mission
field,
read Marilyn’s words again.
I hope and pray her message
and what you find here at my blog
will prepare you for a good
experience.
I wish my family and I had had a
better pre-field orientation than we did, and I wish we’d had a better
orientation than we did upon arriving in Lomalinda.
As a newcomer, I wish I’d known it
was okay to still feel an attachment to my Seattle home. I wish I’d known it
was a valid feeling and experience.
But since I didn’t, I felt guilty
and defective, and I blindly stumbled through culture shock and transition out
of it.
Reading Marilyn’s words lifts a
burden. It sets me free.
And now, looking back, I recognize
God was literally doing what
Romans 8:28 says He does:
“God is able to orchestrate
everything
to work toward something good and
beautiful
when we love Him and accept His
invitation
to live according to His plan” (The
Voice).
He was helping me survive the ‘disruption’
of place—helping me gently separate from my most significant ‘place,’ my
Seattle home—and He was making a way for me to find that sense of ‘belonging’ in
Lomalinda.
Though hardly perceptible at the
time, God was helping me become “rooted and attached” to Lomalinda.
He was helping me feel more
comfortable in my new home.
God was leading me into new
opportunities, offering me new perspectives, helping me grasp that there were other
ways to do Life than I thought. He was offering me a new attitude. New goals, new joys.
God was gently, subtly doing a remarkable
work
within and around me
during my initial weeks on the
mission field.
A lot of good things were happening
that would eventually help me
discover
Lomalinda was a good place to live.
God
was helping me find “Happiness, not in another place but this place, not for
another hour, but this hour.” (Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass)
