God Bless America

Fast forward fifteen years and here I am a Citizen of the United States of America. I’ve been living here in California for fifteen years, longer that I’ve lived in England. I’ve made it my home, my family and friends are here.

It’s been a roller coaster these past fifteen years, with many lows but many highs. It was no joke that our move to the USA changed the direction of my story. I’ve been exposed to so many varied experiences that had we stayed in England I would not have had. Not the least of all meeting my husband, as well as the many friends who I consider family.

Fifteen years, a decade and a half. It’s startling to realize that fifteen years have passed since that day we loaded into the blue van and made the drive to Heathrow Airport. Much has changed, but so has much remained. The friends and family that stood with us that day to bid us goodbye is missing one (my Granddad passed away a year and a half ago), but otherwise the family and friends stand by us - having come out for weddings, birthdays, and just becauses. I think my nan has been out at least once a year since we’ve moved here, and my aunt is a close second. But our circle of friends and family has grown.

On April 29th I stood with 430 like minded individuals from over 60 different nationalities and took up the oath to defend and uphold the constitution of the United States.

Choosing to make this decision was not an easy one. Despite claiming the USA as my home, it was still difficult to take the step and even begin the process. Much to the frustration of my husband at times, I kept putting off filling out the paperwork. It wasn’t until with a dear friend, also needing to become a US Citizen, that I started the process. I filled out the paperwork, and mailed it off the last day of December. I had the completed paperwork sitting around for a month or more, and my husband and I had made a deal that if I didn’t mail it off by December 31st he could lick my face (I abhor my face being touched, let alone licked). True to my nature, I waited until December 31st and barely made it to the post office before they closed for the year.

I then waited, and tracked my progress on Facebook where many of my FB Friends offered encouragement each step of the way. From fingerprinting, to the interview and test (taken in March, here is a snippet of what I wrote the night before I took the test: "Yikes, I can’t even write but I so want to document this monumental day. It’s a BIG deal. So big I haven’t given a whole lot of thought to it. I’ve been going along for the ride and now, here it is." to the final oath taking day my cheering squad rallied around me and congratulated me and buoyed me on.

Now I don’t miss an opportunity to share that I’m a US Citizen. I am still often asked where I am from by random people, and I tell them I am from England but three months ago I became a US Citizen. It’s my conversation card.

There are times I can't quite wrap my mind around the fact that I am now a US Citizen, but for better for worse I am.

One foot in England, one in America and now a dollop of French (but that is a WHOLE 'NOTHER story!!!)

Reliving the early years

It was 1995, it was Silicon Valley and my mum didn’t drive. The location of our house at the time is one of those God knows your needs house. It was a four bedroom, 2400 square foot house, that had membership rights to a local cabana club, walking distance to a Lucky’s, the library, the light rail station, with Santa Teresa Elementary behind our back fence, and Bernal Intermediate just a 15 minute walk. Within weeks that summer we were members of the library, and would tote home bags of books (25 was the limit). We walked to the store, carting home bags of groceries.

There are things when you’re a child you’re unaware of if there is love and security from your parents. While I was not happy to be living in the USA, (*I had an incredibly difficult time adjusting and to this day work at accepting change and not getting emotionally wrought over it*) and while I could often hear my mum crying, I was secure in knowing that I was loved and safe and protected. It would be many years later that I would learn how much, or more appropriately how little my parents lived on that first year. Remember it was 1995 in Silicon Valley, prices were rising...

There have been times, many times, that I’ve struggled over this fact. There have been many angry words flung at God over this fact, and yet while this fact was true and I was none the wiser I never worried over it. I never felt the urge for more, was grateful for what we did have, what we did do. Our holidays were never extravagant, but they were full of love and laughter, and my parents worked hard saving throughout the year so we did have Christmas presents, birthday presents, and a vacation. And, despite my anger towards God that he would put my parents through that worry, that he didn’t provide for them financially I was often reminded by how much he did provide.

...Our house stayed at a low rent, it was ideally situated, we had beds, food, I went to Valley my first year for free due to my dad coaching soccer at the high school.

When we moved my parents told me that I had a choice, I needed to give it one year and if I still didn’t want to live in the USA I could move back. Looking back I don’t believe there was any weight to that statement, yet at the time it gave me the reassurance I needed that there was an out. After the year I still wasn’t at "home." (Although I never did think to ask to move back to England, family is after all family). It had been a struggle and hated so much of my life in California. I struggled with being asked to say words over and over again like a trained parrot (water, garage, vase to name a few), and by the time I started out my journey at Valley I had learnt to not say much, and gained the reputation for being that quiet girl from England. I was never quiet in England. I was the instigator, the leader of the pack, I was the bossy one. I lost that part of me when we moved, it’s there still but it was curbed when we moved.

I struggled with change, such a dramatic move left residue effects. Change became something I avoided and dreaded. I even had a time just rearranging my room, the change of the bed position would cause me nights of sleepless nights as I adjusted. Purging many of our belongings made stronger my desire to hold on to things. Our first few months living in California we were without the majority of our personal belongings as they were making their way on the boat. We would raid the church office for paper and I would draw pictures and tape them on the walls just for a sense of familiarity. I struggled with attending two churches (my dad worked part time for two churches the first year we were here). We ping ponged between the two churches, some Sundays at both churches. I learnt early on to pack a book in my bag because we would be there all morning, set up to tear down. My parents had always given their all to serving, and now in America it was no exception. I struggled hearing my mum cry most days. I struggled with wondering why God would send us here, and have many pages with the word “why” scrawled on them. I struggled with knowing who I was, a normal phase for a 12 year old, yet heightened by the newness and strangeness that surrounded me. As years passed I still thought of myself as English, but in returning “home” would find England was just as much as a stranger to me as California had been, yet I didn’t view California as home.

