17 Things I Love About My Husband

Recently, my heart was broken when I had to say goodbye to my newborn adopted son. I feared it was broken beyond repair. As I try to put the pieces back together, I find myself reminded of the many blessings God has placed in my life. I am grateful for my parents, who dropped everything and rushed to support and comfort me in my hour of need. I am grateful for my stepdaughters, whose exuberance for life remind me to find joy in every moment. But most of all, I am grateful for my husband, who shows me daily that he loves me, who shares the burden of pain, and who is the best friend I have ever had.

There are so many things I love about my husband – so many reasons that make me grateful to have him in my life. In honor of his birthday, here are seventeen of them…

He is the eternal optimist. I have spent most of my life thinking the cup was half empty. I see potential problems looming in the future. I anticipate the worst. But my husband is the opposite. Every morning, he wakes up ready for great things to happen in his day. He finds the positive in every situation. He finds the best in each person with whom he interacts. He anticipates success. His way of thinking is rubbing off on me, and I find myself seeing the silver lining rather than the stormy rain cloud.

He is the handiest of men. Every wife appreciates the fact that her husband can reach things high on the shelf, replace the occasional light bulb, or even fix a leaky faucet. That is all I expected when I married my husband, but I was immediately blown away. If you can think up a home improvement project, my husband can do it. We wanted a fence around the backyard to keep the kids safe. He installed it. We thought a play set would be nice for the girls to play on. He put it together (with a little help from family). The upstairs bedrooms needed better lighting. He carved up the ceiling and installed recessed lights. The attic fan was letting cold air in during the winter, so he rigged up some insulation. I needed a counter top and some storage in the laundry room, so he put them in. A raised bed garden? He built the beds. New grass in the yard? He tore up the old yard and seeded the new. No door on the pantry? He put one in. He has upgraded every room in our house with storage, paint, new tile, trim, ceiling patches, new lighting, ceiling fans, and more. I never said he did it without making an unbelievable mess…but he is quite the handy man.

He is an extroverted extrovert. As an extreme introvert, my husband’s incessant need to be around people can sometimes be a challenge. However, it is also an opportunity for me to grow as a person. He encourages me to attend functions and meet new people – not things I get particularly thrilled about. And when we are in a room full of loud chattering people (a downright terrifying predicament from my perspective), he pulls me away from the corner and helps me engage in conversation with others. He never meets a stranger, never runs out of questions to ask or topics to discuss, and I often don’t have to do anything but smile and nod. Whew!

He is confident. My dad always said it would take a special man to put up with me. I’ll admit it. It’s true. But my husband can do it, because he’s got confidence. He believes in himself and can stand up to even the most stubborn of women – yes, me.

He is an amazing dad. I have never seen a more naturally affectionate father. He loves our daughters with all his heart, and they dote on him like he is the king of the universe. He is affectionate and playful with them, bringing out their natural exuberance and humor. He empowers them by helping them identify what they are feeling and problem solve through it. He helps them resolve conflicts with each other through role play and empathy. He encourages self-expression through music and art. But most of all, he reminds them of his love through words and actions on a daily basis.

He can put a meal together. Okay, it doesn’t sound like much, but it sure is nice to know that if I am going to be at work late or out of town for a week, I don’t have to worry that the family is going to starve while I am gone.

He is an encourager. My husband enjoys building others up. He looks for the good in the people around him, and then he uses his words to encourage them. Anyone who has ever worked with him knows that he likes to leave unexpected notes on desks to bring a little sunshine or drop off a cup of coffee just as a kind gesture. It’s why he is so good at what he does – teaching beginner band. While other people hear a cacophony of unintelligible noise, he listens for the student who is using good breath support or tapping his feet to feel the rhythm, and he compliments them. In a world of negativity, my husband can zero in on the positive and encourage it to grow.

He is soft-spoken…and he understands that I am not. I grew up in a house where raised voices were the norm. My mom and I spent most of my teenage years in high volume. But my husband is helping me realize that a quiet voice is just as powerful, or maybe more so, than a yelling one. I actually can’t think of a single time since I have known my husband that I have ever heard him raise his voice in anger. It is just not a part of who he is. And yet, when I have had a really rough day, and I just need to let it out, he doesn’t take it personally and he doesn’t scold. He understands me.

