On my first day in the Middle East, I watched the late morning sun warm a bowl of cherries on a glass table, while below the balcony, a boy selling pastries called out his wares. Peering into the street below, I saw him easily balancing sesame bagels piled a meter high on a tray atop his head. Busses whirred past in the distance. The boy called again, and an old woman with her hair tied up under a scarf poked her head out a window in the apartment building across from me. They spoke quickly to each other, and she disappeared. She soon reappeared on her balcony and let down a pink plastic basket tied to a string. The boy took the money from the basket and sent up several of his pastries and then took up his call again.

I was eight when my parents began talking to my siblings and me about moving overseas. I had started following Christ as a four-year-old and was baptized when I was nine. I understood that we were going to a place where hardly anyone knew about Jesus, and sharing the truth about Him was important to me too. Otherwise, I was an ordinary American school girl with straight, dusty blonde hair and hazel eyes behind my glasses. Such a big change was thrilling—it would give me something to tell others about, something to make me different, and new adventures to experience. There are a few culture and language classes I remember dimly from our time of preparation, and I also remember meeting the other families who were going to be on our team. They had kids!

We left for the airport with just a few suitcases one day when I was nine, and I must have slept well when we arrived because I remembered nothing of a struggle, despite jet lag and sleeping bags. I was excited to be there. My only recollection from after we landed was seeing a stop sign with an unfamiliar language as we drove along the bay. “Dad, what does that mean?” “It means ‘stop’!” And now here we were, staying in Aunt Kate’s apartment until mom and dad could find an apartment for us. Nearly everyone lived in apartments here; the single-family homes of the US would have been looked upon as mansions.

We were soon settled in a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment with a tiny kitchen, and I was enrolled in Turkish public school with my younger sister and brother. We were repeating the same grade we had just finished in the US, because we didn't know the language yet. One day in PE class we were lined up to race, and my classmate said something to me. “Run with a girl?” I asked her to repeat what she'd said, “Oooohhh, run with speed. Got it.” I’d been first in an unofficial race among third and fourth graders in the US and was willing to try to keep it up. Two years later, the same classmate and I were training for a city-wide race. It hadn't occurred to me before, but when filling out the form for the race I realized I actually didn't qualify, because of my age—I was a year older because I had repeated a grade. Disappointed to miss out, I told the official my age. My classmates and teachers told me it wasn't a big deal, I should just lie about it. But that would have been wrong, so I didn't. This was one of many times I stood out because I knew dishonesty was sinful.

When I was conversant enough with my Turkish friends, I could begin visiting them. On my first visit to Rose’s apartment, her mom served American french fries, Turkish style. No doubt she intended to make me feel at home. I love to eat, but they were covered in a strange sauce, so I proceeded with caution. The sauce was foreign to my taste buds; tart, salty, and even bitter. I didn’t want to be rude and ate as many of the “fries” as I could. Later I discovered this was garlic yogurt—a common sauce served with many Turkish dishes that I grew to love.

Even now, twenty years since leaving Türkiye, the phenomenal food is one of the things I miss the most. Another is the beaches. There's nothing like the seas of the Mediterranean. The “Golden Coast” of California has nothing on those pristine waters and warm sands under the bright blue sky. Growing up among the ancient Greek and Roman ruins I was rather apt to take them for granted, but now I relish the memory of the ancient amphitheaters, columns, and cities.

It was never my country, though. And neither was America. I spoke both languages fluently, but in Türkiye, I was viewed as American, and in the US, people wondered why I was so different—I looked American but didn't act like it. In Türkiye I was frequently correcting assumptions, such as “all Americans and Europeans are Christian.” And in the States, my personality didn't match that of a “normal American woman.” I was too loud, too opinionated, too strong-willed. Such was my experience as a TCK, not at home anywhere except with my nuclear family, or other kids who grew up similarly. We wanted to live like Jesus did—loving people and telling them about the kingdom of God. We didn't pass out tracts, we let conversations about Jesus develop out of our relationships with friends and neighbors. Shortly before I left for college, two Middle Easterners and a German were tortured by Muslim extremists for five hours and then killed because of their faith in Jesus. The wife of the German man, with a grace and strength only God can give, forgave the extremists on public television.

I really looked forward to returning to my country of origin. We had furloughed in the States every three years since moving, so in my mind America was the land of vacation, as well as of sweets and sodas and food we couldn't get overseas. My parents, anticipating some of the challenges transition might bring, sent me to an MK reentry camp. I made some friends, and it was a great experience, but it came nowhere near to preparing me for the culture shock I was about to experience.

My grandmother had said I could live with her in Virginia to attend a university nearby, which was a huge blessing. I started in 2007, and in short order was overwhelmed by the combination of culture shock, living away from my family for the first time, transitioning into college, and adjusting to American Christianity. I'd come from a place that had few but sincere followers of Christ, because following Him meant your livelihood—or even life—might be at stake. The US had a wide but shallow Christian culture that felt extremely insincere. The result of all these factors was clinical depression that lasted almost a year—one of the most challenging times of my life.

Beginning in my pre-teen years I had occasionally struggled with mental health issues like OCD and depression, but I think I would have had mental health struggles no matter where I grew up. However, in Türkiye, I didn't have the same opportunities for professional counseling as I would have had in the States. After my depression in college, professional counseling and Christian mentors helped me heal, and my parents’ move back to the States helped as well.

There were ten children on the team that had lived in the Middle East for a decade, and I am sad to say that fewer than half still follow Jesus. As for me, I am thankful to still be walking with the Lord, and for my unique upbringing.