Two Sundays ago I finally got to listen to and meet someone that I have considered, for some time, to be one of the greatest Christian worship musicians of our era: Geoff Bullock.
If you’ve been around contemporary Christian worship music for a while, especially in Australia, you are probably familiar with his songs like ‘The Power of Your Love’, ‘You Rescued Me’, and ‘Just Let Me Say’.
Geoff is a musician who has been there, done that, had it all crash down around him… and gone on amazingly since.
Though he probably would not think that he has gone on amazingly. We found a humble man. A high achiever, coming from a family of high achievers. A great musician – I would be well pleased if I could tinkle the ivories with a tenth of his ability. And he is a brilliant song writer with a beautiful voice.
We didn’t have to pay a cent. It was in a small church in lil’ old Adelaide, and he wasn’t there just to perform, just to lead us in worship, or act as a channeling mechanism for an ultimately un-channel-able God. He was there with a genuine desire to tell his story – the story of his brokenness – just so that his story could help others.
He was honest. To me that makes this musician worth listening to.
Not power-house Christianity. Not who wields the voting power in the local congregation. Not which clique you need to belong to, to feel like you are ‘in’ the church. Not how well you have to hide your true self, or how your children need to behave, so everyone will ‘know’ that you are a mature, coping Christian.
Simply this: GRACE.
Check out more of his story of real, amazing grace at http://www.geoffbullock.com and http://geoffbullock.blogspot.com. You can also find links to some rewrites he has made to old favourites like ‘Just Let Me Say’, and ‘Refresh My Heart’.
Steph Yiu, in an article on raising second-generation TCKs says, ‘How would you want to raise your kids? Spare them the pain of moving, or give them the gift of travel? I’ve always wondered what it would be like, to raise TCK children of my own. Would I, as a TCK, be able to impart valuable knowledge, having grown up in a world without boundaries?’
To read more, click on the article link above.
Steph says curiosity about this issue led to her write this article. She found that there are all sorts of struggles involved in raising a second-generation TCK — but from the parents she talked to, it seemed that the benefits outweighed the consequences.
Thanks Steph!!
Tags: parents, TCK-makers
‘I will not put my children through the cultural transition and confusion I experienced as a child. My children will grow up in their birth country with what I never possessed: a strong sense of cultural belonging.’
This was my inner monologue for years after giving birth to our first child. But that nudge to think global continues, and we’re suddenly considering expatriate work.
It’s scary. I know the possibilities, both positive and otherwise. It’s easier to behave like the proverbial head-hiding bird, pretending that it’s best to live in the West, earn lots of money and be global by donating some of said money to charitable causes. It’s right for some, but not all.
‘You know, you can’t protect your kids in Australia,’ said a friend.
She’s right. Among other things, we have here alarming rates of child abuse (the suspected rate being much higher than the reported one), the prevalence of drugs even in primary schools, the growing rates of teen promiscuity, suicide, depression… This western world is scary too.
Of course, being a TCK doesn’t save you from abuse, drugs, teen promiscuity, or depression. Being a TCK can carry extra complications, including loss and grief from frequent cultural transitions.
But in one sense my husband and I are on familiar ground. We probably have a better understanding of how to parent in an environment of high-mobility and cross-culture, than in the mono-culture we now live in. We know the rules (albeit changeable ones) in the world of TCKs.
What of the loss, grief and pain? We can’t shield our kids from that. It’s part of the package and baggage of TCKs. And recently, I have been processing loss and grief from my own childhood.
Some weeks ago I met a parent of TCKs. When he heard of our background he smiled, saying, ’The TCK experience makes one flexible and resilient.’
Funnily enough, thinking about my kids becoming TCKs has made me realise the richness of TCKs’ lives. My husband and I chattered in other languages as children. I was six when I first touched and breathed in fine sand blown from the Sahara. We went on safaris before we were ten, and both grew up with incomparable African harmonies and dancing. My husband has met ‘Mosi-oa-Tunya’, the smoke that thunders – Victoria Falls herself. We know intimately those exquisite moments in a plane at take-off and landing. Waiting for long hours in wildly-different airports can be an adventure. We have lived in climates that are hot, climates that are humid, climates that are dry, wet, cold. Some places we lived in or visited were affluent, others not so, some were cities, some towns, and others rural villages. We have seen some incredible sights, and made incredible friends. I can’t fit a complete list in this post!
