Tag: Sri Lanka

Time flies, but some mornings it seems stopped. We’ve been chasing that stillness all year—in the rustle of vineyard leaves, in the quiet of a small Arlington apartment, in the sacred pause of a Christmas season stripped down to its essence.

But adventure, as Andrew likes to say, is just hardship in the past tense. January brought dengue fever to both Liam and Clara—a frightening stretch of high fevers and hospital visits. They recovered, and we exhaled. Then in April, Andrew came down with chikungunya, another mosquito-borne gift that left him exhausted and aching for weeks. The tropics give generously, but they also exact a price.

April also brought Andrew’s parents, Larry and Lisa, to visit us in Colombo. Showing them our Sri Lankan life—the embassy, our neighborhood, the places we’d come to love—felt like a gift in both directions. They saw the world we’d built there; we got to share it with people who love us. It was a sweet prelude to the summer ahead.

We left Sri Lanka in July. Two years of diplomatic life in Colombo—trade negotiations, energy deals, cybersecurity policy, and the daily work of representing America abroad—packed into suitcases and shipped to a storage container in Singapore. Liam graduated from high school at the Overseas School of Colombo, adding celebration to an already emotional departure. The Foreign Service calls this a PCS, a Permanent Change of Station, though nothing about this life feels permanent. What felt permanent was saying goodbye: to colleagues who had become friends, to a rhythm of work we loved, to the island nation we’d grown to call home.

But leaving opens doors. Ours opened first onto Singapore, where we spent five days in that gleaming city-state fulfilling Andrew’s long-held dream of sharing it with his family. The highlight came in a music studio belonging to our friend Tony, where we met Qing Lun, a master of the Chinese flute. Somewhere in the middle of the evening, world-class musicians and enthusiastic beginners found ourselves playing Hotel California together—rock guitar and bass, drums, and traditional Chinese flute weaving through that familiar melody. It was messy. It was beautiful. It was unexpected and full of grace. East meeting West in a song about a place you can never leave—a fitting anthem for a family perpetually arriving and departing.

We landed in America on the Fourth of July. Andrew’s parents, Larry and Lisa, met us at San Francisco International and drove us directly to In-N-Out Burger. The prodigal son treatment continued all summer as they opened their vineyard-surrounded home in Lodi to our family of six. They cooked for us, lent us vehicles, took us camping at Lake Tahoe, and made memories with our children that will outlast us all.

The summer held sweetness and sorrow in equal measure. Andrew’s grandmother, Vinita Mae Shinn, took her leave this summer. We weren’t able to attend her funeral—training schedules in Arlington made that impossible—but we were granted the grace of saying goodbye before she passed. In a life where we’ve missed the deaths of several treasured relatives while overseas, being present for those final conversations was a gift we don’t take for granted.

The kids experienced their first American pro baseball game (go Angels!) and a full week at Disneyland—a magical stretch of family time made even sweeter by Lisa’s parents, Brad and Mary Fast, who joined us for part of the adventure. But for Andrew, the summer’s highlight was riding to the winery with his father’s first grape loads of the harvest season. Larry drove grape trucks as a child, his blond head barely visible above the steering wheel. Now retired from teaching, he drives a truck with “Shinn Farms” on the door, hauling grapes harvested by Andrew’s brother Aaron. Andrew rode along, watching the sticky grape mist rise and coat everything it touched, talking with the winery loadmaster about immigration and citizenship and children heading off to university. Those moments of harvest communion—the same ones Larry remembers from his own childhood—won’t last forever. Industries change. Fathers age. We all take our last load one day. This year’s ride was a fleeting privilege, and Andrew knows it.

In late August, we loaded into the family vehicle and drove east across America. The landscape shifted from California gold to Idaho green to Minnesota lakes to Ohio hills to Virginia suburbs. We listened to audiobooks and podcasts together, stopped to see family and old friends, and admired the breadth of the country we represent. In Park Rapids, Minnesota, we visited Tim and Rachel, who once worked at Shinn Photography and now valiantly run their own small business, the Park Theater. They welcomed us with grace and a special movie screening—a reminder that small businesses like theirs are the backbone of the American economy, and that the friendships forged in work can outlast the work itself.

