living overseas – Rachel Allord

Vertigo

Two weeks ago, I was in Switzerland, gifted (literally) with a retreat for the women in our organization. Even as a writer, it’s hard to find words to sum up the time. Stunning comes the closest to describe the experience on all fronts: physically, relationally, spiritually.

One morning I walked to Burgruine Unspunen, old castle ruins from 1232 situated not far from our accommodation:

I was there alone and gleefully poked around the various ‘rooms’, all the while marveling at the surrounding alps, the gentle jangle of the cowbells ringing out over all. And then I saw this:

A well, I assume. Such a foreboding sight in an otherwise uplifting setting. Imagine ending up there, I thought, peering down so long I creeped myself out. That shot of the well is the one un-pretty picture I took from my jaunt in Switzerland.

I came home late Friday night, eager to show my family the other photos, the aqua blue glacier fed lakes, the grassy green foothills, the snow-capped alps.

But the next morning I felt as If I had fallen – no, I felt as if I was falling into that well, never to be caught. The dizziness didn’t end. The nausea didn’t cease. It went on and on and on and on and on…

Vertigo, is what it’s been labeled after visiting two GP visits and one Chiropractor. (whether it’s the standard ‘ear crystal’ type or due to fluids/blockage in my ears I don’t know. I’m improving slowly. Slooooowly.)

Whatever it is and whatever is causing it, I have never experienced anything like it before. Unless I was lying down, I was falling, or so it seemed, careening off those gorgeous mountains I had just experienced into a dark, hard, and frightening place.

You can do a lot of thinking and praying and writing in your head lying flat on your back. Over the past 13 days, I spoke certain words and phrases into my phone, or scratched them in my journal, and eventually cobbled this poem.

I’m sharing it because although circumstances differ, I know I’m surrounded by others who are experiencing their own sense of vertigo, whether it be physical, relational, spiritual, or emotional. Who hasn’t been jarred, exasperated, perhaps exhausted by life’s highs and lows?

Jesus has known the highest high and the lowest low; he empathizes like no other. God is with us in both.

And while nobody welcomes it, falling causes us to instinctively reach out and grab something – or rather someone – who is constant and certain, faithful and true.

Vertigo

You lift me high,

so high.

Up to the peaks in a Swiss alp sky,

where fear gets a thrashing and anxiety dies,

grace rolls like green hills and hope multiplies

as what lay buried stands up alive.

You bring me low,

So low.

Down to the end of myself I go,

to the grave of my doing,

past the tantrum of my soul

where pride lays in pieces and my mind seeks to know

your heart so wounded,

your death crushed soul.

From heaven you came to the belly of the low

To be raised on a tree, to the grave to go.

Death sneered for two nights

to be trampled on the third,

my God did not forsake you

my God so loved the world.

You’re in the sunshine

you’re in shade.

You bring the stillness

you bring the waves

that crash me to your shelter and pin me to your side,

Shepherd of the struck-down low

High King of the skies.

Fighting Foxes

There are foxes in London.

Shortly after we moved here, when I first glimpsed one slinking down the street, I actually cooed, like we all do over a puppy. I know, I know… All of my London friends are shaking their heads at this silly Yankee but in my defense, although plenty of deer visited our house in Wisconsin, including an eight-pointer that engaged me in a staring contest (and won), I was not as familiar with foxes. So, I was a bit intrigued by the cunning little faces that often appeared at dusk.

During that same settling into London time when emotions were raw, one of the songs I listened to repeatedly was Audrey Assad’s Good to Me.

Here’s one of the lines:

And the foxes in the vineyard will not steal my joy.

This line floated into mind whenever I spotted a bushy red tail, still naive as to how these solitary creatures might be joy-thieves. Honestly, I felt a little sorry for them. So battered and scrawny looking (not quite like the above handsome Image by rottonara from Pixabay ) Always alone. They seemed harmless enough.

And then this happened:

And then it happened again.

And again.

Garbage disposals aren’t a thing here, so food waste goes in biodegradable bags which are collected on rubbish day. Unless a fox intercepts it and has a picnic in the middle of the night. Which happens. A lot.

Not only do the foxes manage to pick the latch to the bin, shred the bag, toss the eggshells all over, pick through what they want and have a food fight with whatever they reject, they then have the audacity to leave behind foul-smelling piles. As if to say, ha ha Loser, I won. (sidenote: I have a friend who has an even better – and therefore worse – story of a fox entering her house during the night, ransacking what he could find in the kitchen, and making an unwanted deposit on her sofa.)

