It’s easy to feel lost and overwhelmed in a place that isn’t your home. But what do you do when your home doesn’t exist anymore? Why do the places we love seem to change when we go back to them? Why do we feel crushed by a feeling of nostalgia for places we can’t return to?
One of the first things people ask me upon learning I am an exchange student is “where are you from?” To most people, the answer should seem fairly simple: my hometown. I usually tell people “New York.”
Even though my New York City is this:
Six hours from what most people think of New York City:
I use it because it is a fairly well-known landmark. But where is home? What does “home” even mean? I have been wrestling with that question while abroad this semester.
On the weekends, I often find myself in a city other than my home of Santiago along with the other wayfarers as we roam from hostel to hostel. The same icebreakers fly, especially “Where are you from?” But lately, this question has been harder to answer.
Now, people need to specify what exactly they are referring to in order to receive a passable answer. “Where do you live in Santiago?” “Where do you live in Chile?” “Where do you live in the states?” “What school do you go to?” “What school do you go to in Chile?”
I never thought I would have trouble answering that question. On top of all that, since our first day of cross-cultural class, we have been talking about identity. The first week of class, we watched a Ted Talk given by a writer named Taiye Selasi who talked about identity. She said of herself:
“Yes, I was born in England and grew up in the United States. My mum, born in England, and raised in Nigeria, currently lives in Ghana. My father was born in Gold Coast, a British colony, raised in Ghana, and has lived for over 30 years in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”
Selasi realized she isn’t only from one place; there is more to her than simply her place of birth. We encounter the same complication as Selasi when thinking about identity. Our personal identities are shaped by experiences, places, people, etc.
Everyone has a different individual culture and identity because of this, and it can be expressed through the mixing of colors. When I was born in Buffalo, New York, my culture made me red. Nashville culture is blue. When I moved to Nashville for college, my red mixed with Nashville’s blue, and I became purple (which, coincidentally, is my favorite color).
Everywhere we go, our original color becomes tainted by another culture so that we can never return to the way we once were. We are forever changed.
We will never fit completely into another culture because our original color will always stand out. Even though I have been living in Santiago for two months and can decently blend into Chilean culture with my mannerisms and speech, I always still stand out because of my appearance. So then, “Who am I?”
My identity is much more than the superficial “Where are you from?” My identity is rooted not only in where I was born, but also in my Lipscomb home, my ancestral heritage and now my multiple homes in Chile. Is who I am only based on where I have been? Or is there something more to it?
Everyone always talks about mid-life crises, but I had never heard of quarter-life crisis until I found myself in one. A quarter-life crisis typically occurs during the college period of a your life when you must decide on a major and the direction of your future. What a daunting task! I don’t know what tomorrow will look like most of the time, let alone the rest of my life!
In my quarter-life crisis, a million and one thoughts float through my head in an hour. Do I really want to be a teacher? If I don’t teach, what would I do with my life? What about teaching abroad instead? Or how about mission work? I don’t need a degree in mission work to be a missionary wherever God places me. So what do I major in? What about a minor? Is it even possible for me to add a minor? If so, which minor? What do I want my future to look like?
And the questions enter and leave my mind like people on the Santiago metro. These questions that bombard me all point to the original questions: “Who am I? Who do I want to be?”
I want to be loving, joyful, a peacekeeper, patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, to practice self-control. I want to be the hands and feet of Jesus.
Mark 10:45 says, “For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (ESV).
As Christians, our end goal is to become more and more like Christ every day in order to love others as we imitate Him (John 3:30; Ephesians 5:1-2; 1 John 2:6). That is our purpose. We are called to be holy because He is holy (Leviticus 11:44-45; 19:2; 20:7). We are called to service.
Why? So that nonbelievers will become believers. So that everyone will hear about the love of a gracious and indescribable God. So that all can go to Heaven, our true home.
My purpose and identity are found in Christ alone. Because of this, I don’t need to worry about my future. Because of this, I know that earth is not my true home. Although I may be from Buffalo, New York, my true home is in heaven and Jesus is preparing a place for me, waiting for me to join Him (Philippians 3:20).
I learned it’s not where I’m from that matters, but where I will be.
