“I just want to live in Arizona,” my 8-year-old sobbed as we drove away from his cousins' house last summer, “but I don't want to leave Lebanon to do it!” 

I'm not sure what it is about Arizona. It's not the only place we have family, nor the only place we spend time when we are in the US. But for some reason he feels a deep connection and longing for it as a place. It's his answer when he's forced to name his family village, and his dream is to someday play for Arizona in the World Cup (he'll figure it out soon enough!) 

Beirut is home for my kids, but. They were born here and have lived their whole lives here, but. They take great offense when strangers assume they don't speak the language, when people on the street talk about them as foreigners, when they get called blonde (“my hair is brown!”), when they are perceived as different, but. 

But. The reality is that they don't quite fit. It's home, but it's not. Roots can only go so deep when you move houses every few years, or when you have a go-bag packed in case you need to evacuate from a war, or when you are always reminded that you are an outsider. 

I think that's a big part of the draw Arizona has on my youngest. Our family there is rooted to the land. The dogs, the goats, the rhythm of life that wakes up with the 4 a.m. sunrise to feed the horses and work the land feels somehow attractive to him. 

I can't offer him those kinds of roots. I'm becoming even more acutely aware of this fact as my eldest inches closer to her college years. As hard as we've tried to “dig in” here in Lebanon, those roots aren't permanent. 

But that doesn't mean I can't help my TCKs grow roots. Helping them get rooted in Christ is the greatest gift I can give them. In Christ they are safe. In Christ they are loved. In Christ they belong. If I can give them that, I know they will find home wherever they go.