He is a problem solver. No matter the situation, no matter how difficult or impossible it seems, my husband is always testing out the options in his head and searching for a solution. And he doesn’t give up. If one plan doesn’t work, he keeps at it until he finds a way to make things work.

He drives me around. Here is another one that seems a little insignificant. But I REALLY hate driving. And I have a terrible sense of direction. Even with Google Maps on my phone, I manage to get myself lost. It is such a huge weight lifted off my shoulders when I can hop into the car and not worry about how to get wherever we are going. I don’t have to be on high alert, watching my mirrors, looking out for pedestrians. I can relax, because my husband’s at the wheel.

He is forgiving. It is a little difficult for me to admit, but I make a lot of mistakes. And my husband forgives me. I don’t have to worry that he is going to hold a grudge or remind me of my failures down the road. He just forgives.

He is an excellent musician. I always figured I’d have to marry a musician. Music is too much a part of who I am not to be able to share it with my life partner. My husband teaches music for a living – it is one of his passions. He is an excellent teacher and conductor. He brings out the best in people musically. He even taught me to play the trumpet as an adult and got me involved in a small church orchestra to challenge me. We both appreciate and feel music deeply. It is a common language and something we can share with our children.

We have fun together. My husband is my best friend. There is no one I would rather spend time with. It doesn’t really matter what we are doing – watching a movie, painting a bedroom, or climbing a volcano in Italy - we have fun doing it together.

He is a cuddle bug. This is very important to me, because my primary love language is physical touch. My husband shows his affection for me by holding my hand, sitting with his arms around me on the couch, and giving me long hugs any time I need one. Our daughters love to snuggle, too, and we often spend lazy Saturday mornings cuddling and tickling under the covers or sitting warm and cozy by the fire.

He appreciates me and my uniqueness. As I have said, only a special person could put up with me and my eccentricities. I am stubborn, high-spirited, idealistic, fastidious, and demanding. And yet, my husband acts like he married a real princess. I am not sure how, but my husband manages to see the best in me, and he shows his appreciation for me – not just for the things I do like cleaning up or taking care of the kids – but for who I am…including the characteristics that are often off-putting to others.

He is a dreamer. If you ever see my husband looking like he is in some sort of daze, it is probably because he is concocting some really grand plans in his head. He loves to dream big, and he is always looking for ways to make things better.

He makes me a better person. When I am around my husband, I can feel myself become more positive, more encouraging, and more hopeful than I am by myself. He brings out the best in me. I am so blessed to have him, so blessed to get to spend my time with him, and so blessed that, God willing, we will grow old together, molding and shaping each other into better people.

The Pain of Childlessness

“Well,” the doctor said as she looked intently at her computer screen, “your numbers aren’t…dismal.  I mean, there is a chance that you could get pregnant if you get help.  I recommend you go see a fertility specialist as soon as possible.”

The consoling hand gesture.  The look of pity on her face.  I didn’t see it coming.  My husband and I had only been married six months.  I had just asked the doctor to check my egg reserve numbers as a precaution.  I was expecting to hear a speech about how everything looked normal, and not to worry because getting pregnant takes an average of two years, and I’m still young…  But, no.  In that one instant, my dreams of becoming a mother were essentially shattered.  Years of believing that once I found a decent guy to marry, that large happy family I’d always wanted would soon follow.  Years of thinking that God was just teaching me patience, and that He would reward me with a house full of kids if I waited for His perfect timing.  Years of thinking one day I might be able to stop parenting everyone else’s kids and parent my own.  Years of hoping and praying and dreaming.  Shattered.

After whisking away the tears that came to my eyes, I drove home and promptly made an appointment to see a fertility specialist.  It was going to be fine.  I had friends who went through this, and they all ended up with children.  There was still hope.  I looked up the statistics.  I was only thirty-three years old.  Chances were good that, with help, I could still be a mom.

But nobody and nothing could prepare me for the effects fertility treatment would have on my body, my emotions, my self-worth, or my marriage.  I had no idea.  No matter how much I read about it online or how much I knew about the procedures based on my friends’ experiences, I just wasn’t prepared. 

