I lost my purse today. I'm not sure if it's lost or stolen. Regardless, it's gone. I've turned the house and car upside down. No luck.
Well, that's not really true. There are some lucky things. I have my wallet, car keys, and phone. Now how, you might wonder, could someone lose a purse but keep all those important items? Let's just call it God's mercy.
The reason I can't sleep tonight is because of what WAS in there. There were school registration forms, thankfully still blank. There was a sheet about Parker's upcoming musical performance at school, bearing his grade, and first and last name. There was my new favorite book, A Simplified Life. (Oh, the irony.) Some cards - Mother's day, thank you, thinking of you, etc. But most importantly...drum roll please...MY JOURNAL.
That is what has me sweating bullets. I think and write some crazy stuff, y'all. In the midst of my repatriation blues, I was recording thoughts that could have me locked away. I'm not even kidding. It's where I pray, where I sob, where I praise, where I am completely uncensored.
I used to think I was an open book. I think I was more open when the kids were teeny tiny. Then we moved abroad. Besides being on sensory and emotional overload, freedom of speech was a thing of the past. I knew that anything I wrote could be monitored. I knew of a blogger hiding out in the U.S. to avoid prosecution in his country because he had said some pretty unflattering things about the government. I decided, better safe than sorry. I stopped blogging almost entirely, save for some travel posts and the kids' birthday posts.
When my online reflections ended, two things happened: I stopped reflecting as much, and when I did, I utilized my journal. The problem with a journal is that it is completely uncensored. There is no storyline, no narrative. Blogging forced me to pause and ponder. It made me want to articulate my thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something that made sense. I missed it, and I looked forward to returning to States, to opening up again.
But that didn't really happen. I came back, yes, but I came back changed. Someone once described the expatriation experience like play dough. You come from a country where everyone thinks "red play dough." You move to a country where everyone thinks "yellow play dough." Eventually, you think "orange play dough," and there is absolutely no way to separate them again. Your world view has changed.
I have wanted to write about repatriation and why it feels so hard, but I also don't want to. I don't want to be misunderstood. I don't want people to think I don't love the States. I do. I just see the world a little [ok, a lot] differently now. I still don't think I can adequately explain it, and I'm not ready to try.
The only place I felt secure writing about my feelings was in the dang missing journal. It is raw and oh-so-personal. I am praying tonight that whoever finds my purse will be utterly bored with the contents and chuck the whole bag! Meanwhile, I will try to see the silver lining. Maybe God is reminding me that a journal is not my security. He is.
You are my hiding place! You protect me from trouble, and you put songs in my heart because you have saved me.
Psalm 32:7
Well, that's not really true. There are some lucky things. I have my wallet, car keys, and phone. Now how, you might wonder, could someone lose a purse but keep all those important items? Let's just call it God's mercy.
The reason I can't sleep tonight is because of what WAS in there. There were school registration forms, thankfully still blank. There was a sheet about Parker's upcoming musical performance at school, bearing his grade, and first and last name. There was my new favorite book, A Simplified Life. (Oh, the irony.) Some cards - Mother's day, thank you, thinking of you, etc. But most importantly...drum roll please...MY JOURNAL.
That is what has me sweating bullets. I think and write some crazy stuff, y'all. In the midst of my repatriation blues, I was recording thoughts that could have me locked away. I'm not even kidding. It's where I pray, where I sob, where I praise, where I am completely uncensored.
I used to think I was an open book. I think I was more open when the kids were teeny tiny. Then we moved abroad. Besides being on sensory and emotional overload, freedom of speech was a thing of the past. I knew that anything I wrote could be monitored. I knew of a blogger hiding out in the U.S. to avoid prosecution in his country because he had said some pretty unflattering things about the government. I decided, better safe than sorry. I stopped blogging almost entirely, save for some travel posts and the kids' birthday posts.
When my online reflections ended, two things happened: I stopped reflecting as much, and when I did, I utilized my journal. The problem with a journal is that it is completely uncensored. There is no storyline, no narrative. Blogging forced me to pause and ponder. It made me want to articulate my thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something that made sense. I missed it, and I looked forward to returning to States, to opening up again.
But that didn't really happen. I came back, yes, but I came back changed. Someone once described the expatriation experience like play dough. You come from a country where everyone thinks "red play dough." You move to a country where everyone thinks "yellow play dough." Eventually, you think "orange play dough," and there is absolutely no way to separate them again. Your world view has changed.
I have wanted to write about repatriation and why it feels so hard, but I also don't want to. I don't want to be misunderstood. I don't want people to think I don't love the States. I do. I just see the world a little [ok, a lot] differently now. I still don't think I can adequately explain it, and I'm not ready to try.
The only place I felt secure writing about my feelings was in the dang missing journal. It is raw and oh-so-personal. I am praying tonight that whoever finds my purse will be utterly bored with the contents and chuck the whole bag! Meanwhile, I will try to see the silver lining. Maybe God is reminding me that a journal is not my security. He is.
You are my hiding place! You protect me from trouble, and you put songs in my heart because you have saved me.
Psalm 32:7
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