Yes, foxes steal joy.

We thought we had ‘done enough’ to keep our sly thief away by securing the latch on the food bin. But the rascal kept getting in. Apparently, there’s an art to keeping the foxes out. Our neighbor showed us how to trap the food bin with the bigger wheelie bins. It takes more effort but so far that’s working. Fingers crossed.

Back to the foxes and vineyard line. What’s that about? The above song lyric is loosely based on Song of Solomon 2:15.

Catch for us the foxes,

the little foxes

that ruin the vineyards,

our vineyards that are in bloom.

Look it up in context and you’ll see these rather obscure words were spoken at a wedding, sandwiched between ‘your face is lovely, and your voice is sweet’ and ‘My beloved is mine and I am his’. So why talk about foxes at a time like this?

I haven’t conducted an in-depth study but maybe because what is good, like a vineyard or a relationship, can be ruined by something bad, like a fox or destructive behavior. So be on guard.

Taken literally, a fox would eat up, trample on, and defecate on a place that is meant for sweet-smelling, fruit to flourish. Vineyard owners must root out foxes. Their livelihood depends on it. The fruit must be protected. And it’s best to catch those foxes when they’re little to minimize the damage.

As followers of Christ, we are called to bear fruit… to do good works that glorify our Father in heaven (Matt 5:16). We are not saved by the good that we do; we are saved so that we can do good. But something can steal our joy, our peace, our time, our patience, our fruit.

In a word, sin. Other people’s sin and our own. It’s easy to brush off our own sin, even attempt to laugh it away. Sin may look relatively harmless. Why make such a big deal of it? How archaic. How unenlightened.

But sin is a sly fox. It leads to destruction and death. Sin has always been the problem, and it’s very much the problem now. For you and for me, for our children and our neighbors.

I used to think foxes were harmless, now I know they are destructive. Foxes are on the prowl to devour. Foxes will not simply disappear, nor will they change their ways. We had to change our ways in order to prevent the destruction they caused.

I don’t hate foxes, (to be honest, I still find them fascinating) but they do make an apt comparison to sin:

Sin may seem harmless, but it destroys. Satan, the father of lies who can masquerade as “good”, is on the prowl to devour. Sin is real and it will not simply disappear. (But it won’t exist in heaven, hooray!) We have to rely on God, on his Holy Spirit, to change us and to teach us say no to sin as we:

Confess our sin. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. 1 John 1:9

Flee from sin. But as for you, O man of God, flee these things. Pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, steadfastness, gentleness. 1 Timothy 6:11

Know and obey God’s precepts. I rejoice in following your statutes, as one rejoices in great riches. Psalm 119:14, (but really all of Psalm 119)

Fully trust in Jesus. There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus for the law of sin and death. Romans 8:1

Throughout our lifetime, we will continue to sin. We will need to ask for forgiveness and we will need to forgive others. Resting and relying on God’s grace isn’t our license to coddle our sin, to take a sly fox and treat it as a pet.

As we head into Easter, maybe you’re more familiar with colored eggs and chocolate bunnies and less familiar with how Christ took care of our sin problem when he died and rose to life. Maybe you don’t know that he left to prepare a home for us that will be free from sin and pain. Why not read through the gospel of Luke and ask God to reveal himself to you?

It’s the best news ever. Death was conquered. The mess of our sin taken care of. Forgiveness offered. Maybe you don’t know, or have forgotten, that God’s story of redemption can include you.

Christian, seek him.

Doubter, seek him.

He is the only, ultimate answer to life’s mess, the slayer of our sins.

