The Scooter
Once upon a time, those things, the people, and the intangibles were still waiting to be discovered. It’s hard to imagine the day those things were not part of who I am now. But now that I’m living without them, I know I’ll never be the same. I liked my scooter. I knew how to ride it, where to go, and what to say to those I passed by on the road.
Guest article by Stacey Kang
My husband and I excitedly watched as Jonah, our middle son, woke up on his third birthday and began to open presents. We even more excitedly brought out the balance bike we had purchased as his big gift. For parents, this is the moment we all wait for—the look of pure joy on a child’s face. My husband slowly walked the balance bike into our living room, the rest of our family eyeing the door as he entered.
“I wanted a scooter.” Those were the first words out of Jonah’s mouth, his face expressionless.
My eyes filled with doubt. Our oldest son looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, “he wanted a scooter.” In the days that followed, Jonah dutifully reminded us how he had wanted the scooter, not the bike. We took him out to practice on his “little bike,” as he called it, but the joy didn’t show.
Now a month later, Jonah likes the bike much better, but sometimes I’ll find him at the playground casting aside his little bike in favor of another child’s scooter. I confess, perhaps we should have gotten him the scooter. However, as parents, we had a bigger picture in mind: a goal of him riding a bike, visions of future family bike rides dancing in our heads.
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One year ago, we landed in Turkiye. It’s a stunning country and everyone who has come to see us remarks on its beauty, its history, the enormous meat spits, and the desserts. Similar to how my son so matter-of-factly voiced his opinion about the new bike, I often think: “I wanted a different place.”
China was my scooter. But unlike my son's unmet desire to have a scooter, I did have China—for a time. We lived there for three and a half beautiful, hard years. During that time, we lived in two different cities, had two children and we went long periods without seeing family members. I often felt scared, lonely, and missed sunny skies.
I became a mom for the first time in China and I mourned not having family around those first days. Many of my memories of China are tied to those first months as a new parent, as my Chinese friends and the expat community loved on our family. My husband’s parents and my parents came to visit us in those months that followed. Our hearts grew even bigger for China as we gleefully introduced our parents to our son, our host country, our new favorite foods, our friends, and the language we were learning.
I realized the lack of familiar amenities and comfortable cultural situations had become supplemented by all the people I loved—plus so many incredible things like Sichuan spice, Taobao, impressive public transportation, a surplus of quality tofu, people with whom I could converse in their language, and a language I painstakingly learned and had come to treasure. I even grew a love for hot pot, and the smell of stinky tofu alerting me that home was now only steps away, and my neighbors telling me to put socks on my baby.
Once upon a time, those things, the people, and the intangibles were still waiting to be discovered. It’s hard to imagine the day those things were not part of who I am now. But now that I’m living without them, I know I’ll never be the same. I liked my scooter. I knew how to ride it, where to go, and what to say to those I passed by on the road.
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I’m currently studying the book of Hebrews with some friends. The verses lingering in my head and heart are beginning to reveal something in me: I’m not apt to trust God and I’m hesitant to acknowledge there’s a bigger and better picture. Those same verses are revealing more of God to me. Hebrews tells me that God through Jesus is “putting everything in subjection under his feet,” (2:8) and that “the builder of all things is God” (3:4). Everything is in His control—even my losses. I have plans, but His plans are the only ones that will be fully carried out.
Likewise, in this season of learning to balance, song lyrics help to turn my heart to His direction. In the song ‘New Wine,’ Hillsong sings:
In the soil
I now surrender
You are breaking new ground
So I yield to Your careful hand
When I trust You I don’t need to understand.
I’d be remiss to suggest that while in China, I never longed for America. It’s tempting to make
what once was into something that it never actually was. I’m learning to keep my thoughts in check, recognizing how contentedness—much like riding a bike—is to be practiced.
My son might never stop wanting a scooter and I might never stop missing my life in China.
Nevertheless, I am comforted knowing there is more at work than what I can see. He is molding me and making me. He is faithful. He gave me the scooter, and He took it away. Although these truths do not always reach into the deep crevices of my heart, I know He can be trusted. For this reason, I unsteadily balance between the past and the present, eyeing the scooter, and learning to be at peace with this new bike.
This guest article was written by Stacey Kang. She has been an expat since 2016 and lives in Istanbul with her husband and three sons. Coffee and Asian cuisine bring her much joy. She and her husband write about travel within China and Turkiye on their family’s blog, www.teamtumbleweedtravel.com . You can also follow their adventures on Instagram.