It started with tests.  Lots of tests.  Tests that couldn’t be done on the same day or in the same place, so I had to take off multiple days of work and travel to several different clinics around town.  First came blood tests.  Relatively painless, though I got a little sick watching vial after vial after vial be filled with blood and placed nonchalantly on the counter.  Next came the hysterosalpingogram to make sure my fallopian tubes were clear.  This involved getting naked, lying on a giant metal slab, having dye injected in places just shouldn’t be injected, an x-ray, and then lots and lots of cramping.  It was a ton of fun.  Then, my favorite, the sonohysterogram.  This one involved a team of doctors-in-training looking on and taking notes.  In this procedure, the doctor filled my uterus with saline, like a balloon, and then inserted a probe to observe the uterine wall.  Unfortunately, she had trouble finding my cervix.  There was a lot of yanking and clamping and grunting.  And when she was done, there was a lot of blood.  Again, just a ton of fun. 

All tests came back clear.  Apparently, there was nothing wrong with me other than the fact that the initial blood test indicated I had the number of eggs one would expect to see in a fifty-five year old woman.  Back to square one.

Now, all these tests took time.  Time to schedule, time to undergo, time to receive results.  And, all the while, my eggs were dying…in droves, apparently.  Once I was finally able to meet with the doctor to make a plan, I was told that despite the fact that they really believed I should jump straight into In Vitro Fertilization (IVF), my insurance company would not pay for an IVF procedure until I had completed six rounds of other treatments.  And I needed to get some documentation from the insurance company that they would indeed cover those since I was so young.  Weeks of back and forth on the phone, explaining to the insurance company that though I wasn’t yet thirty-five, the doctors had indicated that I did need these procedures in order to get pregnant.  Lots of tears.  Lots of phone calls.  In the meantime, I turned thirty-four, and more of my eggs were dying…

Eventually, the insurance company managed to communicate with the doctor’s office, and we started our first cycle of Intrauterine Insemination (IUI).  Though not as invasive as IVF, it was nonetheless unpleasant.  Oral hormones to keep eggs from growing, and then others later to encourage them to grow.  An injection to stimulate ovulation (it took me thirty minutes to work up to that first self-injection).  Ovulation tests every day and night as we waited for the perfect timing. 

But the office visits were the thing I wasn’t expecting.  Every two days leading up to the procedure, I had to go in for a blood test and vaginal ultrasound.  That meant that every two days, I was missing the first two hours of school and had to spend the rest of the day trying to get the kids back on track.  That meant that every two days, I had a doctor and several onlookers staring between my legs while shoving a probe into my nether-region to see how well my follicles were developing.  That meant that every two days, my husband was pretty much guaranteed an “Are you kidding?” or “Seriously?” response to the suggestive backrub.  I mean, let’s face it, being probed and stared at by strangers doesn’t exactly put you into the mood for intimacy when you get home.  And this was, of course, not even taking the hormones into consideration.  It seems a little illogical to pump a woman full of hormones that make her grouchy and irritable and then send her home to her husband who thinks this is baby-making season.  But what do I know?

Of course, all of this would be totally worth it, and maybe even forgotten, if we could ever hear the words, “You’re pregnant!”  But, alas, never any good news.  Just month after month of negative pregnancy tests.  Each time I peed on that stick, my hopes were raised.  I tried to keep it real.  Tried not to let my heart start beating faster.  But it never worked.  Every single time I counted the minutes, paced, and finally peeked with high hopes, believing I would see that second line.  Nothing.  And every time those hopes got dashed, I felt a little worse about myself.  A little more like a failure.  A little more like my life was pretty much worthless.