10 Cultural London Surprises

Ten Cultural London Surprises (from an American Midwesterner’s point of view)

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My Love. For a city known for its aloofness, strangers sure can come on strong. Don’t take it seriously when the Tesco bloke (grocery delivery) or cashier at Wilko (a wannabe baby Target) refers to you as My love. Your love? I hardly know you!
You alright? Americans only ask, “Are you alright?” when someone is obviously not alright. If one has tripped or is crying or throwing up. When something bad has happened, that’s the time to ask, “You alright?” So you can understand my alarm when, a couple months after moving here, not one, not two, but three people at church asked me, you alright? I thought I was alright, but apparently, I wasn’t. Was something on my face? Did I look ill or irritated? Who had died? What did they know that I didn’t know?!
When back for a visit in the States, “You alright” slipped past my lips when I greeted my brother-in-law. His look of confused suspicion coupled with a drawn-out speculative “yeeeeees?” no doubt mirrored my reaction a year earlier. Now I know better. You alright? is equivalent to the American How’s it going?
Pants = underwear. Always. Spare yourself the humiliation. Practice saying trousers. You’re welcome.
Fancy and Proper. Two very common words that don’t mean what you think they mean. In the U.S. fancy and proper mean just about the same thing. Not so here:
U.S. Proper = formal. “Look how prim and proper she’s acting at the wedding.”
UK Proper = actual, real. “This is a proper rain, not a mere sprinkle.” The burgers
served at UK restaurant chain Proper Burgers don’t come with tiny top hats, they’re merely claiming to be the real deal, not like the greasy floppy discs you get at McDonald’s.
U.S. Fancy – adjective. “You look so fancy in that frilly lace dress.”
UK Fancy – verb. “Fancy a walk? Fancy a cuppa?” I’m a big fan of the UK’s definition of fancy. Not only is it efficient, it sounds better than, Do you wanna…? I suggest Americans embrace this usage immediately.
xxx. At first the tiny x’s that appeared at the end of texts or emails from British friends left me confused. Could those really be kisses? Like the kind five-year-old Americans reserve for Mommy’s Valentine’s Day card? Yep. How sweet is that? It’s customary (and automatic) for women to include one, two, or three kisses at the end of correspondences. Maybe the number of x’s mean something (I haven’t seen more than xxx), I’m not sure yet. At any rate, I’ve implemented this charming little practice with a few American friends, although as typical excessive Americans, we’ve gone overboard:
Rachel xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The weather. The English can talk for decades about the weather. With good reason. The weather here can be as erratic as a cat on crack. You know that scene in Mary Poppins where one minute the wind carries away all the nannies and the next minute the sun bursts through the clouds? Yeah, that’s accurate. I kid you not, one day it was sunny in my back garden and raining in the front. But talking about the weather comes with hidden depths apparently, as a friend explained. Taking to someone about the weather is a social test of sorts, an invitation for potential connection. When you bring up the weather you are, in essence, saying to the other person do you accept me? Therefore, you’re always supposed to agree. It’s like opening the door for a guest and saying, come in and know me better. Wish I would have known that.
Stranger, to me, trying to be nice: What a ghastly day! It’s so terribly cold today, isn’t it?
What I should have said: Yes, simply horrid! Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
What I – being both too literal and from Wisconsin – actually said: Oh today’s not so bad. Where I’m from this is nothing!
Whoops. Sorry person at the bus stop. Sorry for trampling on the olive branch of friendship you were tentatively holding out to me.
This ceremony underscores a greater difference: Americans default to talking about themselves, their experiences/opinions/feelings (“I had the best hamburger there” “I hated that movie”) whereas the English readily talk about information and, at least initially, steer away from themselves. (“That pub was established in 1663” “According to The Sun that movie lost over 1 million pounds”) Both groups certainly know how to operate outside out of their cultural comfort zone, but we generally and often unknowingly default to it.
Public Transportation may take over your life. Or at least your day. Like the weather, we’re all at its mercy. When public transport (buses/tubes/trains/trams) operates as it should, London is the best city ever. But when it turns fickle and you find yourself in a downpour waiting for the 163 bus that, unbeknownst to you, went on strike, or you’ve already tapped in but missed your train by a nanosecond and the next one’s not due for thirty minutes, or when you’re in Paddington Station and have to trek your weary self from the Bakerloo line to Hammersmith and City, London is drained of all its charms. Not all Tube lines (or busses) are created equal and you learn to play favorites. The Northern line screams at you like a banshee, the Victoria line, while endearing, is a bazillion degrees all the time, (Fahrenheit or Celsius, take your pick) and the Piccadilly line holds too many tourists and their too big suitcases. (Which, yes, is me at times). Give me the roomy, air-conditioned District line with its rooftop views any day.
