Sacrifice

I wrote this post recently on one of the days I describe toward the end of it. It was a difficult day. It got better. The difficult days always get better, or at least give way eventually to better days. I considered not publishing this post. I decided to publish it despite my misgivings because if I don’t, I will be hiding one very important part of my life. I do prefer to focus on the positive. I do not want to pretend like the negative doesn’t exist.

Yesterday we—once again—took steps to ensure that we’re prepared in case a country falls apart around us. No, we aren’t expecting anything to happen. But the life that we have chosen is full of uncertainties, of possibilities both good and bad. One possibility for which we must prepare is that of finding ourselves in the middle of a disaster, natural or man-made.

Our drill yesterday was a familiarization exercise. We were asked to meet at our Neighborhood Assembly Point in order to ensure that we all know where it is. While there, we were given a handout with a list of items to have in our go bags and in our 3-day survival kits at home (in case it takes a while for assistance to reach us in the aftermath of a disaster, which here, most likely would be an earthquake). Finally, we were led to a nearby house where some emergency supplies are stored. We were taken in through the front gate, but not until after we were shown the easiest place to hop the fence. After all, we don’t have keys, and we won’t be able to wait around for someone to bring them if we need them. It was just another reminder that, if a situation develops, we’ll need to be creative and proactive to take care of ourselves, our families, and our neighbors until help can get to us.

Jeff came to the assembly point straight from work, so Alexa and I walked there on our own. On the way, Alexa asked where we were going and why. Jeff and I believe that it’s important to be honest with her, even as we try to shelter her from the worst of what life has to offer, so I told her the truth: We were making sure that we knew how to get to the assembly point, because if there was a problem and we needed to leave the country, we may need to get to the assembly point on our own. Of course she wanted to know what could possibly happen to make us have to leave. So I told her that we may have to leave if there was a big earthquake. She accepted that answer easily enough, after I explained what an earthquake is and gave her a sanitized version of the damage it could do.

Then I did something stupid. I told her that she and I already had been evacuated once, from Egypt. Of course she wanted to know why—why didn’t I think about the fact that she’d want to know why? So then I had to explain the concepts of “revolution” and “too dangerous to stay.” Smart little girl that she is, she picked up on the fact that I hadn’t said that Daddy was evacuated, because he wasn’t, so she wanted to know why he stayed and whether he was safe and why it was safe enough for Daddy but not for us. So we got to discuss the fact that Daddy’s job is critical enough (“Mama, what’s ‘critical?’”) that he stays even when it isn’t safe, and that they make it as safe as they can, but that they can’t protect everyone, so they send away everyone who isn’t critical. (“Mama, how do they protect Daddy?”) And one of the ways they protect the critical people is by bringing in extra Marines. (“Mama, what fighting tools do the Marines use?”) Well, they prefer guns, but they also use knives, and in a pinch, they can use their feet and hands, and there’s no one better at fighting than the Marines—I didn’t feel the need to explain Special Forces just yet—so Daddy was very well protected. (“Do the Marines kill bad guys?”) Well, yes, they do, when they have to. (“So the Marines killed any bad guy who tried to hurt Daddy?”) They would have if they’d needed to. And thus it was settled that Daddy was safe. (I also didn’t feel the need to tell her that the Marines actually are there to protect the classified information and systems, and they’ll do that first, but they’ll protect the people too, if they can.) Then we moved on to where Daddy slept at the embassy, and if they had beds, and where the people slept if there weren’t enough beds …

This conversation, followed by the assembly point meeting, reminded me again of the sacrifices we make to live this life. I don’t often dwell on them, and it’s even less often that I mention them. Quite frankly, that’s not what people want to hear about—I’ve even been told that I don’t sacrifice anything, because I chose this life, as if somehow that makes it impossible for it to involve any sacrifice*—and it also isn’t what I want to dwell on. I prefer to think about, and others prefer to hear about, the adventure, the humor, the lessons learned, the exotic locations visited … but not about the sacrifices that are required in exchange for the opportunities.

I don’t like to think or talk about, and others don’t like to hear about, the difficulty of packing up and moving every two or three years. The heart-wrenching goodbyes. The tears cried by a little girl who didn’t fully understand when she said goodbye that it most likely was forever. The ever-present doubts and fears about whether and how this lifestyle will scar the tender heart of a child who knows no other way. The frustration of, once again, having to apologize to every other person you meet because you’re a guest in their country, but you don’t get language training and therefore can’t even say “hello” in their language.