After sleeping in guest rooms, on couches, in sleeping bags, and in hotels, we arrived in Arlington ready to stay put for a while.

Our Arlington apartment is small. Most of our possessions sit in that Singapore storage container, waiting to reunite with us in China next year. But small has its graces. We’re together. We’re learning what we really need. And we’re reconnecting with dear friends from many places who find themselves in the Washington area at the same time—one of the unexpected gifts of a city where so many paths cross. Lisa’s parents, Brad and Mary Fast, have also made the trip to visit us, filling our small space with warmth and reminding us that home is less about square footage than about the people who show up.

Andrew is back at the Foreign Service Institute for Chinese language training—his second round, this time in accelerated courses for officers with previous study. The training is going well, with warm teachers who hold high standards. The government shutdown complicated things: for almost two months, Congress’s failure to appropriate funds meant no paychecks and no formal classes. Andrew spent that uncertain season doing self-study and teaching Chinese classes at the Arlington Public Library for other stranded students. He became a teacher, not just a student. It was okay in the end, but living without pay while the political machinery ground to a halt was its own kind of hard.

The children are each navigating their own transitions. Liam is taking general education courses online through Foothill College in California, adjusting to college-level work while looking for new plans in the spring. His volleyball skills have accelerated dramatically—he’s put on muscle, dropped weight, and developed a vertical leap that genuinely impresses. He and Clara play together at parks and rec centers around Arlington, and watching them has been a quiet joy.

Clara is doing something genuinely difficult: spending her junior year at an American public school after years in international schools overseas. Washington-Liberty High School is a different world from the Overseas School of Colombo, but if anyone can handle it, it’s Clara. She served as team manager for the volleyball team and continues to display her remarkable gift for adapting to change. Next year she’ll complete her senior year at Western Academy of Beijing—another transition, another chance to show her flexibility.

Lisa is homeschooling Caleb and Joshua this year, using the extraordinary resources available in the Washington area. They visit museums weekly, spend most days at the Arlington Public Library, and are getting exactly what they need from a mother who is also an exceptionally capable teacher. Lisa isn’t doing any outside work this year—she’s spending her energy holding this family together through a season of significant transition. It’s unglamorous, essential work, and she does it with grace.

The week of Thanksgiving brought us to Children’s National Hospital for Joshua’s kidney surgery—addressing an issue that had been worsening for several years. The surgery went well. We feel blessed to be in Washington this year, with access to world-class medical care for something like this. Joshua’s recovery has been tough, but he’s also pretty tough. We’re grateful.

We’ve found a church home at Passion City in DC. Clara and Caleb attend Passion Students weekly, and both went on the fall retreat. We know we’re only here for a year, so we’re not engaging too deeply in the community. But the teaching is solid, and we’re grateful for a place to worship.

Christmas this year is simple. Our tree is a twelve-inch fake model from Ikea, decorated with hand-strung popcorn and cranberries. Lisa packed our stockings but not much else—there’s no point accumulating things we can’t ship to China. We’re making up for the lack of material Christmas by watching movies together and simply being present with each other. It turns out that’s more than enough.

Next summer we’ll leave again—flying to Beijing for a year of intensive in-country language study before Andrew starts his next diplomatic assignment in 2027. Clara will finish high school at Western Academy of Beijing. Caleb and Joshua will start there too. Lisa will continue doing what she does: making a home wherever we land, holding us together, turning temporary into something that feels like belonging.

There’s a lot ahead of us. But for now, we’re watching the winter light through our apartment windows and treasuring this pause. We know that everyone reading this letter has walked through their own hard things this year. That’s part of doing life together, and we’re grateful to walk through it with you.

From our small apartment to wherever you are: Merry Christmas. May your season hold unexpected grace, sacred stillness, and the people you love.

With love,