Until recent years I struggled with singing Christmas Carols, Christmas Carols? Yes! Back to the church ping pong, our first Christmas we attended two separate Christmas Eve services at the two churches my dad worked for. I had never attended something like the Christmas Eve services of the church of the 90s. Church in England was not a performance, and nothing screamed performance more than Christmas services. As a battling preadolescent the magic and mystery of the Christmas carols was tainted. True to the darker side of my nature I held on that to perspective for years and grew to resent the singing of Christmas carols.

I struggled with Christian-ese. I remember one instance of being in the Junior Varsity group for AWANA and we played a game where you had to guess/say the next lyrics of the Christian songs that were playing. I didn’t know ANY of them. I felt so out of place, so far from who I thought I was, from what I thought Christianity was. From that moment on I consumed Christian music like I consumed chocolate - fast and furious. I felt to fit in the Christian circle, I needed to know the right Christian music, the right Christian slogans, etc.

It wasn’t all a struggle. I did make friends. Over time I did move on and California did become my home.

To Be Continued...

15 Years Ago...

After a night spent sleeping on the floor we trudged down the stairs and loaded into the waiting blue van. The dog was curled at my mother’s feet. The hour was early, the air cool. The date was July 23 and we were on our way to the airport.

A plane was waiting to take us on to our next chapter of life, a chapter of life that would in fact redirect the whole course of the story. We were bound for the U.S.A.

6 large green suitcases packed to the brim and weighing in at 70lbs each(before the days of strict luggage weight enforcement), full of clothes and possessions that would be our only ones until the boat would deliver the rest of our belongings at the end of September, were loaded into the van, and we set out for Heathrow Airport. Dear friends journeyed with us that day, and family met us at the airport. My mum, having worked full time up until the Friday, packed up the house, taken care of two children - an eleven and eight year old and a dog, stood at the ready. One last step of checking the bags in and checking our dog in, then the final goodbyes.

We ate breakfast at the Burger King at the airport, a farewell breakfast. We didn’t hang around long, most of the goodbyes having been offered at farewell parties in the preceding weeks. Finishing up breakfast we made the long walk to the beginning of the ramp that lead us down to security and our gate. One last look back and that was it, we left England.

The plane ride was a blur, the only distinct memory being of my mum settling onto the plane, pulling an eye mask down, telling us to behave and then she slept. As an eleven old I didn’t realize the full impact the last few months had been on my mum, still at nearly 27 I don’t know the extent but I do have a greater understanding.

My dad had been living in the USA since April, and while he had made a brief (one week) return visit in June, my mum single parented us, worked full time, packed up our belongings - choosing what to keep and what to sell, uttered countless goodbyes and I am sure shed a tear or two. So getting on the plane and knowing there was nothing else she could do, nowhere my brother or I could go, my mum slept.

We didn’t have a direct flight into SFO, our first entrance into the USA was at LAX and as our first stop we had to collect our bags, the dog, and go through customs. The custom officer asked my mum if she was bringing dog food with her, I always remember that because of all the questions that was what was asked. On top of that our poor dog had had an accident in the crate mid flight, so standing on the sidewalk outside the airport doors my mum cleaned her and the crate up, and then we checked in for the short flight up to San Francisco.

We arrived at the airport, my dad stood there waiting to greet us with a big wide smile on his face and a bouquet of purple flowers. The purple flowers go down in history, because as my mum tells it, it would take a lot more than a bunch of flowers to smooth the welcome.

It took us a while to leave the airport as they had misplaced our dog, but we finally made it on the road and my dad in his exuberance and excitement to ensure us that this truly was the adventure he had promised took us the longer way home to show us the cracks in the freeway caused by earthquakes and the “prettier” scenery. He was driving a white station wagon, the church missionary car (note to churches: while no one wants to look a gift horse in the mouth, an old beat up station wagon isn’t the way to go in welcoming a family home...try for a nicer car!!!) and he was brimming with stories and his voiced was filled with excitement. He had found us a house, he had met this person and that person, he had gone here, done that.

But that’s my dad for you. He’s a risk taker, always has been, but once he became a Christian his risks took on new meaning as he took them for Christ, and acted in obedience.

Our move to California, USA was just that an act of obedience in answer to a call God had placed on his life. He had (and has) a passion for sharing the good news of Jesus Christ, and using his love and passion for sports he created inlets and opportunities to share what being a Christian was about.

My mum equally so is a risk taker, but a more calculated risk taker. She still takes the risk, but she makes sure there are no cracks along the way. This was a big risk, uprooting her life, her family to enter into a strange land. The language may have been the same, but the differences in culture and understanding were vast. I remember my mum telling the story of standing in the grocery store, the store itself grand in size, and staring at bottle after bottle of laundry detergent wondering which brand to buy.


To Be Continued...