I don’t talk about the days when I’m just done. Done adjusting to another culture. Done with struggling through another trip to a supermarket that may or may not have what I’m looking for, and even if they do, I may not recognize it because the packaging is so different and the label isn’t in English. Done trying to organize and decorate and turn into home another new-to-me house that I didn’t choose. Done searching out people who can become friends, if I can find the time and energy in the midst of all my other adjustments to put in the work to make it happen before the novelty wears off and I’m no longer new and perceived as someone who needs friends. Done saying goodbye to those friends I worked so hard for and who I may or may not ever see again (embassy friends, possibly or even probably; missionary friends, probably not). Done thinking about evacuations and go bags and shelter-in-place kits and dig-out kits and how much and how to explain any of that to an innocent child who simply trusts me to take care of her. Done putting on a happy face because I’m not supposed to struggle with any of this. There are days when I’m just done with all of it, with this whole lifestyle; days when I think it would be easier to give up and move back home to America**.

I’ve had a lot of those days lately. I always do, during the transitions—when I’m leaving a post, when I’ve just arrived at post. I’m keenly aware of the sacrifices during these times … and especially on the days when I get handouts about go bags and shelter-in-place kits. But I don’t want to think about that, much less write about it.

Much better to talk about the adventure, and the funny stories, and the exotic locations. Much better to talk about the adjustments after the fact, when I can talk about lessons learned, skills developed, and strength revealed. Much better to talk about anything.

Anything but the sacrifices.

*The Free Dictionary has several definitions of the verb “sacrifice,” but the most appropriate in this context is the second: “to give up (one thing) for another thing considered to be of greater value.” This definition does not say that one thing is taken by force. It says that one thing is given up, which implies that sacrifices are voluntary; they are choices. So I’m well aware that the person who told me that I don’t make sacrifices because I chose this life doesn’t understand the literal meaning of the word “sacrifice.” I’m also well aware that I did choose this life, including these sacrifices, which is why I don’t often talk much about them.

**On my rational days, I recognize that moving back to America would be easier in some ways, but not in all, and that I would have to give up the things about this life that I love. I’m really not willing to do that just yet … but there are some days when I forget.

The In-Between

We are entering a season of In-Between.

People ask me if I’m ready to leave Kosovo, for my time here to end. My answer confuses even me: “I’d be happy to stay in Kosovo for another year. I like it here. But we aren’t staying; we’re leaving. So I’m ready to go. I’m tired of preparing to leave; I just want to leave already.”

I’m tired of preparing to leave. I’m tired of not knowing if this is the last time I’ll see this particular friend or visit this particular restaurant. I’m tired of hearing of newcomers arriving and shrugging my shoulders and saying, “If they need anything, I’m happy to help—but they’ll be better off hanging out and making friends with people who don’t have one foot on the plane.” My body and my stuff are still here, but my heart is in the process of disconnecting and my head is already gone. I am no longer fully here but not yet fully gone. I’m In-Between.

In roughly three weeks, this part of the In-Between will be over, and we’ll move into the next phase. We’ll be done with the mental preparation and on to the real, tangible sign of our impending move: packout. Our stuff will disappear into boxes and crates. We’ll have one week of living in our house that is no longer our home, with no pictures on the wall, no beloved treasures to remind us of past homes or adventures, no imprint of our family on this house. Alexa will play only with the five toys we allow her to take in her suitcase, I will cook only with borrowed pots and pans, and we will eat only off borrowed dishes. I’m glad we’ll have only one week of that this time—the time after packout is by far my least favorite time at any post. The empty house is not a symbol of possibility and anticipation like it is at the beginning of our time at post; instead, it’s a symbol of endings and loss. After the end, but before the beginning: the In-Between.

Then we’ll be in the most easily recognized In-Between: in between posts. No longer living in Kosovo, not yet living in Greece, just visiting in the United States. Wanderers who can answer the question “Where are you staying?” but not “Where do you live?” Don’t get me wrong; it should be a good summer. We have plans about which we’re excited—attending our first homeschool convention, going on a cruise with friends, renting a townhouse not far from our extended family. It will be a good summer. It’s probably the part of the In-Between that we’ll enjoy most. But it will be a summer of cramming in as much America, as much family, as much time with friends as we can, because it won’t last. It’s only In-Between.