We look forward to introducing our children to the riches of our own heritage.
Does anyone have advice to give TCKs who turn expats, creating little TCKs of their own? Please let me know, either by leaving a comment on this post or, if you prefer not to leave a public comment, you can email me using the private form on the Contact page.
Thanks all for reading!
Tags: parents, TCK-makers
Just linking to Widsith’s article on abuse and TCKs. You can find it at http://widsith.wordpress.com/2009/09/04/all-gods-children-writing-and-watching/.
It should be stressed that this is not what happened to all children at all boarding schools. Perhaps not even to the majority. My understanding is that it is difficult to collect statistics on this. But it did happen to many.
Bottom line: it cannot be ’swept under the carpet’.
Tags: abuse
‘I’m a published writer!’ The shriek echoes through our house.
No, I haven’t got a book contract with Penguin or Knopf Doubleday – or anyone else for that matter. I am very excited because my blog article ‘I don’t knit!‘ (re-titled ‘Crochet by any other name‘), has been published in Passionate Hookers, a magazine-book put out by Brascoe Publishing.
‘Big deal!’ one might say. ‘If a 350-word reminiscence is what you call published, I was published by my high-school newsletter twenty years ago.’
Highly likely, but bear with me. I have never before been published anywhere, and neither of my high-schools ran to newsletters. There is something extremely seductive (I am getting into the swing of things here) in seeing one’s fallible words in beautifully typeset print. Even more alluringly, this publication has an ISBN! But, most of all, it is immensely satisfying to see an article about a TCK experience make it into a non-TCK publication.
This ‘mook’ is a pleasure to read, with contributions by some creative people with remarkable achievements. Well done Brascoe Books!
Now I just have to land that Harlequin contract for my romance novel. 
I’ll leave it to you to work out what Passionate Hookers is all about. 
It is quite affordable (AUD 16.50), and can be ordered online at Brascoe Publishing. You can also get a sneak preview at Brascoe Publishing’s web-site http://www.brascoebooks.com.au/. You will need a flash player – most browsers should be equipped with one by default.
Tags: Creative writing, crochet
I just realised that the Apostle Paul (then called Saul) was a third culture kid!
I have been doing Perspectives, and this week we were musing over how the Good News was eventually poured out to all people. After a couple of weeks of feeling I fit in with the rest of the class, I was changing my mind – people were talking about things I didn’t quite sync with, and I was feeling awfully presumptuous to even think I had anything to offer in this group. Yes, it was my old companion, social disconnectedness, and I was dreading its increase. Then – wham! I realised Paul was a TCK.
Borrowing heavily from the course’s Study Guide:
Paul had been exposed to at least three different cultures: i. Greek: Tarsus, his home town, had a Greek university, he was fluent in the Greek language and familiar with Greek philosophy and poets.
ii. Roman: He was a Roman citizen and lived under Roman occupation. iii. Hebrew: His parents were Jews and he was brought up to be a Pharisee (Acts 22:2) He may well have known four languages: Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek and Latin.
Tarsus was then in Syria (now in Turkey). On a map it looks reasonably close to Jerusalem. However, in those days, they would have been worlds apart in terms of language, culture, and just plain world-view.
Wow!! How heart-warming to think that God chose a third culture kid to be part of his band of apostles.
God’s story’s amazing!
Edit: It has been brought to my attention that Paul may not have been a Third Culture Kid by the traditional definition of one. Were his parents permanent migrants to Tarsus? Did he experience high mobility during his childhood years? I need to do some digging around (when I have time) to find the answers to these questions. One thing is certain, he was a Cross-Cultural Kid.
Tags: Apostle Paul, Bible
Just stumbled upon a new blog by another third culture kid. It’s Just a Third Culture Kid. Liz’s latest article is titled “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…”. It’s an excellent post about how TCKs interact with their peers.