Frustrations notwithstanding, London’s transportation system is a marvel, a cosmopolitan beast that induces respect, a little fear, and frequent jolts of exhilaration. Descend to the bowels of the city and partake in the magnificent maze that makes up London’s underground (192 feet at its deepest point!) but for the love of life, stand on the right!
Laughing, smiling, and Customer service. Americans, don’t leave a nasty TripAdvisor review if your London waiter fails to smile. Unknowingly, Americans often have high expectations for customer service, because the good ol’ U.S. of A does customer service really well. The rest of the world, however, might not match what you’ve come to believe as “standard service”. Sometimes you pay for the toilet. You have to ask for water, and sometimes you end up paying for that, too. The customer is not always right. People visit America to experience these indulgences. (I once asked an English teenager what she thought of her first trip to America and her first response was, the toilets are huge!) If you keep smiling at your server, chances are you’ll get a smile in return. But don’t expect it. The rest of the world just doesn’t think smiling is as normal as we do.
Americans are trained to give feedback. From the tiniest of babies, we’re taught to flash our “big toothy American grins” as one British friend put it. We laugh more than the rest of the world, too. When something’s funny, or when it’s not. If we’re feeling uncomfortable, or if the room is too quiet. (We don’t do well with long silences.) And if we’re sarcastic and joking, we often actually say the words, “I’m joking!”
The Brits, and probably the rest of Europe? Not so much. I’m not saying they don’t laugh and smile, it’s just not a cultural pastime. They’ll take the mick out of you, they just never tell you it’s happening, so you might not know. My advice? Just laugh regardless. It is the American way.
(To be fair, the English seem to do a better job of serving one another inside the home. In the States, it’s a sign of friendship if I tell you to rummage through my fridge and get the milk yourself whereas here, a good friend would make and serve you a cuppa just how you like it.)
Instruction & Process. The English person’s appreciation for following a tried and true process is best expressed by examples of my observations:
On the bus, one high school student to another: “You ought to eat more fruit while you’re revising (aka studying) and be sure to go to bed early.
A friend to my husband: “You ought to be wearing a scarf; it’s cold outside.”
At the park, a dad training his son who was training the dog: “No, stand here, right here, speak firmer, and maintain eye contact.”
At church, the minister to the congregation at a candlelit service (my favorite) : “In the event of a fire, please remain calmly in your seats and someone will give you instructions on how to exit.”
Following the proper process leads to well-trained dogs (they put American dogs to shame), order and calmness during a fire and, another thing I’ve noticed, children who are promptly tucked into bed at seven pm. The fact that I’ve even noticed these, and other, instructional statements showcase that things are different here than in the States. Generally speaking, Americans don’t like to be told what to do and don’t relish telling others what to do. The positive side? Lots of freedom and generosity in individuality. Entrepreneurship, exploration, and innovation. But we might get the teeniest bit defensive if we sense someone might be encroaching upon our “right” to do things our way. Which is why I was fascinated when a dinner guest (originally from mainland Europe) asked, “What does it mean when Americans say, It’s none of your business?” What does it mean? It means we love our freedom, thinking outside the box, exploring possibilities. And we sometimes, sadly, forget that we’re accountable to society on a whole. Sometimes we aren’t as respectful to authority as we should be. (And the fact that I’m comparing the U.S. to the UK, an independent, western civilization, only further highlights America’s strong independent streak.)
Words. When it comes to vocabulary, the English have a large, vibrant arsenal.
Coming from America, where we tend to recycle a handful of adjectives (Awesome! Cool! Great!) and overuse superlatives (“We had the best time!”), I find this both inspiring and intimidating. Even kids throw around words like conundrum and repugnant. (Don’t get me wrong, you’ll hear your fill of four-letter words as well.) Such meticulous attention to words is mostly exhilarating, yet sometimes exhausting. I once heard a lady correct her young (maybe four-year-old?) traveling companion that people weren’t merely getting off the train, but that passengers were alighting. When my teenage daughter asked a stranger if she could please tell her how to get to Wimbledon, the woman responded with, “I could” and waited for the proper execution of would. Sometimes fifty words are used when ten would have sufficed.

