Thursday Th(ink)s - July 2, 2026

As I age, I am stunned by how much living has been smashed into one lifetime.

I’ve spent my life collecting identities.

Some arrived because life handed them to me. One of them I chose.

Yesterday, Canada celebrated her birthday. “OH CANADA!”

On Saturday, America celebrates hers. “OH SAY CAN YOU SEE…?”

Every year these two holidays show up holding hands on my calendar, and every year they ask me the same question.

So... where is home?

The answer, as it turns out, isn’t nearly as simple as the passport I carry for each.

I was born in Red Deer, Alberta, a thoroughly Canadian prairie girl. Then I married a fella from California, a thoroughly Los Angeles barrio boy. Hubs came up to Canada when we married. Ten years later our little family moved down to the U.S.A. (I know enough not to say America.)

The reasons why are another Thursday Th(ink)s altogether. There is always another story.

For a number of years, I held the wonderful title of resident alien. I loved it. It sounded mysterious. Slightly dangerous. Like I belonged in a spy novel.

But eventually it became obvious that the U.S.A. wasn’t simply where we lived; it was where we were building a life. Becoming a citizen made sense. (The grief of this is also another story…always another one.)

When you leave the country of your birth at thirty-seven years old, you don’t suddenly become something else because the government prints it on nice paper. (This belongs to the grief story.)

The paperwork took eight years.

Eight.

By the time I received notice to take the citizenship exam, I had studied so much I was ready to rent a second brain. I knew enough United States history to make Thomas Jefferson nervous. I memorized much of the Constitution. I learned the branches of government and “What territory did the United States buy from France in 1803?” (Louisiana, in case you’re wondering – but this is also Acadia history which I know a thing or two about because, that’s right, I AM Canadian.)

At this point, my Canadian brain was starting to think with an American accent.

On exam day I drove to downtown Los Angeles carrying enough information in my double brain to pass all one hundred (and their plethora of subs) possible questions.

The examiner picked a random ten.

I answered all ten.

I passed.

Weeks later came the invitation to the swearing-in ceremony.

June 14, 2002.

Staples Center.

Los Angeles.

I expected the paperwork.

I did not expect thirteen thousand individuals nor thousands of spectators. In fact, I found out later, my mass naturalization ceremony was one of the largest single-venue swearing-in ceremonies in U.S. history up to that point.

I also did not expect soldiers, fully kitted up in military gear.

The line of immigrants wrapped around the building. Thousands of us shuffled forward in single file.

At one point I stepped out of line just enough to see what was happening ahead.

“Get back in line!”

The command exploded through the air.

I looked up to see a soldier waving his machine gun in my direction, pointing me back into formation.

“Single file! Single file!”

Feeling like a bad dog I slinked back into line.

By the time we had passed through security, metal detectors, shouted commands, and endless instructions, I was shaking. I felt like I was on a death march.

Someone handed me a tiny paper American flag.

I don’t even remember when.

I only remember sitting in my seat, looking around at thousands of people waving theirs, while I quietly pushed mine underneath my chair.

And then I cried.

Not polite tears.

Homesick tears.

What am I doing?

I want to go home.

And by home, I meant Canada.

My people.

My family.

My story.

The ceremony unfolded exactly as one might expect.

Patriotism.

Country music. “I’m proud to be an American…”

Flags.

Speeches.

I cried through every bit of it.

Then a judge stepped to the podium.

She waited until the arena became quiet.

“I want to thank you,” she said gently, “for seeing something in our country that made you want to become a part of us.”

I don’t remember much after that.

Just those words.

I looked around at the faces beside me.

Many were crying.

But then I realized something.

We weren’t all weeping for the same reason.

I was grieving the country I loved but chose to leave.

Many of the people around me were weeping tears of joy because they had finally escaped countries they also loved but had to leave. But for a very different reason than mine.

I saw faces from every corner of the world.

Some had fled dictators.

Some had escaped persecution.

Some had come searching for opportunity.

We all held the same tiny paper flag.

But every one of us carried a different story.

Slowly, almost without thinking, I reached down and with my foot, pulled my little flag out from beneath my chair. I picked it up.

I didn’t wave it.