Anyway, have a read of her article – she puts it a lot better than I can!
Third Culture Kids are resourceful, fully able to deal with anything that a cross-cultural experience can throw at them.
This was my delusion, until I encountered the horses of Taal Volcano.
It all began when we decided to visit a friend in the Philippines. The Philippines are not that far from Australia, so this was going to be our easily accessible cross-cultural fix.
My husband, bless him, enjoyed the visit completely. Chilling out playing basketball and helping in the fields where our friend was building a radio tower were all right up his alley.
But I, though having marginally more cross-cultural experience than he, was overwhelmed. The Philippines nation is beautiful, the people are lovely, warm-hearted and creative, and they cook delicious food. What I remember though is over-crowded, smog-filled, humid Manila. I must have painted myself a romantic picture of the city from BBC broadcasts about Ferdinand Marcos, his many-shoed First Lady and Corazon Aquino. Perhaps I was expecting it to be like the capital of my birth-country, a far less densely populated place. Expectations powerfully affect experiences. I discovered instead that humidity and built-up areas are not my thing, and ate way too much of the food to compensate.
When someone suggested a day trip to the famous Taal Volcano, I was delighted. We were finally going rural.
The drive to Lake Taal was beautiful. The deep green seemed to drip off the vegetation outside. And it was dripping with rain too, just enough to wash away the memory of city smog, faintly cooling the skin. Wide open spaces were few and far between – this was in the tropics, and lush, thick vegetation took over when humans didn’t. I worked out then that open spaces, where the eye can see the horizon, give me a sense of security. After all, I grew up in the rural African Savanna, and I live in South Australia. The Philippines were becoming a journey in self-discovery.
We got out of the car at Lake Taal, and there, in the middle of the huge spread of water, was the volcanic mountain. The place is spectacular. Taal Volcano and Lake Taal both sit in a massive crater, and at the top of the volcano is a smaller crater filled with a sulphurous lake. Like concentric circles. Check out http://asias-world.com/index.cfm?p=695 for a great photo.
We got on a boat. I had been pre-warned, but was a little nervous. I should explain that this was my first ever ride on anything water-borne, and I can’t swim, float, or doggy-paddle. Blame the African Savanna for that. Once on the lake though, I found my wide open spaces, stretching away in every direction. Breathtaking! We chugged across to the volcanic island and disembarked. I eased the remaining tension from my muscles. Now we just had to get up the mountain, and enjoy taking some great photos. From the bottom, though, it looked like a near-vertical climb to the top.
The people on the island were little, brown, and simply dressed, with bright, wide smiles, and friendly gestures. There were some hens, goats, and tiny ponies. And then the bombshell was dropped.
‘Here are the horses to take us up,’ someone said.
I looked, eyes popping, at the ponies. Their hair was rough and slightly matted, and some flies hovered, yet they still managed to look cute. But was I going to ride up the mountain on one of them? I’d never ridden anything alive before. Besides, I really couldn’t see how the horse could stay upright on that steep gradient. I, and it, would fall down, all the way into Lake Taal below. Did I mention I couldn’t swim?
My companions looked as if they did this every day. Of course, silly me, riding ponies is a piece of cake! Unless you’ve never ever got within harrumphing distance of one. The only animals I have had close encounters with are cats, dogs, chickens, and a cow that once tried to butt me. Oh, and a baby cobra practicing its vicious dance. Once. But my dad killed it before it touched me. I was beginning to realize what a sheltered life I’d led.
‘Can I walk up?’ I was dressed in good, stout, walking gear.
I got long responses, but the bottom line was I could, but it was very, very steep, and a very long hike, and I would do a lot better to get on that horse that was being nudged toward me.
I had a meltdown, right there in public. My companions averted their eyes and shuffled off on their ponies while my husband and the owner of my pony, a little woman, tried to convince me to mount. I was eventually encouraged, by degrees, to sit on the animal. My husband happily mounted his own steed, and the keeper of mine mounted behind me, took a firm hold of my waist, and drove the horse, in fits and starts, up the mountain.
