Why I long resented visiting relatives

California Syndrome — n. [[Midwestern > originated in an Illinois family named Bianchi in the mid-1990s]] 1 the extravagant, often undue preparation and celebration surrounding the rare return visit of a relative, permanently living out of town, to his home state and local family still residing there

Usage
Our family’s creation of this term, California Syndrome, arose from arguments that swirled in the thick, lemony scent of disinfectant and ascended over the deafening roar of my grandmother’s vacuum cleaner as she prepared for one of my rich uncle’s rare return visits from California to his birthplace, Chicago. To my angry mother, my grandmother could never concoct a fair explanation as to why she scrubbed her home—apparently clean enough without scrubbing for my family’s visits—for his. Or why while Grandma cleared under the beds and behind the couch, she urged my mother and the rest of our local extended family to clear their schedules for a dinner in his honor.

After a week in Cambodia, I'm different—and want to stay that way.

This is a story of God’s grace. Grace that played out in a Phnom Penh conference facility, in a small Cambodian church, in my parents’ guest room, and, ultimately, in my heart.

The first act of God’s grace on my short-term missions trip three weeks ago was our team’s safe arrival in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, after 20 hours of flight. Four members of my church and I were there to work with one of our church’s missionaries, who’d launched a publishing company in Phnom Penh in 2004. Our team was staging a four-day conference; one member would discuss sound business practices with the publisher, while the others would teach graphic design or editing. I was to teach writing.

My daughter and son-in-law could have been the ones opening the door to a stranger loaded with hate—and a handgun.

The phone rang about 3 P.M. yesterday. I toyed with ignoring it; I was on a holiday roll, sipping coffee from my Christmas mug, addressing cards, and listening to carols, too happily ensconced to deal with a telemarketer. But I set down my red pen anyway and grabbed the phone before the call transferred to voicemail.

“Hi, it’s Mom. Did you hear about the YWAM shooting? Two staff members—a guy and a girl—were killed!” my mother breathlessly relayed.

In that instant, my heart did a flip-flop. Fear clenched my chest.

Now was the chance to catch up—without an eye on the clock.

It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it: cruise on a Carnival Fun Ship for five days and four nights. For work.

Can you “feel my pain”?

So a week before Thanksgiving, I embarked on the 2007 Girl’s Get-A-Way Cruise (www.premierchristiancruises.com) and set sail with 1,500 other Christian women to the port of Cozumel, Mexico. Riding in a shuttle to the dock, I chatted excitedly with a few other “desperate housewives,” especially two eager moms hankering for a taste of freedom from diapering and feeding little ones, and a mother/teen daughter duo who wanted to shop till they dropped at the port. They all seemed ready to get away from it all.