And so many other things in life become more painful when you are feeling this way.  Mother’s Day?  Always a difficult day being a stepmom, but then to have to go to church and celebrate all the happy, smiling moms with babies in their arms the day after you find out your second IUI cycle was unsuccessful?  It was like a dagger in my heart.  And office baby showers?  Why not just kick me while I am down?  How was I supposed to feel happy watching other women’s bellies grow while mine remained empty and barren?  What facial expression could I use to hide my absolute loathing when the pregnant mom let it slip that she got pregnant by mistake and she “just wasn’t ready for another one”?  How was I supposed to react to well-meaning Believers telling me to read the Bible and find hope in the fact that all the barren women in the Bible eventually bore children – implying that if I just had a little more faith, I would too.  Thanks.  That really helps ease the pain.  Yeah, my misery was a little selfish and petty, but unless you have walked the path of childlessness, you just don’t know.  You can’t know how painful it is.  I certainly didn’t before I took this journey.

It was at this time that my husband decided to change jobs.  And by this, I mean, quit his job and become unemployed - no longer on the insurance that would cover infertility treatments.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  A big part of me was relieved.  After only six months of fertility treatment, I was ready to quit.  I honestly don’t know how some women endure it – or afford it – year after year after year.  But the rest of me was devastated.  It was possible I had used up all my chances at becoming a mom, and I was just going to have to live with that.

As it turned out, however, my husband’s new insurance also covered infertility treatment.  They would even count the procedures I had already completed, and I could finally move on to IVF!  My husband and I had doubts about going through with IVF.  There are a lot of ethical issues associated with IVF, especially as related to what happens to unused embryos, but after considering all options and discussing things with our doctor, we felt confident that our embryos would be safe, and we decided to proceed. 

At this point, I realized that the treatments I had endured earlier had nothing on IVF.  This was serious business.  The medications and injections I needed to take came in the mail, and I kid you not, they filled a box the size of a small refrigerator.  It was more than a little overwhelming.  As I pulled out bags and boxes of needles, bottles, alcohol swabs, and gadgets for mixing solutions, I started to wonder just what I had gotten myself into.  The cycle started with pills, and then slowly added the injections.  First one in the morning and one at night.  Then two in the morning and two at night.  Eventually I was giving myself six injections in a day, and this was in addition to the every other day office visits in which blood was drawn and I had the pleasure of being probed with an ultrasound wand from the inside.  My arms got to the point where I really think I could have been mistaken for a junky.  Both were purple and blue from the frequent needles, and my abdomen looked like it had been attacked by an angry porcupine.  I was sore, irritable, physically and emotionally exhausted, and to top it all off, I developed adult acne.  It wasn’t bad enough that my arms and tummy were splotched and dotted, but now my face looked like I had caught some sort of horrific disease.  The kids at school actually asked me if I had been in a fire.  Great. 

Finally, after two weeks of injections and office visits, I got the call saying it was time to stimulate ovulation and come in for the egg retrieval.  Exciting, but not really, because the retrieval is the worst part of it all.  It involves the whole shebang – hospital gown, intravenous drip, being carted around on a rolling bed, drugged into delirium, and a lot of lingering pain and bloating afterward.  I even got a prescription for oxycodone to help with the pain (it went unused, I assure you).  And the best part?  Five days later I got to go back in for another procedure.  This time to put the fertilized eggs back in.  I was, once again, completely unprepared for the ordeal. 

After five days of waiting, I returned to the clinic, got back in my gown and stirrups, and prepared for the embryo transfer.  Only two of the fertilized eggs were continuing to develop by the five day mark, which made it really easy for us.  Two survived, two were transferred.  What life had been created was given the best chance for implantation.  We did not have to worry about freezing or donating unused embryos – a small mercy from God in this whole process. 

After the transfer, I now had the great pleasure of using progesterone suppositories three times a day for two weeks.  I will be honest with you – there is nothing that makes you feel less sexy than having chalky white nastiness oozing out of you all day long while you sit, stand, work, sleep, or shower.  Nothing.  Well, maybe combine it with the fact that it bloats you and makes you feel like a giant marshmallow man, and then you feel even less sexy than before.  This process took its toll on my marital relationship.  There was no way to avoid it.  I had never felt so uninterested in sex – in the very idea of sex.  And I felt so guilty.  So guilty, and still so completely uninterested.  All I wanted was to be left alone to wallow in my misery until the fateful day when I would once again take a pregnancy test.  A pregnancy test which, you can guess by now, was, as always, negative. 

