Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.

–Frederick Douglass

Packing for our move to China, years ago, I tucked some books into our suitcase for my two little ones. I had no idea the role they would play in our family life.

When we stepped off the plane, half way around the globe, we entered a new life. Everything was different: the people, their language, their actions. I love meeting new people and visiting new places so I was ready to engage.

Living in an apartment complex we suddenly had hundreds of neighbours who spent hours outdoors. I imagined my boys would soon be chattering away in Chinese with neighbourhood kids while my new friends and I sighed in admiration: my idyllic view of our future life.

I thought it would be just like making friends at a park in Canada, but in a new language, so I set myself to learning Chinese. Each night, after the boys were in bed, I would pull out “Chinese Made Easier,” and try to assign meanings to sounds that meant nothing to me. My work didn’t pay off.

First, I discovered that every mother in our neighbourhood worked extra-long, full-time hours. It was the grandmothers and nannies that were out with the kids. I didn’t let that deter me. I made efforts to get to know them but immediately collided with a second problem: most of them had come from rural areas and spoke only the local dialect. I had no way to communicate with them.

On top of this, our neighbours considered my ways strange. For me, it was normal to put a diaper on a one-year-old but I noticed all of the babies and toddlers wore pants or shorts with the centre seam split open. Every so often their caretaker would have them squat by the shrubs and would whistle through their teeth, making a sound that resembled trickling water, and the little one would ‘go’ on demand.

I watched in amazement but went on putting my baby in diapers. But when I took him outside, the neighbourhood grandmothers would gather around; they would reach out and grab my son’s diaper and reprimand me while pointing proudly at their own little ones’ split pants. Though I didn’t understand a single word, their meaning was clear.

Crowds would often gather when I took my kids outside and people would point at us and touch my kids. We were constantly being photographed. I tried to be friendly.

One thing was obvious: I didn’t belong.

I accepted that the life I dreamed of was just that – a dream. I continued to make the efforts I could; I had some pleasant interactions to help balance the uncomfortable ones and even made some sweet friendships. I felt touched by the warmth I received from certain people, but with my limited Chinese, even with those special new friends I couldn’t have meaningful conversations: I couldn’t talk about things close to my heart. Instead I would fumble through, using the few words I knew and my own invented sign language. I often came away feeling misunderstood, and at times, foolish.

I am so thankful for the encouraging nature of Chinese people, “Your Chinese is so good,” they would say, after my embarrassing attempts. I learned that instead of a proud grin I should respond with, “You are too polite.” They were being gracious.

But still, I lacked the capability of forming friendships and it began to wear me down. The initial adrenaline rush was far gone. I often found myself wrapped in the cold blanket of loneliness.

But challenges do produce perseverance and looking back helps me to see that I pushed through. I had to, not just for myself but for my family. A mother carries the weight of caring for her children in the midst of trial, a burden that pushes her to do things she thought impossible.

It was obvious that my boys needed me. When we went out my oldest was glued to me, his uncertainty evident in arms wrapped around me and wide eyes locked to mine. I needed to find a way to make this new place home – for all of us – to look closely for sources of fulfillment when they didn’t naturally present themselves.

Brian and I pulled close and embraced raising our kids. With few toys, no toy stores or online shopping, and few friends, I turned to the books I had brought.

At first I thought of reading to my kids as just story time, but it became a foundation. As the boys got older and were joined by a growing sister, our selections deepened in significance and we found ourselves in the midst of value-shaping conversations. Delving into the Classics, we waded deeper into worlds of other times, guided by gifted writers who took us out of our own experience to face someone else’s trials – to internalize their courage – then be released back into our own lives, filled with hope.

I’m amazed over and again how the quality literature we’ve read equips us for our own lives. It helped us through that initial year of culture shock and over countless other hurdles. I need that strength again. We’ve just returned to China after spending months with our families. It was hard to leave them.

This trip to China stands at a strong contrast to our first landing. Instead of coming to a foreign country, we are coming home; instead of starting over, we embrace friends; instead of learning a new language, we are using words we can’t live without; instead of questioning the people around us, we appreciate them.

Now life in China often feels more normal than life in Canada; but there is still an adjustment, and I still find it bumpy. So again I open a Book and I call my kids to gather round.

With children at my side, I press into the things I value, the things that lift me above my trials, toward perseverance, toward character, toward hope.