The water splashed as my four friends and I jumped into the fountain. We turned around, getting a great view of the park and dozens of people around us, and posed so the last member of our group could take a picture.
It was late evening in the capital city of Mongolia, and we were staying there as part of a short-term missions trip. That trip wasn’t early as long as my previous stay abroad – eight years as a missionary kid in Germany – but in a way that night summed being a missionary kid for me.
I was in a country and culture which felt so foreign, but I was with people I cared about. It’s often commented that since Third Culture Kids and Missionary Kids grow up in different cultures than their parents, they don’t feel like one culture or another is truly their home. Rather, Home is with their families. Home is with the people who understand and accept them.
I may go to places that feel strange and doubt whether I belong there, but whenever I am with the people I care about, I am at Home.
(This story written for Boxes and Walls, a campus-wide event at Taylor University for intercultural students. Appeared in Boxes and Walls on November 3, 2016).
Image Credit: John Wilson