In closing, I’ll let two literary giants, British writer Charles Dickens and American writer John Steinbeck demonstrate this difference in their own words:

“In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a distance of about twelve miles from London–measuring from the Standard in Cornhill,’ or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standard used to be in days of yore–a house of public entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travelers as could neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both of travelers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblem reared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman drew.”

Charles Dickens, Barnaby Rudge

“There ain’t no sin and there ain’t no virtue. There’s just stuff people do.”
John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

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Just an American in England on the 4th of July

4^th of July, 2019.

It’s strange to be here in lovely London. Today will not include fireworks or sparklers or hotdogs or star-shaped, red Jell-O jigglers or parades or flags waving or freedom from school. It will include watermelon and corn on the cob corn salad and celebrating with American friends. It’s just past eight in the morning and the hubs and I have already sung along to Proud to be an American and John Mellencamps’s Pink Houses (aka Ain’t that America). Undoubtedly the words Oh say can you see will escape my lips at some point today; it can’t be helped. And once you start in on that bravado you have to finish and finish big, high notes and all. I’ll do my best to refrain on the tube.

But the lyrics from My Country Tis of Thee (aka America) were running through my mind when I woke up. Since the tune is borrowed from England’s national anthem, I felt compelled to take a closer look at both songs:

God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen!
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen!

In 1831, American Samuel Francis Smith took that melody and penned these words:

My country tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died!
Land of the Pilgrim’s pride!
From every mountain side,
Let freedom ring!

It was a hit, resonating so profoundly with fellow Americans that the song became the unofficial National Anthem. (Although the words to The Star-Spangled Banner were penned in 1814, it wasn’t set to music, and thereby becoming America’s national anthem, until 1931.)

Was twenty-four-year-old seminary student Mr. Smith trying to be snarky? Stick it to Britain, more than fifty years after fighting a bloody war for independence? I don’t think so. Borrowing tunes was common enough (In fact the original melody is believed by some to hail from Germany). Yet you can’t help noting some differences.

Take England’s national anthem. Did you notice how many times Queen is mentioned? Four. Five if you count the pronoun her. She’s the star of the song, the theme of the prayer. And speaking of pronouns, they’re all our and us, not a single me or I. We want her (our glorious queen) to reign over us. Together. Collectively. As it should be. We’re unanimous in that.

The pronouns in America’s version speak of stark independence, I and me. It’s a celebration of my personal freedom, while paying homage to those who fought it for me. The theme of the song is freedom, and the thankfulness that stirs in me. (Mr. Smith does lead the song to communal-ness in the fourth and final verse with lines such as Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our King. It’s really quite beautiful.)

These nuances not only allude to the political differences between a monarchy and a republic, but also point to cultural differences in mindset, in how we, often unknowingly, operate in the world. Do we view individual freedom or collective unanimity as top priority? Do we make a display of our patriotic love of country or do we adopt a quieter approach? Are we encouraged or uncomfortable talking about self and personal emotions?

I’m not trying to completely Freud this up. I’m just an American living in England on the Fourth of July, letting my thoughts wander and taking you with me.

I do attest that all of these culture distinctions aren’t a good/bad, right/wrong kind of thing. I don’t think one group loves their country more than another. We might show our affection differently, and we also might fall into the danger of making snap assessments:

You can see how Americans might view brits as stoic.

You can see how Brits might view Americans as overly excited.

And you can see how both of these traits might be a little bit true.

Culture is built into us from birth, with such subtlety and steadfastness we are usually unaware of the role it plays until said culture is challenged. Until we find ourselves on foreign soil on the fourth of July and realize no one else is waving thier American flag. (Don’t worry. I’m not.)

For whatever it’s worth, wherever you are, Happy 4^th!

What Remains

IMG_E9516 — *Notre Dame de Paris • 13 April, 2019*

If you would have told the me in this picture, the me of 4 days ago, that Notre Dame would go up in flames, I wouldn’t have believed you. Having walked the city for thirteen miles the previous day, we were tired, on the last leg of our 36-hour jaunt in the city before returning to our friends’ house on the outskirts of Paris. “You at least have to see Notre Dame,” I told my fourteen-year-old. “You can’t go to Paris and not see Notre Dame.”

Three days later, back in London, watching the cathedral engulfed in flame on BBC News, I wondered if this statement would be tragically and irrevocably altered: Would anything of Notre Dame remain to be seen? It’s a tragic blow to the heart of a passionate city. A huge loss.

Nothing lasts. What was considered fixed, sure, unmovable, no longer is. It’s not the first time we’ve been shocked by such unexpected and sudden destruction: Twin Towers. Grenfell Tower. Countless buildings, homes, historical artifacts lost to wars all over the world. Sadly, it won’t be the last.