It was quite easy, and I didn’t fall. And the view at the end was spectacular. I wish I could have video-taped the experience, as sulphur bubbled up through the lake at the top. Surrounding us below and stretching out was Lake Taal. Everywhere was a lush green. At the end of a very pleasant visit to the top of Taal Volcano, we mounted our ponies for the easy journey down. Easy? It was actually more frightening than coming up. I felt I was being propelled forward, right into the lake. It’s amazing how those ponies keep their footing. Heart pounding, skin drenched with sweat, I eventually reached flat terra-firma.
The boat trip back was a cinch. Amazingly, it took me several weeks to realize I had experienced culture-shock – yet again!
Here is another tourist’s more recent visit to Lake Taal and Taal Volcano: http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pascalp/se_asia_-_2005/1127493000/tpod.html. The ponies are still going strong!
Tags: culture shock, Travel
Memories, you say? Well, I have plenty. But they are mixed up and out of focus.
Besides, they aren’t all for public viewing. Like the one of the verandah bordered by leafy trees where the teachers used to gossip. This was the scene of a childhood misdemeanor, and one of the few times my father punished me in public. Nothing traumatic, you understand, but quite embarrassing. I, of course, still hold to the view that I didn’t deserve it!
Memories are necessary. I have learned from mine. There’s the memory of the man who found I was home alone when my school broke up earlier than my parents’. He came twice and I gave him a cool drink each time. I told my parents about him, and they told me not to let him in. So I crouched and flattened myself under a window when he next came knocking, and prayed my limbs wouldn’t show if he peeked in. He went away and never came again when I was by myself. Did he see me hiding, and realise the game was up?
Ah, memories…
Perhaps we could begin with paper boats. Now there’s a memory that won’t jerk a tear or cause a litigation. It all began with an expatriate teacher who knew the art of origami. She gave me an instruction book with a little pack of papers. I wish I still had it. It showed one how to make a purse, a boat, a box, and several other things that I now can’t recall – all wonderful. My mother suggested that I not waste the precious coloured papers supplied, but use ordinary writing paper from my desk. You must understand that my favourite past-times were already to draw, write… and imagine.
The origami boat was the open kind, like a rowing boat. It was fun to make, but I preferred the paper sailing-ship that my mother taught me to fold, a child’s trick, the kind that could also be modified into a hat. I used to make both types of boats. When the rains came, fitfully but finally in the dry sub-Saharan climate, it caused the sandy lane in front of our house to run with hundreds of tiny streams. When the rainbow appeared, signalling the end of a down-pour, I would run outside and sail my boats.
I had read Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘Paper Boats‘, and it fired my imagination. He was from India, which was close enough to home for me. The poem appeared in a book of literature from around the globe, suitable for children. It was meant to be used for an English syllabus somewhere – but for me, it was a book of stories to find pleasure in. In the poem, Tagore captures dreams, especially the kind that a wannabe writer has, in his evocative description of paper boats, filled with flowers, floating far away.
My boats never went far, which disappointed me. If they were sound enough to float, there was the inevitable sand-bank, or if they encountered no obstacle, they would themselves soak up the tiny medium that carried them, and sink. But perhaps Tagore had a real stream filled with currents to float his imaginations in.
I recently encountered paper boats again. Adelaide’s River Torrens is home to a visual arts display called ‘Talking Our Way Home’ by Shaun Kirby. Several glass forms have been erected along the river, representing paper boats made of letters written by South Australian migrants.
The sense of using paper – so fragile and yet versatile – to send a part of oneself floating along somewhere, anywhere, seeking something, perhaps never to land – well, something of that resonates with me. Memories and imagination, floating together somewhere forever.
Note: The ‘paper boat’ in this website’s header is from ‘Talking Our Way Home’ above.
Tags: memories, paper boats
If you tried to visit here over the last twenty-four hours, please accept my sincere apologies for the state this site was in.
My former web hosting company disappeared off the air yesterday, and it’s been a busy twenty-four hours as the site was transitioned to a new provider. I am impressed though at the time it has taken. Many thanks to Cove web hosting, and the wide range of Wordpress user advice out there.
I am now slightly better educated in the mysteries of MySQL, and ready for some sleep.
Yay!