The final stages of the In-Between will be in Greece. Hopefully they’ll be in our “permanent” housing (as much as any housing is permanent in this nomadic lifestyle), though they may be in temporary housing if our assigned quarters aren’t available yet. We’ll be back in an empty house, but this time, the emptiness will be waiting to be filled rather than waiting to be abandoned. We’ll start learning our new neighborhood, our new community, our new language. Eventually the boxes and crates will arrive and be unpacked. Our new house will become our new home. The In-Between will end, at least for a while, and we’ll be home again.

The Ending that is becoming the In-Between will lead to the new Beginning, which eventually will transition into another Ending.

It's a common experience. We all go through changes that include Endings, In-Betweens, and finally, new Beginnings. During these bittersweet times, we mourn the old and anticipate the new. Everyone experiences it as they make life's great transitions: from child to adult, from student to worker, single to married, childless to parent, worker to retiree.

The Foreign Service lifestyle, however, puts this rhythm on an endless loop and hits the fast-forward button. One of the great sacrifices of the Foreign Service lifestyle is the frequent mourning as we say goodbye; one of the great beauties is the frequent anticipation of new adventures, new experiences, and new friends. The In-Between is the transition between and intermingling of the two. Because the Endings and Beginnings happen so frequently in the Foreign Service, sometimes it seems that we live perpetually in the In-Between, that we just barely make it out of the Beginning before the End is back, and so the only part we experience fully is the In-Between. We don't have time to settle, to live, to abide in the comfort—or in the tedium—that we establish during the Beginning, because it so quickly becomes time to dismantle it all for the Ending. Life never becomes routine, at least not for long.

It's perfect for those who crave variety. It's difficult for those who crave stability. I am one of those who craves stability—but at the same time, I also love the adventure and variety of this lifestyle. I am beginning to recognize that I need to satisfy my need for stability not in long periods of time in one place, settled in and comfortable, but in the predictable pattern, the rhythm, the ebb and flow of hellos and goodbyes: the In-Between. 

I need to accept that I live, always, in the In-Between. It is my home, as much as any house ever will be. I need to put pictures on its walls, carpets on its floors, and memory-keepers on its shelves. At times it's more noticeable than at others, but the In-Between is always there. I need to create my stability in routines and traditions that hold up well in all the phases of transition—in the Ending, in the Beginning, and in the In-Between: Friday night pizza, daily devotions with my daughter, evening cups of tea. We need to take the advice I've seen on several expat blogs and create traditions around the Endings and the Beginnings, traditions that create stability, no matter if we're in Egypt or Cambodia or Kosovo or Greece.

I was wrong. The In-Between is not a season we're entering: it's the life we live.

Welcome to the In-Between.

Catching Up

We are almost 5 months into 2015 now … and I haven’t written a single blog post this year. Pathetic, I know. Rather than explaining and justifying and apologizing, let’s just catch up, shall we?

January started off with a bang—we’re in Kosovo: the New Year is celebrated with countless not-so-mini family fireworks displays. I continued enjoying our last true winter for the next few years, while Jeff continued looking forward to its end. (I can’t blame him; he has to drive in the snow and ice, whereas I stay home and enjoy the winter wonderland.)

Toward the end of January, we finally made it out to Gadime Cave, not too far from Prishtina. The Community Liaison Office organized a trip. We decided not to go with the large group—caves plus large groups equals lots of echoing noise, which would not be a great introduction to caves for our sensitive girl—but we did take advantage of the reservation to go a little early with a smaller group. It can be difficult at times to know when the cave will be open, so this opportunity was not to be missed. It was a great morning! The caves were much larger than we anticipated, and Alexa loved exploring them. She didn’t even notice that she also was learning, as she asked question after question about the cave, its features, and the life it contains. I found myself wishing I had an age-appropriate book about caves that we could have read before or after the trip. I’m hoping to correct that oversight and then find another fun cave to explore with her within the next few months.

We spent most of February in the United States. We traveled to Washington, DC, for some appointments and to see some friends. Unfortunately, we only saw about half of the friends we wanted to see—as we landed, my ears grew pillows where my ear drums should be; the next morning, my ears were better but my sinuses were awful, and it only got worse from there. I became so congested that my entire face hurt, even my teeth! After a week, I gave in and went to an urgent care doctor, because I was afraid of what would happen if I flew again 10 days later without treatment. I was diagnosed with a sinus infection and a double ear infection. The antibiotics started helping immediately, so I felt much better for the rest of the trip, but we’d already missed out on visits with a few friends. We hope to see those friends this summer instead.