I hated myself.  I hated my husband.  I hated the doctors.  I even hated God a little. 

It was while I was in this extremely vulnerable state that I received well-intentioned, but poorly timed, opinions about the IVF process.  I was accused of killing my babies.  I was told I would never truly understand the loss of a child the way people who endure miscarriages do.  I was told I was keeping God from doing His work in me by my lack of faith.  I couldn’t fight back – I didn’t have the energy.  What could I say or do in the face of this kind of insensitivity?  I was crying myself to sleep at night holding the one photo I had of the two tiny embryos that were transferred inside of me, begging God to help me understand why they hadn’t implanted, wondering if I could have done anything differently to help them survive inside my womb, and then to be asked how many of my dead children are waiting in heaven?  Why?  Why would anyone think that was an okay thing to say to me?  I was in the lowest place of my life – the closest to depression I have ever been – hating myself and wanting to die. 

So, we took a hiatus from fertility treatment. I took the needed time to climb back out of the hole I was in, and then we tried again.  One final time.  This was all the insurance would allow.  This was our last shot.  All the same discomforts.  All the same pain.  And all the same results.

This time, we were out of town and in the car on the day I was supposed to go in for pregnancy blood test.  We stopped into a store to buy an at-home pregnancy test, and I went straight to the bathroom.  I felt that same familiar tug on my heart.  The hope began to rise.  My palms began to sweat.  Dreams of what might be.  Prayers for good news.  Expectations growing…and then that old familiar sense of loss.  We got in the car, and I just broke down – mourning the loss of all I had hoped for.  Jealous of all the moms out there who got to feel their baby growing inside them day by day.  Angry at all the pregnant women who throw God’s most precious gift away by getting an abortion.  Miserable that I will never look across the kitchen table at my child and see myself reflected back in her eyes, her hair, her smile.  Furious that the one thing I had always wanted was being denied me.  Mourning the death of the three little embryos, frail and sickly though they were, that were being expelled from my body even as I sat in the car on the long journey home.  Sick to my stomach, sick in my mind, desperate and hopeless.  I just cried.  And cried. 

It is impossible to truly know the pain of childlessness until you have lived it.  I didn’t.  I couldn’t.  Not until I lived it. 

And so, there is a special bond among those of us who have experienced this pain.  One grace that has come from this journey is that I have formed relationships with others who share my pain – relationships that might not have grown had we not shared this common experience. 

One colleague who now has three children cheered me on and built me up every step of the infertility path.  On the days I felt lowest, she brought a little sunshine.  On the days I felt weakest, she strengthened me with stories of her own experiences.  At times I felt that no one could possibly understand what I was going through, she listened to my heart and felt my pain with me.

Two other colleagues who are just beginning their own journey shared their own struggles and pains.  Each story is unique, and each story brings its own heartache.  However, there is beauty and healing in sharing. 

And finally, another colleague who experienced the pain of childlessness many years ago and has since adopted seven children shared her heart with me.  She is my hero.  She demonstrates every day that being a mom is not about giving birth.  It is about sharing life.  It is about loving unconditionally.  It is about running the race with your child, supporting him through thick and thin, and standing with your arms wide open, ready to embrace him at the finish line.  It is she who inspired me to seriously consider adoption.  It is she who inspired me to keep going and keep hoping after facing the worst.

God places people in our lives.  Even through this time, the most difficult season in my life, God sent me angels in the form of people I worked with.  I see it now.  I see the way His tender mercies found me even in the depths.  I see the way He worked through them to bring hope back into my life.  I can’t say I have moved past the pain.  I don’t know that I ever will.  I have a feeling this pain will be a part of me forever.  But God provides even in the midst of the storm.  And I thank Him.

The Cultural Hybrid: A Confused Identity

“Where are you from?”  For many people, this is a simple question to answer.  My mother, for example - born and raised to adulthood in Alabama, her parents and other family members still living there; she doesn’t have to think twice when answering that question.  But for many of us, there is no easy answer to this question.  Where am I from?  As in…where I was born?  Or where I spent the most years?  Or where I call home?  Or where my family lives now?  What do you mean when you ask, “Where are you from?”

