Beautiful, Boundless Cultural Bubbles

It is 2010.

I stare from outside of the bubble at a lovely, beautiful culture;  a culture of rich history, deep colors and satisfying simplicity.    From my position outside, I want to skip over the entry and the adjustment and just be inside that bubble.

My head analyzes and plans and predicts and dreams.  My heart weighs and counts the things that will have to go to make room for life inside the bubble.  My soul begs and pleads with God to provide what it will need to be on the opposite side of the bubble from my crutches (friends, church, good food, material things).

It is 2011.

My right foot takes a step and tries to tentatively dip a toe in.    The rest of me remains firmly planted in the ground that grew me.    My toe wiggles and punctures the weighty skin of the bubble's outer film.

It is 2012.

I get one leg in and it seems the rest of me just will not be undone from that fertile soil, that well-tilled place that I call my first home.     My lonely leg hobbles around, falling into easy traps that entangle a naive one.   It seems my eyes are still stuck with their US lenses.

It is 2013.

A few sighs and lots of mistakes later, my heart passes through the slimy film of the bubble.   My eyes begin to see and process with bifocals - close-up Honduras on the bottom and the US in my long-distance vision.

It is 2014.

I feel dizzy trying to figure it all out.   Who is telling me the truth?   Is anyone really honest?    Who is helping whom here?    Why don't people trust one another here?    Is anything sacred here?

It is 2015.

In frustration, sometimes I punch and flail and scream and hurt.    I am someone I have never met.   I am unable to 'pull myself up by my bootstraps'.    I feel foreign and want to exit this bubble as fast as I possibly can and return to the soft, well-manicured lawn of my youth.

It is 2016.

The more I enter the bubble, in all of its stickiness and suffocation, the easier I breathe.   There is something here to learn... a lifetime of lessons as I try to free myself from the confinement.

It is 2017.

I am stronger and more adaptable than I ever imagined.  I am, simultaneously, not as 'smart' as I once believed.   I am tenderized to a point of almost disappearing  ... my compassion raw and open.

I sweat and fret.   I watch students presenting about the Middle Ages and I love this bubble.   I give the same advice for the ten-thousandth time and I sweat some more.    I dig deep and love a little more. 

Sometimes I wonder if my bubble is just about to burst open and shine its rainbow light all over the world.    Sometimes I wonder if my bubble is about to implode and leave me with a sticky mess to clean-up.

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All of this bubble imagery serves what purpose?    Living cross-culturally is a messy business.   It is not for the faint-of-heart and not for the stiff-necked.    God pushes and pulls and disconnects.   He glues and repairs and restores.      We survive and, at times, thrive... all the while fully committed to the work inside this beautiful bubble.