Last.

Nothing lasts.

Well, not nothing. Almost nothing.

Two things. That’s it. Two earthly things will remain: the Word of God, and people.

Last night, as we watched Notre Dame burn, we received news that friends of friends were killed in a car accident while on holiday.

Last night, as we watched Notre Dame burn, we heard from friends whose child is suffering severely yet doctors can give no answers, no relief.

These tragedies, this kind of human suffering, and countless others, force us to prioritize the loss of Notre Dame. Not erase the loss, not let it go un-mourned, prioritize it. God did not become flesh, die, and rise again to save buildings or animals or nature or the planet; he came to save people. We are the prize of his creation, we are imprinted with his image. Human loss is a tragedy. like no other. Jesus wept at the death of Lazarus, he wept moments before he raised him back to life.

We humans are born rebels, beloved, and in his image. We are granted the freedom and ability to do awful things and beautiful things. We are implored to seek the Lord while he may be found and call on him while he is near. We are able to imagine and create things like great cathedrals that point to someone higher, someone greater, someone who always was and will always be.

I am the Alpha and the Omega—the beginning and the end,” says the Lord God. “I am the one who is, who always was, and who is still to come—the Almighty One. (Revelation 1:8)

But the Word of the Lord remains forever. (1 Peter 1:25)

The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever. (1 John 2:17)

And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous will go into eternal life. (Matthew 25:46)

…dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. (Ecclesiastes 12:7)

Seek the LORD while he may be found; call on him while he is near. (Isaiah 55:6)

A Pilgrim in Progress

Since the world outside of the U.S. doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, here in London this past Thursday was, in many ways just another ordinary day. Except that it wasn’t. It was Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday.

So Doug and I traveled into the city on a jammed packed rush hour train to attend “Thanksgiving Day Service for the American Community in London” at St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was grand and gorgeous. We sang Come Ye Thankful People Come and America the Beautiful (sniffle, sniffle) accompanied by a thousand other Americans living in the UK, and a hearty pipe organ. Yet if I could have blinked and transported across the ocean, to my son, to family, to the comfortable familiar, I would have. Ironically, the pilgrims felt more tangible than any other year, and in a teensy way I related to some of their plight: I longed for home, for family an ocean apart. I yearned for the familiar that was left behind.After the service, the woman originally from Delaware sitting next to us with whom we’d been chatting said, “Enjoy becoming in-betweeners”. She knew what she was talking about it, living in London these past thirty years. She knew what straddling the ocean was like, having one foot in a different continent.

Kimberly and Alex, part of ReachGlobal team

Later that evening, we feasted on a modified Thanksgiving dinner of roast chicken, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranberry chutney, broccoli casserole (made without Velveeta because unless you want to spend 89 pounds on amazon, it’s unattainable). Doug explained the Mayflower account to our guests, a couple from our church, and we went around the table and shared something(s) we were thankful for. It was sweet, and grew the lump in my throat that had formed during the St. Paul’s service. And then yesterday, Sunday, we were treated to real turkey and green bean casserole (doesn’t get any more American than that) and all the fixings by a British husband/American wife family

I’m not going to lie; Thanksgiving Day was difficult. I missed the markings of home, the pie social and parade and the sound of American football, and above all family. But God was good. He graciously gave us three Thanksgiving memories to cherish, and a newfound appreciation for citizenship.

You don’t often consider your country of citizenship, until you’re not living in your country of citizenship, but trying to secure a bank account and a school and a home and a doctor (when your daughter sprains her ankle) as a noncitizen opens your eyes to the fact that Citizenship is everything. My compassion for foreigners and immigrants has been stoked, and I’m in a country where I can understand about 85% of the language. No joke.

Moving somewhere, living somewhere, doesn’t magically turn you into a citizen. Citizenship comes by birth or by deliberate choice and effort. So when Paul says, “our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ” this is no sugary sentiment. Citizenship defines who we are, it trumps home. We are making a home here in London, but that doesn’t change our American citizenship. We do live here on earth, but as believers in Christ, our citizenship is in heaven.

And the citizens that make up heaven will be from every tribe, tongue, and corner of the world, and that is something to be thankful for.

So excited about the food, we failed to get a picture of our wonderful hosts!