You see, my family and I moved to South Korea when I was three years old.  They prayerfully left their family and friends to move to a foreign land as missionaries, and I received the unexpected and amazing gift of culture, experience, and perspective I never would have had if they had not answered God’s call.  Korea is my home.  It will always be my home.  It is not, however, my parents’ home.  And that is why I am what you call a Third Culture Kid.  Basically, I grew up being exposed to three separate cultures – my parents’, that of the country in which I lived, and that of the expatriate community living in that country.  And, as most TCKs will tell you, that makes it very difficult to identify with, well, anyone completely.

When I moved to the States to attend university, the “where are you from” question was asked in almost every conversation.  We were all getting to know each other, and “where are you from” is a natural thing to ask.  Most of my fellow students had it easy.  If they were from out of state, they named the state they were from – Georgia, Tennessee, Virginia.  If they were from in state, they named the city or town – Mobile, Montgomery, Homewood.  Such responses were usually met with a response of recognition and delight.  “Oh, my cousin lives there!”  Or “I went there for my best friend’s wedding. It was so beautiful!”  Or the best, “You are kidding me! Do you know so-and-so?”  So natural.  So friendly.  A conversation starter.

When they asked me, I would glance awkwardly around, trying to decide what to say.  After all, what did they really want to know?  And then I’d finally blurt out, “Korea. I am from Korea,” holding my breath to see what they would say.  The response to this was usually blank stares.  Occasionally, the conversation would lead down a productive path, discussing differences in culture or what kind of missionary work my parents did.  More often than not, however, I got the kind of responses that made me want to crawl in a hole and disappear – not because I was embarrassed, but because it made me feel so utterly…different.  Comments like, “Wow, you don’t LOOK Korean.”  Or “That’s where we fought the Vietnam War, right?”  Or “So does that mean you can talk Chinese?”  Or my all-time favorite, “Korea. Now, what part of Alabama is that?”  How could I hide my incredulity?  My astonishment at their ignorance?  After a few months of these responses, I changed my answer.

Stranger: “Where are you from?”

Me: “My grandparents live in Fayette. It’s northwest of Tuscaloosa.”

Stranger: “Oh, I know Fayette! My brother lives up near there….”

Me: Sigh of relief. Awkward conversation avoided.

Ironically, I fell into the “where are you from” trap myself once.  We were having some sort of freshman party out on the quad, and I saw this Asian girl from afar.  She looked Korean, and I was drawn to her.  I hadn’t seen an Asian face in months.  I just had to know if she was Korean.  I started imagining all the things we could share with each other.  Conversations in Korean, memories of Korea, Korean food, inside jokes that nobody else would understand.  Maybe she went to a Korean church and I could go with her!  Maybe her family lived nearby and I could hang out with them!  Maybe we could sit on the floor and eat kimchi jjiggae together!

I ran up to her, practically jumping on her in my excitement, and blurted out, “Hi! I am Jamie! Where are you from?”  Yeah.  Totally NOT the right thing to say.  She glared at me and snapped, “Atlanta. Why?” then turned and stormed away.  I remember just standing there, rooted to that spot while the disappointment and loss swept over me.  How did I just make such a ridiculous mistake?  How could I have been so insensitive?  How could I have just alienated the only Asian on campus?  What is WRONG with me?

Now that I am older and wiser, I am better able to answer the “where are you from” question.  I can usually deduce from the preceding conversation whether the person I am speaking with wants a quick and uncomplicated answer, a detailed and personal response, or something in between.  As such, I can tell them where I am currently living, that I grew up in Korea, or where I was born here in the States.  It helps that the stark fear and apprehension I once felt upon hearing this question is no longer an issue, and I can nonchalantly address the question without making others feel like they have mistakenly opened a can of worms.

Growing up overseas has affected me in many more ways than just confusing me about where I am from, however.  It has defined who I am.  I know I look like your typical white girl, but inside I mostly feel Korean.  Culturally, I identify much more with Koreans than I fear I ever will with Americans.  Koreans, in general, have a more profound respect for authority, age, and experience.  The language and customs are designed to show respect to elders through speech patterns, body language, and even names.  Koreans also tend to put a greater emphasis on education and hard work.  Traditional Korean architecture is stunningly beautiful, as is the natural landscape of the country.  When I sing the national anthem, I feel immense pride referring to the great mountains, rivers, and national flower of Korea.  Not to mention the fact that I have a great appreciation for all forms of Korean art, music, dance, and most of all…cuisine.  I yearn for Korean food so much that my body actually feels sick if I have gone too long without eating kimchi. 

