Charlie and I have missed a few Christmasses in Canada. This year will be the fourth Christmas we'll have spent in Cambodia (2008, 2012 & 2013); but also, because we're from different corners of Canada, we've also sometimes had to miss holidays with one of our families.
Our first Cambodian Christmas in 2008, when we dirt biked up to Ratanakiri
Christmas 2012, which was also Sam's first Christmas
Christmas 2013, when my sister Christa and her then-boyfriend/now-husband
spent the holidays with us!
Last year, Christmas in Montreal was very near perfect. My sister had just gotten married, we were over the jetlag, I was huge but not yet overdue (Christmas 2011 with Sam at 40 weeks + 5 days was another story!) and my parents pulled out all the stops to give us a holiday season we had dreamed of for years. In some ways, I'm carrying the high of last year with me into this coming December.
Last Christmas in Montreal, near perfection!
Every year we are away for Christmas, Charlie and I always have a moment. We listen to Sarah McLachlan's "I'll be Home for Christmas," catch each other's eye, and share a few tears. It's almost become comical, because it always happens the same way. This year, our moment happened on November 1, when Charlie surprised me by putting on my beloved Christmas music weeks earlier than he normally allows. It's a beautiful version, have a listen!
I am really looking forward to Christmas in Cambodia this year. It's Ella's first Christmas, so that will be special. A number of our friends are staying in town this year, so we'll spend lots of time with them. I am singing in our church's Christmas choir, we'll do a Christmas Eve sleepover with our home group, we plan to go skating at the mall, turkey will be eaten on at least one occasion. We've been here for long enough that we feel we have our own Christmas traditions in Cambodia. We even brought a Christmas tree home with us from Canada (thank you, IKEA!)
But that song. That song reminds me that no matter who lovely Christmas is here, what I love most about this season is family. So I will cling to my beautiful little family here and grieve over missing out of the larger family back "home."
In 2006, I spent my last undergraduate summer in Rwanda on my first overseas internship. It was a difficult and amazing experience in many ways and some memories have stuck more than others. On one occasion, my friend and I had the amazing opportunity to cross the border into Eastern DRC and fly in a little bush plane to a small town inland. It was exhilarating! And perhaps a tad ill-advised, in hindsight - we met the pilots the evening before at dinner and the town we flew to we found out later was controlled by a warlord-type. Oops. The flight was awesome. We flew for about 30 minutes, over nothing but dense jungle; it looked like tightly packed broccoli heads. We even each got the chance to "fly" for a couple minutes. And all of a sudden we were descending and a longish dirt path appeared onto which we landed. We didn't stay long, just walked around a bit while the plane was unloaded, and off we went again. What an adventure! A short while later, I was sitting in the office of the small faith-based organisation with which I was interning. A pastor was visiting from his town and we were chatting casually. I ended up telling him about our little DRC jaunt and how beautiful the flight was and the village we ended up in, which was called Wali Kali. And then he said, "Ah yes! Wali Kali. I walked there once." In 1994, when his country was being torn apart from the inside out, he gathered up a few provisions, and he and his wife and their small children had gotten out of Rwanda and walked through that broccoli head jungle. With the poisonous snakes and dangerous animals and even more dangerous rebel groups and armies. I think that was the first time in my life I started to understand what it means to be a refugee. The lengths someone will go to and the risk they will undertake if it means they might save their children. The resilience and strength, physically, psychologically, and spiritually, it must take to make that long and uncertain journey. The desperation of needing to get out and the faith that you can find something better, something safer. That pastor humbled me. I will probably never have the firsthand experience of having to place my child on a boat into the unknown. I am humbled by privilege. So I pray. And I try to act. If you're interested in getting involved in refugee support, here are some links (Canada-specific):