We arrived back in Kosovo on schedule in late February, but a week later, Alexa and I were back on a plane. There was a medical situation back home with a close family member, and my help was needed. Jeff was needed at work, especially since he’d just returned, so he remained in Kosovo. I am thankful that the medical situation was not as bad as it easily could have been, and my family member seems to have made almost a full recovery. Alexa and I spent our time in the United States helping with everyday tasks and transportation, but we also were able to do fun “America” things like celebrate my sister-in-law’s RN pinning, go to my niece’s football soccer games, and entertain random passersby with Alexa’s TCK questions and comments (for example, “Does everybody in America know the name of that store is Wal-Mart?” and “Why is there more than one McDonald’s?”). We returned to Kosovo just after Jeff’s birthday, at the end of March.

After our second return to Kosovo this year, I realized just how close we are to the end of our time here. I spent a few days getting over jet lag, then dove in and finally started preparing for packout. So far, we’ve rid ourselves of almost all of Alexa’s baby clothes, most of our “we severely overestimated how much Kleenex we’d use” consumables, and several bags of my ill-fitting or unflattering clothes. We’ve sold the elliptical machine for which we expect to have no room in Greece, and we’ve made arrangements to sell our second vehicle once we can get the paperwork in order. I’ve organized several full drawers of small items into labelled gallon-sized Ziploc bags. Now I need to start focusing heavily on my list-making, which has been sadly neglected due to all the travel earlier this year. We’re leaving in less than a month, and I’ve never been so far behind on my preparations.

At some point during and between all these other activities, we completed the Sonlight P4/5 preK curriculum. We ended up dropping a couple of workbooks that were too advanced for Alexa at the time, and there’s still one book in which she has shown no interest whatsoever. I left that book in South Carolina back in March, assuming we could try it again this summer and see if she’s interested then. She’s still working through her Mathematical Reasoning workbook, which she does not do every day—but when she does do it, she wants to keep going and often does 10 or more pages! That is quite the change from when I required her to do it daily, when she resisted and often did no more than 2 pages. We intend to continue working through this book over the summer until it’s done, as well as continuing to “play” Reading Eggs and Math Seeds. I’ll have to do another post about our plans for homeschool next year, as I never finished that series, and we’ve changed our plans for language arts. 

That’s for another time, though.

Right now I have some lists to make.

Be Our Guests

But bring your own chairs … and steak knives … and look out for the birds. Really. I’m not kidding.

On Memorial Day, Jeff and I hosted guests in our home for the first time since we’ve been here. We had not received our HHE yet, so we had only basic home items, but Jeff has a new grill, he wanted to try it out, we wanted to have our sponsors over, it was Memorial Day, and we knew that after that weekend, we wouldn’t be hosting anyone else until August. (Our HHE was delivered later in the week, and we are busy unpacking it, trying to get it done before we take our home leave in the United States this summer.) We figured that we have the necessities: a grill, grill utensils, a few Pyrex dishes, and some beer; we’d buy the rest of what we need—plastic plates, utensils, and cups. It shouldn’t be a problem, right?

Yeah …

It started out easily enough. Jeff put the frozen ribs down to thaw and found a recipe online for grilling them. I made a list of the ingredients I needed for the macaroni and cheese and the brownie pudding cake I was making for dessert.

Then I realized that we have seating for four on our patio, and we were inviting four people over, in addition to the three who live here. No problem. Jeff sent a text message notifying our guests that our outdoor seating options are limited, and it would be appreciated if they could be lawn chairs.

Then I got overconfident. I didn’t want to go to the supermarket on Sunday afternoon, when it was sure to be crowded. I wanted to wait until Monday morning. I’d have plenty of time if I got up at a reasonable hour and got moving instead of being lazy.

Then we had a later night than expected on Sunday. And then Jeff got a phone call around midnight and had to go in to the office for a couple of hours to fix some problem with the computers. So it really would have been unreasonable of me to expect him to get up early enough for me to make an early run to the supermarket—instead, I watched Alexa while he slept late, and then he woke himself up early enough for me to get a shower and still make it to the supermarket shortly after 10.