Not yet. I couldn’t get the machine guns out of my mind.

But I held it.

I began to understand what had drawn thirteen thousand immigrants into that arena.

Not perfection.

Hope.

It’d certainly been poorly displayed this day, but it had been written into the Constitution we had all spent months studying.

“We the People...”

Not a perfect union.

A more perfect one.

Always becoming.

Always striving.

Always unfinished.

When the judge invited us to stand and pledge our allegiance to the United States of America, I stood.

Hand over heart.

Paper flag in hand. Still not waving. My heart divided between gratitude for where I was (it’s all about my man) and love for where I’d been.

And I spoke the words alongside thousands of people who had dreamed of this day for years.

Some dreamed of worshipping without fear.

Some dreamed of speaking without imprisonment.

Some dreamed of raising children where liberty was more than an idea.

That afternoon I wasn’t abandoning Canada.

I was choosing America.

There is a difference.

Every July my heart celebrates twice.

On July 1st I remember where my story began. A farm girl who thrived in the life providentially allotted to her.

On July 4th I give thanks for where God carried it. And for the man who carried me here—my American man, to whom I also pledged my faithfulness.

I would never surrender my Canadian citizenship.

It shaped me.

The prairie still lives inside me.

I still hear O Canada and stand a little straighter.

But I also cherish the little certificate that made me an American citizen.

Not because it changed who I was.

Because it changed where I belonged.

It also gave me something precious.

A vote.

It’s a privilege to have a voice.

Rights are easy to overlook when you’ve always had them.

They’re unforgettable when you’ve longed for them as many of the thirteen thousand new U.S. citizens had.

Proudly displayed on our cabin wall.

Hubs has his own citizenship story.

When he became Canadian, the ceremony took place in a tiny courtroom in Southern Alberta.

The audience consisted of one judge, one family adopting a baby from Sri Lanka, our two daughters, Hubs, and me.

A total of seven people.

Seven.

He held a tiny paper Maple Leaf flag.

Placed his hand over his heart.

Spoke his oath of allegiance to the Queen.

Then the judge took off her robe, stepped down from the bench, and invited both families to stay for tea and cookies.

I am not making this up.

Tea.

And cookies.

It was gloriously Canadian.

Cookies for the neighborhood.

Yesterday, up in NorCal where our cabin is, I celebrated Canada Day with neighbours. I brought cookies and a thermos of PG Tips tea. They brought hot dogs, and as an homage to MY day, Canadian bacon, maple syrup, French dip, a Canadian flag, and even a felt-pen Canadian-themed tattoo was proudly displayed. I felt the joy of belonging.

This Saturday we’ll celebrate Independence Day with parades, hamburgers, grandchildren, and sparklers.

One country gave me roots.

The other gave me another home.

But because I’m in my Thursday years, I find myself thinking more often about the country I have yet to enter.

“But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ”(Philippians 3:20, ESV).

I’ve carried two passports in this life.

One day, I’ll need neither.

There will indeed be one final border to cross when my last breath leaves me. But I won’t present papers. I won’t answer exam questions. I won’t prove that I belong.

My citizenship will already have been settled by Another.

The Judge I meet there will not ask me what country I came from, but whose I am. And because of Christ alone, I will hear, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world” (Matthew 25:34, ESV).

That will be the first country where nothing in me longs for another.

The first place where every homesickness is finally healed.

But still, somewhere deep inside this prairie farm girl lives one small hope.

That one day, tucked into one of my grandchildren’s stories, there might also be a tiny paper Canadian flag.

Perhaps one of them will carry the story back to where mine began.

Hubs and me with our grands.

Big Brains: “I am a citizen of the world.” ― Sylvia Beach

Old Souls: "Our calling is a heavenly calling, our inheritance is a heavenly inheritance, and our citizenship is in heaven.” ― George Muller

The Ancient of Days: ^“So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.”-Ephesians 2:19 (ESV)

Norma Jean:
“I am Canadian by birth and American by choice. 
Gratitude has taught me to love them both.”

Thursday Chat: Tea or barbecue? Cookies or apple pie? Canada Day or the Fourth? No wrong answers... unless you say instant coffee.