Don’t get me wrong, I have pride in my United States culture, too.  After all, I am a US citizen.  I feel pride in our history and the beliefs our country was founded on.  The natural beauty of the country is varied and unique.  However, there is always a part of me when I am here that misses home.  There is always a part of me that doesn’t quite feel right – that doesn’t quite fit in.  I realized this fully the first time I returned to Korea after leaving for university.  As I stepped off the plane, after that fourteen hour flight, I felt an enormous weight lift from my shoulders.  I almost dropped to my knees to kiss the ground like Kevin Costner does in Robin Hood.  I didn’t, because let’s face it, I was in an airport and thousands of microscopic international germs could have been infesting the carpet under my feet, but I sure felt that way.  And it has been that way every time.  I step off the plane in Korea and a feeling of normalcy returns.  Korea is the place I know.  Korea is the place that knows me.  Korea is home.

Nothing could be more clear to me than this when I started teaching in Alabama after my years in university concluded.  It was hard enough to be in a foreign place as a university student, but I had my studies to distract me, and, let’s face it, everyone feels a little displaced in college.  Once I was out in the real world, however, I simply couldn’t cope.  Parents and teachers who made excuses for students’ lack of effort?  Students who didn’t study for tests or do their homework?  Parent-teacher conferences in which I literally understood about fifty percent of what the parent was saying because her grammar was so deplorable?  Eventually, I cracked.  I ran back home where things would make sense again.  I ran back to Korea.

And now, here I am, eleven years later, living in Connecticut.  Of all the places in the world that I would end up.  Connecticut.  I am here because my stepdaughers’ mother decided to live here.  That’s it.  I have no familial connection to this place.  As far as I am concerned, this is about as foreign a place as I have ever visited.  Thankfully, I do speak the local language, I recognize most of the foods at the grocery store, and I am licensed to drive here.  But, it is not home.  Here, I am what is called a hidden immigrant.  I look like a local.  I sound like a local.  I blend in pretty well, despite my slight southern accent.  But in my heart, I feel I have very little in common with those around me.  If I had long black hair, olive skin, and a slight Korean accent, people would understand my discomfort or lack of cultural understanding.  If I started a sentence with, “Where I come from…” people would expect to hear me describe a cultural difference.  There might even be a little grace if I misunderstood a common expression or misinterpreted a body signal.  Instead, my hesitation or confusion is just assumed to be social awkwardness.  Oh, to look on the outside the way I feel inside.

So, where does this leave me?  Well, I have come to see living in Connecticut as I would living in any other foreign country – a cultural and personal learning experience.  As I emerge slowly from my shell and share my life story with others, I learn more about the great things Connecticut has to offer.  I also learn that there are many others living here whose homes are elsewhere.  I am finding that my connections to others do not have to be cultural, but can be personal and reach beyond cultural differences.  You would think this would have been a lesson I’d learned long ago, but I think God finds ways to stretch us and broaden our understandings through each phase of life in His own timing.

And above all the confusion I have felt over the years, I have mostly felt a great sense of gratitude.  I am grateful that my parents answered God’s call.  I am grateful to have been able to grow up in Korea.  I am grateful to have a second language floating around in my head.  I am grateful to have many Korean and expatriate friends with whom I can still communicate frequently.  I am grateful that I was able to return to Korea as an adult to live and learn and grow.  I am grateful that my family shares a love of Korea and Korean culture.  I am grateful that my husband lived in Korea as an adult and shares a love of Korean cuisine.  I am grateful for the cultural foundation I built in Korea, because it has driven me to educational excellence.  I am grateful for the friends I have made who do not share my cultural confusion, but who love me as I am regardless.  I am grateful for every road God has led me down, because those paths have brought me here and have made me who I am today.