Then, while caring for Alexa and waiting for Jeff to wake up the morning of Memorial Day, I realized that we should have appetizers, too. It’s not really kosher to invite people over and then say that they can’t eat anything until the ribs are done, especially when you’re grilling for the first time and therefore can’t say with certainty when the ribs will be done. So I added chips to the shopping list.

Then I got ambitious. I looked through my recipe books and found one—and only one—recipe for an appetizer for which I thought I probably could get all the required ingredients: backyard bruschetta with feta and tomato toppings. I added the necessary ingredients to the list.

Then I realized that the only kitchen knives currently on the premises were two steak knives, a santoku, and a paring knife—we found out on the first day of our packout that Cambodia has a strange restriction on the transport of knives, so we couldn’t put any in our UAB; those few came with us in our suitcases. This shouldn’t be a problem; it’s a strange request, but our sponsors will understand and probably think it’s funny, so … send another text message notifying our guests that it would be helpful if they brought some steak knives, too.

Then, after I had pre-prepared the macaroni and cheese (I had cooked and assembled it, but was waiting for the appropriate time to put it in the oven) and the bruschetta (I had made the two topping layers but had not sliced or toasted the bread) and as I was getting ready to pre-prepare the dessert, I realized that Jeff’s grilling activities also required preparatory work … and dishes … in the kitchen … in the galley-style, sized-for-one-person kitchen where I needed to be. And he needed my two-cup measuring cup … which I also needed. So we bumped shoulders while he used the measuring cup to make the rib sauce and I did Step 1 of my 4-step dessert. Then he finished with the measuring cup and cleaned it out. We bumped shoulders some more while I did Step 2 (the step requiring the measuring cup) and he prepped the meat for the application of the sauce. We danced around each other collecting ingredients, used whatever work space we could find that wasn’t full of person, dishes, or supplies, and generally made a big mess.

Then, while we were still in the process of making the mess (in our wide-open-to-and-clearly-visible-from-the-dining-room/playroom/pathway-to-the-patio kitchen), it was time for our guests to arrive. Oops.

Luckily, they were a little late. I had time to add the dessert to my growing pile of ready-for-the-next-step food, do a quick clean up of the worst of the mess in the kitchen (it was still embarrassingly dirty), slice the bread, and put the bread in the oven to toast—there was no room for it on our small grill with the big rack of ribs that Jeff had on there.

Then the doorbell rang. I rushed downstairs to welcome our guests and ushered them upstairs into the play/dining room … and the open kitchen (where the bread had started burning in the two minutes I was downstairs). The kids and men went outside to play and grill, and we women went into the kitchen, where my guest took it all in stride and jumped in with the food preparation.

Finally the appetizers were ready and the macaroni was in the oven. I stepped outside—and realized that although our guests had been there for about half an hour at that point, we had neglected to offer them anything to drink (an unpardonable sin to this Southern girl), because I was caught up in kitchen work and Jeff was caught up in grill work. Oops. That situation rectified, I settled in to relax for a few minutes until it was time to pull the macaroni out of the oven, boil some water to pour over the dessert (Step 3), and then put the dessert in the oven (Step 4).

Finally, dessert in the oven, I could really settle in to relax with our guests.

Then the meat was ready, so we set up a buffet inside on the dining room table—there wasn’t nearly enough room on our small patio table. We all relaxed during the meal … although Jeff did have to get up every once in a while to baste the second rack of ribs (which turned out to be unneeded) and check the chicken (also unneeded).

After dinner, we relaxed on the patio for a while longer. Then I reminded everyone that we had dessert too. We ate all of one brownie pudding cake … a surprisingly easy, surprisingly good fudgy brownie on top of a layer of pudding, plus ice cream. Alexa had three servings (small ones). One of our adult guests had two—a welcome surprise, as I’d pegged her for a healthy eater (if a healthy eater eats two helpings of dessert, it must have been good!).

Later, when it got late enough that we were concerned about children undergoing the “it’s past my bedtime” transformation from sweet little people into little monsters, we were moving things back inside the house when Jeff came in carrying a plate of leftover bruschetta.

“I’m not sure, but … I think a bird just stole a piece of bruschetta.”

The perfect wacky ending to a not-so-perfect wacky, but highly enjoyable, time with friends.