Coffee shop weep sessions

It was just another Labor Day. 

I was in my usual beginning-of-a-long-weekend moods, all relaxed and happy in leggings, sitting in a coffee shop with one of my newest and closest friends. She was wearing pink florals and sipping iced tea. I had a coffee. It was the first time in a long time that we had taken the time to sit down and just talk, and I was comfy and happy.

After about twenty minutes of ranting about Biology classes and Extended Essays, our conversation began to steer more towards the sentimental side. My friend began to open up, spilling out a story about her old life back in Canada. How music and playing piano used to be her everything. How her dream used to be to open up a music studio with one of her fellow-pianist best friends. How blissful and easy life had been, and how her main ambitions were so within her reach. How she had taken everything completely for granted. And then, how her family had suddenly moved to Cambodia. 

I just sat and listened, taking a sip of coffee every now and then. When her story was over, I asked her, "Do you still see yourself opening up that studio with your friend after you graduate?"

She pursed her lips and looked down at her drink. "I don't know. It all just seems so far away now. If I still lived in Canada, yeah, maybe I could see myself getting back into music, getting a degree as a pianist, and pursuing the dream. But, I'm here now. And music isn't really such a big part of my life anymore. Other things have become more important to me, you know?"

I nodded. "Hm. It's funny how much a person can change in only a year." Then I realized something. "You're never going to be normal, you know," I said.

My friend gave one of her characteristic short laughs. "Yeah. I'm never going to be normal."

We both gave a little sigh, and let that sink in for a moment.

It was my friend who broke the silence.

"I feel like I've been talking for ages now. What about you, Sarah? How are you feeling?"

I bit my lip. Honestly, her story had touched me so strangely. I felt like it had tangled up all the strings inside of me that had bothered to make sense of my life as a TCK. Honestly, it broke my heart. It broke my heart to think about how she must have felt, coming to Cambodia. And in that moment, my heart broke for all the third-culture-people out there, and all the confusion and heartbreak and loss they would feel in their lives. My heart broke for the tears they would shed, and the pain that would come with every confusing moment, every tearful goodbye.

"Honestly, I don't know what to say," I said slowly, and then shakily added, "I don't really want to talk, because then I'll probably just start crying." She half-smiled knowingly, with tears already glistening in her eyes, and that was when I started to cry, too.

Thank heavens we were able to hold down the sobs. But we were sitting there, in the middle of a coffee shop in Phnom Penh, two drinks between us, sharing a little cry. We didn't reach out for each other. I didn't put my arm around her and say anything profound or earth-shattering. None of us even bothered to say that everything was going to be alright. Words like that just didn't fit into a moment like that. It was enough just to cry for a little bit.

I'm never going to be normal.

I'm slowly starting to realize that. I will never know what it feels like to reach the end of a school year and not cry. I will never know what it feels like to speak only one language, without a thousand others swimming around in my brain. I will never dread the thought of a plane flight, or feel like I belong in only one place. 

But I don't regret it. Any of it. 

I don't regret the fact that I've never experienced fall or winter or spring in my entire life. I don't regret the pain that comes with going "home" for the summer holiday. I don't regret growing up in a country where it's strange not to be sweating and where power cuts are pure torture. I don't regret not being normal. Honestly, I don't even know what to compare it to.

At my church, our pastor once encouraged us to come to the front of the room and surrender.

I find that such a scary word. Surrender.

And yet, in that moment, as I awkwardly slithered my way over bent knees out of my row and walked towards the front of the church, I realized there was a comfort there, too. It's scary to surrender. But it's also a huge, huge relief.

It's a relief to know I don't have to carry all this by myself. It's a relief to know that my huge, crazy, unknown future isn't in my shaky control, but in the control of the Master of the Universe. And although not being in control of my life may be scary at times, I realized at that moment, right at the front of my church, that it's a whole lot better than spending my entire life paranoid that I'm screwing it all up. 

I knelt down on the tile floor in front of the giant, warmly-lit wooden cross that hangs front-and-center in my church. I felt shaky, emotional in so many different ways, overwhelmed by the unbelievable joy and sadness I suddenly felt. 

It's so hard to describe how you feel when in God's presence, other than just to say that you're overwhelmed. I was certainly overwhelmed. And as I bent over, burying my face in my hair as I rested my forehead against my knees, I said to God, Alright. This is it, God. I'm giving you my life for real. You're in control. I'm giving you the reigns. Whatever it takes, God, let me experience all the pain you want me to as long as it means it's turning me into the person you want me to be.

And then I realized something. That's what you've been doing all along, haven't you, God? All these years, growing up in Cambodia? That's why it hurts. You're making me stronger. You're making me exactly who you want me to be.

That's a hard truth. But it's the truth nonetheless. I'm not normal. But that's what God wants me to be. My heart breaks a lot. But that's what God wants me to experience in order to show me, in a small way, what His heart is like. 

I asked Him a while ago to break my heart for the things that break His. And that's what happens when I sit in a coffee shop and cry because I know there are other people out there that have to say goodbye to people they love. That's what happens when I'm sitting in a car, astounded at the contrast between rich and poor in this country, and feel angry and devastated at the same time. I'm being shown, by Jesus, how He feels about the things that are going on in this world, and usually that means it hurts.

God's heart aches for this world. But He's also got a whole lot of joy that comes with it, which is so much more complete than any happiness I could ever wish for. His joy is another reason I cry; I cry when I watch baptisms take place at my church and when people tell me about the dreams God has put in their hearts about their futures. I can be content with the heartache in my life because it also means I have intense joy waiting for me. 

God has taught me a number of things, among which is the truth that He is in control, and I can trust Him. He's got my back. He's made me exactly the way He wants me to be. My life is wild and precious, and I've got plenty to look forward to.

1 Corinthians 2:9

But, as it is written, “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him.”