“Are you ready?” My mom asks as the car pulls into the airport parking.
“Yep” I say as sling my backpack over my shoulder and open my door.
Jumbles of suitcases, carry-ons, backpacks, and neck pillows spill out of the car.
I look around at my friends, or family, or in rare cases, the taxi drivers who carted our family to the airport.
Hugs. Many hugs (unless it’s the taxi driver.)
Smiles.
Little waves.
Sometimes tears.
My grandmother shoves last minute snacks into my hands.
My friend drops a “little something” into my backpack’s vacant water bottle pocket.
The taxi driver bobs his head in a silent “Goodbye random passengers who I’ll never see again”.
We step up to the airport doors.
They open.
We step through them.
They close.
The next time we step through sliding airport doors we will be in another country. Another culture. Another…Home?
Or is home the place I leave behind me?
Home is a complicated concept for many Third Culture Kids. Most of us have lived our lives splintered between two (or more) countries, so defining where “home” is kind of tricky.
I honestly struggle trying to figure out how to convey it. Every TCK is different.
Some will say:
“Home will only ever be in (insert host country* here). America (or whichever passport country*) will never be my true home.”
OR
“America is my true home. My host country is just temporary.”
Or
“Home is where my family is. Wherever they are, that’s home.”
Or
The list continues….
I knew of a TCK who said that home was wherever he put his pillow down for the night.
I’ve come to realize that home doesn’t have to be tied to one place. One culture. One group of people. Home is the people I love. Home is my friends and family.
Home is in the dwelling places of my past. It’s where I am now. It's those places I go off to in the future.
It’s in the jungles of Cameroon.
It’s in the neighborhoods of America.
It’s in the little quartiers of France.
It’s in the coming some where’s of my future.
And I don’t know how many times I’ve packed my things up into a little suitcase and sighed knowing that I was packing more than just stuff into that rickety old piece of luggage. I was packing my “home” away.
How many times have I stood in an airport and watched a person I love leave, knowing that they were taking a little part of “home” with them.
How many times have I sat on an airplane and looked out the window watching the familiar landscapes of the place I called “home” slip away into my past.
I’m honestly not trying to victimize myself or TCKs. I feel blessed beyond measure to live the life I live. To have so many beautiful places and people and cultures to love. But sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes I wish I had a place. That one place—you know? Where it’s home. Truly home. Not transient. Never moving. Never having to get on a plane and watch it slip away. But then I'm reminded. I do have that...
So where is it?
Where in the world is home?
It’s not.
Not in this world, I mean.
I have a home.
It’s called Heaven.
And it’s not in this world.
And one day, I’ll go on a journey.
I’ll get to my Home’s doors, and they’ll open.
I’ll walk through them, and they’ll close.
And I’ll never get on an airplane and watch it all go away.
And I’ll never want to.
I’ll never watch someone leave me again—taking a little part of Home with them.
And I am SO thankful for that Home I have.
I am so thankful for the promise of something so sure, so stable, so lovely while I journey in this temporary place.
And it is a journey, isn't it? This thing we call life. And I feel so privileged to have such a wonderful Guide. He never leaves. And He knows the path we're walking on. He leads us on this road we travel until we're truly Home.
And until then…?
Sometimes I’ll cry because my temporary home constantly changes.
But mostly…? I’ll rejoice in having so many beautiful places, cultures, people, and memories to call my temporary home.
*host country--This refers the the country where the TCK is living in.
*passport country--Refers to the country of the TCK's nationality, or where their passport is from.
Comments